LEONIE BAPTISTE

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
Kina Securities Award for Poetry

She shuts her eyes and sobs
Waiting in anticipation
When will it stop!

The bombing, the shooting, the dying
He steps up, says he’s a man
He grabs a gun and helps

He shoots, he kills, he cries
When will it be over?
She wonders, he wonders

She cries, he tries
But they don’t give up
She hopes the war will end

He hopes the war will end
She does not give up
He does not give up

Hope is what keeps us all going after everything else has gone

LEONARD FONG ROKA

A Bougainvillean is person with a culture and that culture is secured in a land known as Bougainville in a territory known as the Solomon archipelago which is a self-sustaining entity.

In Bougainville Manifesto 13, I wrote that:

If cocoa grows in Bougainville, then Bougainville must produce chocolate powder; if coffee grows on Bougainville, then Bougainville must produce coffee powder; if a coconut palm sways on Bougainville, then Bougainville must produce oil cosmetics; if the sea girds Bougainville, then Bougainville must produce fish products; and if the Bougainville child is born on land, then that child owns the land and everything that grows on it belongs to him but he must care for it and trade it

And in the tiny sea of islands that Bougainville is part of in the Pacific, self-sustaining economic and political models are vital. Such a system must not be too capitalistic but should be centred on the welfare of the people.

In Section 40 of the Bougainville Constitution (Structure and Levels of Government) it is stated:

Government in Bougainville shall consist of—

the Autonomous Bougainville Government in accordance with Division 2 (Autonomous Bougainville Government); and

a level or levels of formal government below the level of the Autonomous Bougainville Government in accordance with Division 3 (other levels of formal government); and

the traditional system of government in accordance with Division 4 (traditional system of government)

Under the autonomy arrangement this three-level system is already active and it has proven to be inclusive of all Bougainvilleans in the decision-making process. Currently Bougainville has four levels of government, the Village Assembly being added recently.

The first level of government, is the Village Assembly, is centered in the village where there are different clans with their own governing structures that come together to make decisions about village affairs.

Village Assemblies have representation at the next level, the Council of Elders (CoE), whose members are elected.

CoEs come together at District level with a more public policy oriented than political agenda.

The fourth and top level is the parliament of the Autonomous Bougainville Government (ABG).

Whatever the level of government, the fundamental question relates to the roles and responsibilities of each level.

There’s a general answer to this: at any level, the major collective task is the sustenance of a mutual state-citizen relationship.

The Bougainville state should be advancing in regional and international politics, its economy should be functional in the global capitalistic system and the citizens of Bougainville should be a happy lot and not experiencing chronic disparity and struggle.

For a tiny island like Bougainville with few resources and a growing population, a happy state-citizen relationship is paramount.

Perhaps there is scope in Bougainville to design a political system based on the Bhutanese politics of Gross National Happiness (GNH) whereby material and spiritual development occur side by side and complement and reinforce each other.

Bougainville and its people are known for struggles against exploitation, indoctrination and subjection to genocide.

So the four pillars of Gross National Happiness can be the way forward. They are the promotion of sustainable development, the preservation and promotion of cultural values, conservation of the natural environment and the establishment of good governance.

The application of the welfare concept of development in Bougainville points to government working to alleviate poverty, focus on human wellbeing and improve equality.

Participatory or social democracy should be the system for Bougainville making Gross National Happiness, welfare, human capital investment and sustainable development as the national Bougainville state pillars.

This also reflects the Nordic model, as Wikipedia explains it:

…. a "universalist" welfare state (relative to other developed countries) which is aimed specifically at enhancing individual autonomy, promoting social mobility and ensuring the universal provision of basic human rights, as well as for stabilizing the economy; alongside a commitment to free trade. The Nordic model is distinguished from other types of welfare states by its emphasis on maximizing labor force participation, promoting gender equality, egalitarian and extensive benefit levels, the large magnitude of income redistribution, and liberal use of expansionary fiscal policy

Bougainville must encompass such political models to survive. For Bougainville to exist under globalisation, the people of Bougainville must be secure and safe, they must be in a peaceful environment, they must be free, they must be participating, they must be educated, and they must be standing on their traditional values to become a stable and advancing democracy.

The success of Bougainville’s political system will depend on a peaceful citizen-state relationship. And the citizen-state relationship must be enhanced by getting every person to know their place in society, know their culture and other Bougainvillean peoples, know their land and environment and know their country’s place in the global village. 

JIMMY DREKORE

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
Kina Securities Award for Poetry

You used to talk to me without fear
You used to share with me the same beer
You used to eat with me when I was near
I thought you were a friend to me
But I know now

I’m losing hair you never came close
I’m losing weight you held your nose
I thought you would never shy away
I thought you would never run away
But I know now

They stare at me and you hide
They criticise me and you lied
They reject me and you follow the tide
I thought you would stand with me
I thought you would fight with me
But I know now

They say it’s my fault and you agreed
They say I deserve it and you agreed
They say I was careless and you agreed
I never thought you would leave me
I never thought you would betray me
But I know now

I’m lying alone with only the curtains swaying
I’m lying alone with only my memories flashing
I’m lying alone with only the sun shining
No one is there to lend me ears
Only my pillow soaked with tears

I know now

ADAM WERNICK | Public Radio International

“WE know less about the deep sea than we know about the surface of the moon,” says environmentalist Richard Page. “So this is a big experiment.”

The “experiment” Page refers to is a project launched by a Canadian company called Nautilus Minerals to extract copper, gold and other valuable metals from the seabed off the coast of Papua New Guinea— nearly a mile from the ocean’s surface.


Page, an oceans campaigner for Greenpeace, says mining companies see a treasure trove at the bottom of the ocean.

“There are three different kinds of mineral deposits in the deep ocean that industry is getting interested in,” Page explains. “There are manganese nodules, which are found on the abyssal plain of the deep ocean; there are cobalt crusts— mineral-rich crusts — on a lot of the underwater mountains spread throughout the ocean; and deep sea vents, where there are deposits of metals, as well.”

Some of the largest mineral deposits are in the Pacific Ocean, but there are others in the Atlantic and the Indian oceans as well. Page says Nautilus Minerals chose PNG as its first location for exploration for several reasons.

“It’s a Pacific island-nation that has a large exclusive economic zone surrounded by water,” Page says, “and it has an interesting deep sea geology — which has these large deposits of metals around vents. Relatively speaking, these would be technologically feasible to exploit.”

The government of PNG sees this new venture as an economic opportunity for the country. But because the country is highly dependent on the ocean, seabed mining isn’t supported by all of the country's citizens. There are many community groups that strongly oppose the agreement.

And they're not alone. Global environmentalist organizations also worry that seabed mining could be devastating to deep ocean ecosystems.

“We all know that mining on land has all sorts of environmental impacts,” Page says. “It’s very difficult to contain mine tailings, even on land. In the ocean, which, of course, is a fluid environment with all these currents, we can expect widespread pollution.”

Page says we can expect other ill effects, too — everything from smothering of deep sea creatures with sediment to light pollution, which in the deep sea will have an impact on creatures that have evolved to live in dark environments.

Page says Greenpeace is calling for protection measures to be put in place now, before the “experiment” begins.

“Less than three percent of the world’s oceans are either marine protected areas or ocean sanctuaries,” he notes. “And if we’re looking at waters beyond national boundaries, then it’s less than one percent.”

Under the Convention on Biological Diversity and World Summit on Sustainable Development, governments and scientists agreed to the need for a global network of ocean sanctuaries, but they haven’t yet taken any action, says Page. “What we’re saying is we need to get those kind of measures in place before we start adding to the stresses being put on ocean ecosystems.”

“What we really need,” he continues, “is a new UN agreement that ties all these different elements together, so we start managing the oceans in a holistic way.... We need an overarching framework, if you like, to manage our activities under the sea, so we don’t, for example, consider fisheries separate of seabed mining.”

Right now, an organization called the International Seabed Authority is in charge of granting licenses to explore for minerals at the bottom of the ocean. Page worries it is not up to the challenge.

“The International Seabed Authority was formed ... before the industry was really technologically possible, and at a time when we knew far less about the oceans than we do now,” he explains. “So I would say it isn’t really fit for the purpose. There are rules it has set which will apply to seabed mining operations in international waters, but those rules don’t take into account what is happening in the water column and other activities.”

The greatest fear for Page, and for others already concerned about the state of the planet’s oceans, is that the deal between Nautilus Minerals and PNG is the start of a trend.

Technological advances, largely developed from deep sea oil drilling, and the huge demand for the precious metals used in all of our electronic devices have created the right conditions for companies and countries looking to exploit the riches of the ocean floor.

“If this venture is successful,” he says, “then we can expect to see an explosion of deep sea mining. We’ve [already] got something like 19 licenses, I believe, in international waters, and there are other countries and companies looking to do it within the economic zones of specific islands. So the Papua New Guinea venture is really the tip of the iceberg, I think.”

MICHAEL DOM

Marking Black Friday – apparently we won’t see another full moon on Friday 13^th until 2049 – about the same time Papua New Guinea starts reviewing the outcomes of Vision 2050

In darkened hours, all through the night,
In restless sleep, I will alight.
When limbs are weakened, warm and ripe,
Softly you fall, at my sure swipe.
I ply my trade by pale moonlight,

Upon the edges of your sight,
Unheard, your screams, my muted might!
Blind, deaf and dumb, you dare not gripe,
In darkened hours.

But should you dare, put up a fight,
Your fists fall empty at my flight.
You cannot catch my spiteful pipe,
Nor fathom why you ate my tripe!
Your misery is my delight,
In darkened hours.

ISHMAEL PALIPAL

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
Buk bilong Pikinini Children’s Literature Award

IN a village along the coast of a northern Solomon island lived Koteu, an orphan boy who was looked upon by the villagers as an outcast.

The boy was orphaned when he was just five years old, his parents killed by the sorcery of some of the village elders who grew jealous of their work ethic, wealth and happiness.

After his parents’ death their killers shared the wealth and belongings of the family among themselves and left Koteu to work as a slave to help and feed the old people of the village.

“Koteu! You have to hurry to fetch the water, you have firewood to collect for Kua’s grandparents and don’t forget that old Dasieton has also requested you to go and see her,” screamed the wicked nangkaii (witch),the wife of the chief, who was so cruel and wanted to see Koteu punished with unrelenting work.

The boy quickly fetched water for the house of the chief and collected fire woods for Kua’s grandparents and then went off to see Dasieton. Dasieton, a wise old witch, was good friend to Koteu’s parents and she always supported and encouraged Koteu never to give up doing his duties, because one fine day fate would take its course and everything would go back the way it should be.

Dasieton was highly respected throughout village because she was a good nangkaii (witch) but could never over throw the cruel chief, because he was wealthy and only a wealthy person could be leader of the village. The chief was also powerful sorcerer and only the power of another chief – a rightful heir -could defeat him.

After the boy’s parents were killed, the cruel, jealous man named Tukuru and his kin became the leading family of the village through the influence of their wealth and magic. Tukuru and his wife, Doveah, had two daughters and one son, all of whom were cruel like their parents.

With their supporters they were able to unjustly acquire the propertyof the villagers whenever they wanted.The villagers could not rise against them because of the Chief’s sorcery.

When Koteu’s parents died, the chief’s family took in Koteu to use him as a house slave and to ensure he would not rise up against them to take his rightful position. Instead he spent his days with the elderly people of the village and completing house hold chores.

The boy was like his parents. He worked hard and did his daily chores as required, yet even then he was not allowed to play with the village children.

So, to occupy himself while waiting for the afternoon chores, he started to make a small garden near the village dump, because the chief owned all the other available land.

On the land Koteu planted flowers, small fruits and vegetables, like tomatoes, capsicums and cone. He made his land beautiful, but it was hidden from the view of the villagers.

“Hi, Koteu,” the children of the chief supporters would shout at him while he slowly, silently made his way to his secret garden near the dump. “Going to eat the waste in the dump again!” they would tease him with all kinds of mean comments and laugh. But Koteu with his head hanging down would continue walking towards the dump yard, to his secret garden,ignoring their taunts.

One day after completing his daily chores, Koteu slowly sneaked out into his secret garden, as he usually did after seeing that nobody was watching. Unfortunately on this occasion he was followed by the chief’s cruel children and they discovered Koteu’s secret and wonderful garden.

Filled with jealousy and anger, they destroyed his beautiful garden and beat him. “What do you want to prove, you slave boy, with this garden of yours?”That garden was his only happiness in his life, but the barbarous children cheered as they watched Koteu crying against the soil of his garden.

“Mummy, Daddy, why did you leave me like this!” cried Koteu as the kids teased him and beat him. “This would not happen if you were here mummy,” he wept bitterly as the children laughed and danced around.

“Hey leave him alone you kids! Go and play with marbles and leave Koteu alone!” commanded a voice coming towards them from the bush.

“Oh it is the old nangkaii, lets run away before she eats us,” shouted the Kua, the chief’s only son, to his two sisters and their friends, and they all ran away towards the village.

Koteu, with his tears running down from his eyes slowly turned his eyes towards the sound. He could not believe his eyes. It was his Mum…. his own Mum was walking towards him.

With tears streaming down his face he tried to move towards her, “Mummy, mummy is that you?” The lady moved quickly towards him. “Yes it is me, my son,” said she. “Stop crying! It is okay now. I am here with you. They won’t hurt you anymore,” she kept on speaking while hugging him firmly and covering his tender and tearful face with sweet kisses.

Later, she sat on the ground comforting the boy on her lap and was amazed by the beautiful garden the boy had been secretly tending to. The boy, feeling the comfort of the woman which he missed so much, slowly dosed off and fell asleep.

“Koteu, Koteu wakeup, wakeup,” a voice like in a dream woke him up.

Koteu opened his eyes and saw that he was not in a dream “I must have been really beaten up,” he thought as the side of the body throbbed.

“Where am I, where am I?” he shouted as he sat up on the bed he was sleeping. He was sweating profusely. He turned, but instead of seeing his mother he saw Dasieton, the old lady from the village, smiling at him.

“Where is my mother! Where is my mother!” he screamed in despair and confusion.

“Koteu you have to calm down and eat, you must have been dreaming,” said Dasieton. “But for now you have to eat and make yourself strong. You haven’t eaten for two days now,” explained Dasieton as she gave a plate of roasted taro and prawns to Koteu.

“Two days ago, I carried you from the secret garden, after the children beat you up and destroyed your garden.  You were seeing me like your mother because you were badly beaten up, confused and longing for her,” the old lady recalled.

“You were crying about her and I know you missed her so much, but you have to be strong now. It has been eight years since we have lost your parents. But now the time has come for you to stand up for what is right,” she explained as the boy ate the taros and prawns, shoveling the food in to his mouth as he was very hungry.

“This cave we are in is a secret place where your parents hid some of their wealth that will help you regain your rightful place in the village.”

“They knew something bad was going to happen, so they hid these important hereditary wealth and magical costumes, which the Chief is still searching for because he knows these are the only things that can defeat him,” Dasieton explained.

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier, so these cruel things would not have happened to us,” the boy interrupted looking Dasieton with anger.

“Koteu, I had to know that you could keep secrets and make sure that you were ready to overthrow the Chief and lead the people,” replied Dasieton, “and by the secret garden you have been keeping all these years, you have proved that you are now ready.

“I brought you here for initiation, from now you possess power beyond the current chief and can take your rightful place,” Dasieton said, showing Koteu the things that he was going to use to overthrow the cruel chief.

After Koteu understood everything the old lady told him, they prepared to return back home.

He spent five days being taught the secrets and preparing to conquer the chief.

Early in the morning of the sixth day, they set out to the village. The boy wore the headdress which only the chiefs wear and with that he could defeat the power of the sorcerer chief.

As soon as they arrived the feeling of the village changed, because the people knew the rightful heir had returned. The villagers could feel the positive presence entering the village and came out to see what was going on.

As they saw the boy walking with the old woman in his parents’ chieftain costumes they bowed in respect. “Koteu is really the rightful heir!” and “remove the heartless chief and all his supporters,” the villagers shouted in support of the boy.

A battle followed and the boy defeated the ruthless chief with the support of the villagers and the chiefly power of his parents’.

Later, with the decision of the new village council, he sent the chief and his supporters to work as slaves for allies and trading partners faraway across the sea.

So the villagers again lived a happy, kind and caring life. People were happy because Koteu was a fair leader and distributed the wealth of the villages equally among them and he abolished the system of chieftainship.

In the new system only fair leader was to be chosen by the people not based on his wealth but on his character – responsibility, resourcefulness and fairness.

LEONARD FONG ROKA

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
Buk bilong Pikinini Children’s Literature Award

DAY after day my ungko (mother) told me to avoid the Katoo falls for the river current was too strong and would harm or kill me.

But day after day I admired my big brother and sisters enjoying the Bovong River’s strong currents that flow beneath our home through a secured rock ditch full with rock holes that are full with water and falls that were not so steep.

I loved the river and the kids and so needed a single step to touch the river.

‘I am big and strong,’ I would tell myself looking at my muscles and body in the mirror. ‘But why mama cannot let me swim and play in the river?’

Our village, Siriang, is on the west bank of the mighty Bovong River in the Kupe Mountains and so the sun raises every morning and heats us, the village animals like dogs and our bush and gardens but still mama could not let me down to swim and play.

So every day when the sun raised high and the whole village begins shimmering I must be there in the village or the gardens running after mama under the heat of the sun.

Mama would be sweating and I would be hot and screaming for the cold river water but mama would not let me go. Mama would only bring me to the stream to drink water and bath on the kopero, a bamboo pipe carrying water for drinking or bathing from steep mountain streams.

From the Petekeng Hills the sun heats us every morning and the children of my village left me alone and crying and rush downhill to the Katoo falls and pools to bath in the cold mountain river that flows towards the blue sea faraway in Arawa where papa works.

‘Ungko, I want to bath in the river,’ I would cry but mama would say, ‘Ungko, you are too young and precious in my heart so I am not ready to lose you.’

Mama would kiss and hug me to calm me down but still I wanted to be in the river alone to play with the river just like all the elder village children do.

I cried when the children returned from the river singing jokes at me that I will be growing old in the village without knowing how to swim in the deepest part of the Katoo pool and ski down the cruellest of the Katoo falls.

‘There will be a boy in Siriang who will never see the river till he has grand children,’ the happy and freshly bathed would sing at me, ‘and we the children of Siriang hope and pray that his grand children will teach him how to swim down at the Katoo or out at the seas in Arawa.’

But I knew how to swim for I watched the way they paddled in the water using their tiny hands and legs against the river current. I also saw toads and frogs darting through water when I surprised them on the bush streams. So I was a swimmer in heart.

They followed after me and sang jokes at me. In tears I would press my open palms against my ears to avoid listening to their songs and run to mama in shame but they would follow on laughing till mama chased them away.

Then one morning suddenly the village fell asleep. All the adults and the children were not on the lawn singing and playing waiting for the sun to come for it was the mango season and all the children and parents had flu and so were in bed.

I was free from flu and was happy. Mama had flu and papa had flu. My elder brother and sisters had flu and they were sneezing in bed for it was the mango season that we all contracted flu from the flowering mango trees.

I was free and happy. Mama was down and the children who harassed me for not been with them down at the noisy Katoo were down, too. I was free for my minder mama was down and would ignore me for awhile.

So I played happily and waited for the sun to topple the Petekeng Hills. And when the sun was glaring high in the blue sky, just like the village children, I sneaked down to the river. It was now me and the brawling Bovong River; it was me against the might of the river, and without my mama’s eyes to scare me away.

I took a step to the banks of the mighty Katoo pool. I looked into the water, it was crystal clear and but I could not see the bottom of the pool. But I jumped in quietly. The cold penetrated my skin and I was fresh and paddling my legs and hands just like the children and the toads and the frogs.

I was moving and not sinking till I reached the opposite bank.

Happier than ever, I carefully climbed up the rock to the largest fall, to explore the foamy waters that falls with loud brawls, bumps and crushes against the rock beds and walls. It was beautiful and inviting me for a joy ride.

So I went in seated. The water snatched me swiftly from a pool down the primary fall. I was happy. It turned me round and round in a swirling pool for a few seconds and threw me into a larger fall. Down I went in a cloud of foamy water falling so heavy into an endless hole.

The moment my consciousness returned I was in the mother pool of Katoo exhausted and happy with the fun of the Bovong River.  I swam to the banks and rested and rested for a second trial.

I was free and brave to take the Katoo on single handedly. I had taken the largest fall feared by all the children of Siriang.

I was an unsung river swimming and skiing hero of the Kupe Mountains in Bougainville. 

JIMMY DREKORE

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
Buk bilong Pikinini Children’s Literature Award

Eastern highlands
Boasts coffee plantations

Western highlands
Boasts tea plantations

Southern highlands
Boasts oil explorations

Enga Province
Boasts Porgera gold mine

Hela Province
Boasts gas line

Jiwaka Province
Boasts Wahgi Valley spine

But Simbu Province
No plantations
nor explorations

Only resource
The human resource

A land of mountains
Striving to produce captains

DANIEL WAINGE

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
People’s Award for Short Stories

THE crowing of roosters blasted my ears as the house slowly lit up and the sound of children playing alerted me. I opened my eyes and breathed the fresh morning air, brushing off the sleepiness and getting out of the bed.

I peeped into the kitchen to greet mum as usual but there was no sign of her. She must be outside, I thought, and rushed through the door to join the fun. I liked the morning because it was the best time to play with the other village children.

After exhausting all my energy, I felt hungry and walked slowly back to the house.

When I reached it, I realised that the door was wide open. Mum must be back. “Mum! Mum!” I called but there was no reply.

Beside the fire were some roasted kaukau (sweet potato) which I knew mum had left for me. I ate them hungrily.  Ones my hunger was fully satisfied, I felt my eyelids closing. Not wanting to give them any trouble, I lay down on the floor and dozed off.

A sharp pain in my back woke me up. To my surprise, the place was getting darker. I must have slept for hours. I called out to mum but got no answer. I went outside calling her name but still no answer.

I waited, but in vain. I concluded she would not return. I begin to scream and cried my lungs out.

The crying brought my aunty to the house. She calmed me down and took me to her place assuring me mum would turn up soon. I agreed with her, tears still trickling down my cheeks.

The following day was freezing cold. I woke up early and went to my house to check if mum had returned. I was greeted by my aunt.

Aunt said it seemed my mum would not return and from now I am to stay with them.

I gave a deaf ear to my aunt and went about my morning games in the secret hope that mum would come back to me anyhow.

I was aware of mum and dad’s situation. Dad had left us and remarried. I trusted mum and knew she could manage us very well despite dad’s absence. She would never leave me. I had faith in her.

As dusk approached, there was still no sign of mum. “It can’t be true,” I kept telling myself. “Mum cannot abandon me just like that. She will still come back for me.” I went to my aunt’s house.

Every day I hoped and yeaned for mum’s return. Every day it was the same disappointment. Finally I began to accept that mum had abandoned me. Both my parents had abandoned me.

And so I lived with my aunt. Days turn into weeks and weeks into months and months into years.

Aunt’s approach towards me changed. At times I would be deprived of evening meals. I was assigned adults tasks and my freedom to play was restricted. Sometimes I was given evening meals only when I got a lot of work done during the day. I begin to feel like a slave in my own village.

The treatment received was too much to bear.  One night I collected my few valuables and crept out of the house. I went over to my mum’s house and set it on fire then took to the main road.

I had been farewelled with a big bang on my head. The bang was from my aunt. Caught by surprise and not wanting anything more to do with her, I ran away as fast as my legs could carry me.

The moon seemed to approve, shining on the road and making it clear for me. I spent the night outside with the clouds as my roof and a cold breeze as my wall.

A kick on my butt awoke me. I found myself sleeping on the footpath in the middle of a town.  I got up and walked along the street calling for my mum. People laughed and said, “Did your mama leave you, baby boy.”

A car nearly hit me and the driver swore. “You bush kanaka!  Look where you’re going,” the passengers echoed.

With no familiar faces, no mother in sight and an empty stomach, I began to feel weak. When people were not watching, I peeped into bins. I wandered into fast food shops, made myself comfortable at a corner and waited to be offered leftovers. So I began my new life in the city, eating from rubbish bins and begging leftovers from fast food shops.

Sometimes I would wander into night clubs just to be warm for a while. I would sit and watch people enjoying themselves and doing the craziest things all in the name of enjoyment.

A baton on my butt from the security guard signalled that my time was up.

One day as usual, I sneaked into the club and got absorbed in the warmth, excitement and craziness. I did not hear the security guard approaching. He tapped me on the shoulder.

As I turned around he slapped me and kicked me with his boot. I fell to the floor and hit my knee. I cried aloud in pain and stumbled out through the exit. That night I crawled under an old Dyna for shelter.

The next day was worse as I could not walk properly. I found a stick and used it as a crutch. A fight broke out and people ran everywhere. I tried to take cover and fell straight into a deep drain.

I cried out in pain but no one noticed. Crawling like a pig, I hauled myself out of the drain. People yelled at me to “go away you filthy smelly animal.”

I took shelter next to a beggar. He had placed a shirt in front of him and passerby threw coins onto his shirt. The next day I did what the beggar had done. I lived on begging. At least I had something for the evening.

One day, I was caught by a police foot patrol. They kicked me like a ball down the main road and shoved me into a police van.

At the station they led me to the car wash area. A sergeant took a big hose and ordered me to remove my clothes. “Stand there!” he said and sprayed me down, throwing a bar soap at me and saying, “Soap that filthy body of yours, rigid animal.”

After my shower, for the very first time in months, I felt good. The sergeant summoned me to the counter, wrote my name and took a photo. With a strict warning of not wanting to see me ever again on the street, he released me.

I thanked him and walked out of the station. As I was about to cross the street, I heard my name called. The woman standing in front of me looked like my mother. She called my name again and I knew it was her.

A mixed emotion crept into me. I did not know whether to be happy or angry. She stood there with tears running down her cheeks and threw her arms around me and said, “Forgive me son.”

I pushed her hand away from me and heard myself saying, “You don’t deserve to be called a mother. I trusted you. I loved you. You were everything I had. I had faith in you despite father’s neglect.

“All I ask is that at least you might have left a note for me,” I said as I walked off.

PETER KRANZ

YES there really is a blue-eyed gecko. National Geographic identifies it as Smith’s green-eyed gecko but its eyes looks blue to me. And to Uncle John Bomai.

Uncle John captures the image beautifully in this painting. Just a snippet as my scanner isn't big enough to take in the whole work.

Who is Uncle John? Well he's a Simbu artist who can be found most days selling his works to tourists at the small street market outside the Holiday Inn in Port Moresby.

He's a relative of ours who studied under the famous Mathias Kauage but makes his living in the tourist trade.

I've found his works in Darwin, Sydney and London, so he is of some international repute, but these days supports his family on a few kina a week at Morata settlement.

A few year ago we walked into a hotel in Darwin on a baking hot afternoon and, lo and behold, there was a beautiful PNG painting hanging above the reception desk.

Rose cried out, “That's by Uncle John!” And so it was.

We talked to the manager who it turned out regularly travels to PNG to buy artworks. She said, “I saw this and just knew I had to have it. Your uncle is very talented.”

It is amazing what talent you can find in the back streets of Mosbi. Uncle John’s work is in the tradition of some great Simbu artists.

And, by the way, if you’re ever in that part of Mosbi, you can't mistake him - he always wears a leather broad-brimmed cowboy hat.

Next time you’re visiting, walk outside the Holiday Inn compound and look for Uncle John. For a few kina you can buy a painting of great beauty from an artist of international fame.

PETER KRANZ

SHOULD Papua New Guinea provide free circumcision for male infants as an HIV/AIDS preventative measure?

I see an Australian newspaper has reopened the debate on circumcision. Sydney University professor of medicine Brian Morris claims the latest evidence shows the operation is ''equivalent to childhood vaccination'' and it is ''unethical'' not to offer the procedure to all parents as a matter of routine.

He has written to NSW Health Minister Jillian Skinner urging her to lift the ban on elective circumcision in public hospitals, claiming the cost savings in averted disease and adverse medical conditions will be ''massive''.

What the article fails to mention at all is the well-documented value of circumcision in preventing HIV/AIDS in developing countries.

"There is compelling evidence that male circumcision reduces the risk of heterosexually acquired HIV infection in men by approximately 60%,” says the World Health Organisation.

“Three randomised controlled trials have shown that male circumcision provided by well-trained health professionals in properly equipped settings is safe.

“WHO/UNAIDS recommendations emphasise that male circumcision should be considered an efficacious intervention for HIV prevention in countries and regions with heterosexual epidemics, high HIV and low male circumcision prevalence."

There is also a debate in Papua New Guinea, and it can be explored here.

JIMMY DREKORE

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
Kina Securities Award for Poetry

Simbu het tok: Go Long Ples
Wanim taim bai yu go long ples?

Bai yu wokabaut
Or go long staut?

Landcrusa
go long Goroka

long Kondomagaundo
yu go Papindo

Yu painim mani
Yu go Lahani

Yu tokim mosbi
Noken bisi

Ol lain blong mi orait tasol
Mosbi tok Simbu orait tasol

Abel lukim kunai long Wara Sua
Em kirap nogut, i mas gat asua?

Simbu Het Tok: Go Long Ples
Wanim taim bai yu go long ples?

Displa tok em blo opisman?
O displa tok em blo stritman?

Yu laik wokim Kundiawa city
Na wara problem yu no bisi

Yu tok long blokim tua
Em no haus dua

Stritman tok
Ol i tok

Yu no katim ribbon yet
Mi poret

Wara Simbu i ron
Taim i ron

Wanim taim bai yu go long ples?

MAC DANDAVA

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
People’s Award for Short Stories

IT rained that morning, not Bougainville’s usual downpour of cats and dogs but a light, incessant drizzle, the sort that can drive one over the edge.

The grey, almost dark appearance of the heavens added to the sense of sombre depression that hung heavy in the air, as though in sympathy with the events that were unfolding.

Green breakers pounded the beach keeping the banana boats shore-bound except for those ferrying people to the village.

A sense of claustrophobia, added to by military operations on the island, did nothing to dispel a pervasive sense of gloom and powerlessness.

The military had made the relatively simple task of moving the body to the village the day before almost insurmountable.

At each checkpoint all the males accompanying the body were subjected to a body strip and search, including one at sea by the crew of a naval patrol boat.

The desire of the relatives and friends of the dearly departed to mourn in private solitude was shattered by the barked order of the military for all males to remove their shirts.

So there they stood exposed before young men drunk with the exercise of the power of the M16s and SLRs in their hands.

At the village, the landing of the boat was made precarious by the breakers pounding the shore, further draining the emotions of the mourners.

Landing boats at the village was always difficult but during high tides in bad weather it was extremely tricky. But the boat was eventually pulled in and the wailing began.

The special son of the village had died on Saturday and this was now Tuesday morning. During the night the sparse village population had doubled perhaps trebled. People were there for the burial. The village had not seen such a gathering in recent memory.

Nobody slept that night. A communal rite was observed, the women surrounding the body in a circle of light from the hurricane lamps; the men and boys drifting around the edge of the light. No one gave instructions: it was understood on such occasions that economy of words was sufficient.

The mourning continued through the night, sometimes rising to a crescendo then subsiding to a whimper interspersed with periods of silence.

The older women wove sad dirges asking why.  The wizened maternal grandmother asked why younger people go ahead in the natural progression to the grave. She repeated her question, almost as a complaint, to any younger person who would stop by.

She would say it was she who needed the release of death, not her grandson. It was unnatural and unreasonable, totally unfair.

Why? Those village people who had gone beyond primary education could be counted on the fingers of one hand and the deceased had gone beyond a first degree. His achievements seemed irrelevant as his body lay cold and beyond reach of the living.

He had represented the dreams and aspirations of the younger members of that village and a host of surrounding villages.

He was a special son of the area who had risen above the barriers and obstacles to achieve more. The older members of the village held him in high esteem; he had reached such status that the older folks would listen and pay attention to what he said.

In the last 1 years of his life he had succumbed to illness and pain and discomfort had been his constant companions. Regardless, he lived as if he would exist forever: planning, working, accomplishing all that pertains to an active life. 

Thirty -six years he had lived and now his body lay cold and unresponsive, hemmed in by the sides of the coffin, nonetheless exuding a sense of peace. He had gone beyond the realm of human experience.

His life could be compared to an unfinished symphony, indeed the symphony had barely begun. The Christian memorial service conducted by the pastor, a former classmate, was simple, sad and full of reflections on his life and hope for resurrection and reunion.

Then followed the slow, solemn march on the shoulders of his friends, classmates and relatives - the last journey to his resting place, a plot of land not far from the village.

At the plot there was no debate about how his body was going to be positioned nor had there been earlier discussion.  Unspoken village wisdom prevailed and he was laid to rest with his head toward his sister and his feet towards his mother.

After the body had been committed to mother earth, the people slowly drifted back to the village and to the places from which they had come. They had fulfilled their kinship obligations and there was nothing more they could do except leave.

The angry sea could not hold them back even though it was pounding the shore in a continuous barrage of breakers making it nigh on impossible to launch the banana boats.

Left behind was a young widow and two fatherless boys and a host of memories: memories of what was and what could have been.

An ancient sage once said the end is better than the beginning. Can this be so? Was yesterday better than 36 years ago when it all began for him?

Ahead stretches the gaping chasm of time, relentless, unforgiving and eternal.

That little plot of land a stone’s throw and a bit from the village is sister, brother, mother and father and, in the end, me.

DAVID KASEI WAPAR

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
Kina Securities Award for Poetry

This poem was inspired by my parents who married at a time when our grandparents were slowly getting used to accepting that marrying outside their village was acceptable. But love did, and will, continue to break barriers. It did for my parents, Paul and Liley

You come from the blue mountains
I come from where the sharks nest
We come from two separate worlds

Yours filled with the sound of jungle
Mine, quiet except when Taleo rumbles
We come from two different worlds

As a kid all you knew was the forest
Unlike me who could wade in blue waters
And those are two different worlds

Yam was what had you into such a beauty
While Sago was what I had since I was a baby
We were raised in two different worlds

Yafa never imagined the possibility
Of me having you for eternity
Because you are from a different world

But love didn’t discriminate
It brought us together after that first date
Though we come from two different worlds

Muaine’ greeted you with a fake smile
And pretended to be hearty all the while
She’d soon get over that ‘two different worlds’

After a year we had our first bundle of joy
I was speechless coz’ it was a boy
He shall later learn his parents come from two different worlds

He shall know that you are from Madang
And that I am from Wewak
And those were two different worlds! 

LEONARD FONG ROKA

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
PNG Chamber of Mines & Petroleum
Award for Essays & Journalism

COCOA farmer Patrick Erengona from Kaino village in the hinterland of Arawa, Bougainville, earned K680 for two bags of dry bean cocoa in the last week of May.

With the high cost of living in the province, this was not enough to sustain his family. There are problems in the Bougainville cocoa industry.

In a newspaper story some years ago, journalist Eric Tapakau wrote that, by the end of 2004, Bougainville should have 30 million cocoa trees and reported on a feasibility study for a proposed cocoa factory on the island.

To this day there is no evidence of the progress indicated by the media report. And the problem is the ownership of the cocoa industry of the island.

Bougainvillean farmers are not owners of their cocoa. The effective owners are non-Bougainvillean buyers and dealers.

In the 2008 research work, Market chain development in peace building: Australia’s roads, wharves and agriculture projects in post-conflict Bougainville, authors Ian Scales and Raoul Graemer revealed that Bougainville cocoa since being purchased directly by Rabaul-based buyers had been misattributed as East New Britain cocoa.

Scales and Graemer noted the Rabaul-based buyers in 2005-2006 as Agmark, Outspan and Garamut, which operate as direct buyers of dry bean cocoa.

A chronic problem has been ‘black-market’ and ‘grey-market’ cocoa that affects monitoring by the Cocoa Board of PNG in Bougainville and proper earning schemes for agents and the Bougainville economy.  There are many unregistered as well as registered fermentary sheds around Bougainville.

The distance between the Rabaul-based buyers and their agents on Bougainville complicates things.

‘Grey-market’ cocoa exists where a local dealer buys cocoa from an unregistered fermentary, brands it with the number of a registered fermentary and sells it to a cocoa exporter.

‘Black-market’ cocoa is unbranded and unreceipted and eventually mixed with legitimate produce for export.

The Bougainville branch of the Cocoa Board finds it hard to monitor, control and protect Bougainvilleans in terms of income and pricing. This weakness has over the years attracted dozens of non-Bougainvillean companies to enter Bougainville further complicating matters for the understaffed Cocoa Board.  

This all impacts on little growers and farmers like Patrick Erengona. His fermentary is unregistered and he  sells cocoa to a clansman who he says is an agent of Outspan. He doesn’t care about registering as he says the Cocoa Board of PNG does nothing to help him.

According to Scales and Graemer, in 2004-05 Bougainville produced 15,670 tonnes of exportable cocoa matching the pre-crisis average of 15,600 tonnes. This quantity at world market pricing would have earned the Bougainville economy about K59 million if Bougainville had its own company in charge of its cocoa industry.

With non-Bougainvillean companies controlling the industry, farmers like Erengona are exploited and the government awaits the re-opening of the Panguna copper mine with foreign consultants screaming, ‘Re-open Panguna and your GDP will rocket into the space and we give you more loans to keep you in control.’

Erengona harvests 140-170 kilograms of wet bean cocoa to ferment into one standard exportable bag of 63.5 kilograms of dry bean.

So his recent earning of K340 per bag is a disadvantage for him and the Bougainville economy.

Since cocoa is a major income earner for Bougainvilleans the Bougainville government must take control of the industry.

“Bougainville is taking all the powers and functions of government from PNG,” Erengona says, “so it’s about time it forms his own cocoa board and also form a true Bougainvillean company to export the cocoa we produce.

“With that I think the price of cocoa on Bougainville will triple and that the internal revenue of Bougainville will rise and there is no need to destroy our environment with the re-opening of the Panguna mine since Bougainville is a small island.”

To Erengona, Bougainville is being deprived of it enormous economic power from this cash crop, impeding its political journey towards deciding its political future. 

AXIE BARCLAY | Portland Book Review

A Faraway, Familiar Place by Michael French Smith, University of Hawaii Press, $US52.00, 229 pages

A Faraway, Familiar Place: An Anthropologist Returns to Papua New Guinea tells the story of an anthropologist returning to Papua New Guinea after many years absence.

He finds the place he lived and worked much changed, as well as that he himself as changed in the intervening years, and is no longer the charge-ahead, near-sighted youth he was when he first researched there.

It’s very much the story of people, as one might except from an anthropologist, from his relationship with his wife and her failure to thrive in PNG, to the people of PNG and their lives intersecting with his research.

It’s also very much about what people can learn from PNG, namely the art of slowing down, of paying attention, a habit that has been lost in many parts of the world.

One could call this book a leisurely travelogue, a book that explores what being “modern” means, from the perspective found on muddy roads, stifling heat, and other jungle discomforts.

Michael French Smith’s work is very academic in nature, as might be expected. So readers will want to be prepared for that, but overall the book is an interesting account of PNG.

BONIFACE TONY

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
People’s Award for Short Stories

“DIN! Din! Oh my god! Din, please talk to me! Talk to me please! Say something! Come on man, say something!”

“It’s no use sergeant, he is gone, we lost him,” came the comforting voice of the soldier standing at my side.

“No! We did not lose him,” I said, hoisting the body onto my shoulder and heading for the chopper.

That morning, although the sun was gold in colour with lots of promise ahead, I woke up with the fear that this day could be my last.

Lying in bed, I thought of mum, how she’d be standing at the airport craning her neck over the crowd to see was disembarking from the PNG Defence force Hercules.

A kick on my butt brought me back to sense.

“Wake up, sleepy head, you don’t have all this time to dream about your beauty queen.”

That was my elder brother’s playful voice. Din and I are in the force together. Mum disagreed on our choice of profession and wanted me to take up another career but I loved and admired my elder brother so much I wanted to be with him.

So I signed up. Mum had no choice but to accept. All she said was, so long as you and Din are safe and sound I am happy.

“Come on now, on the double,” said Din and he threw my helmet to me. I caught it. “There you go!” he said and tapped me on the shoulder and walked away.

I put on my helmet, picked up the M16 and walked to where the other platoon members were standing.

“All present?” came my elder brother’s check call. We echoed in unison, “Yes, sir!”

“Then here are the orders for….”

There was a loud bang and a bullet hit one of our guys in the head.

We fell to the ground and slipped along on our bellies to the nearest cover.

There were some minutes of silence before we spotted the enemy moving towards us through tall elephant grass. These rebels had been fighting each other over the copper mine.

We were deployed into their territory to maintain peace and to see that the outsiders working on the island were safely evacuated.

The civilians and outsiders appreciated our presence but not so the rebels. We had lost a few of our men already in the name of peace and harmony.

We aimed our guns and fired in the rebels’ direction. They responded with a hand grenade which landed in front of us.

“Grenade!” Din called, stretching for the explosive to throw it back. The grenade detonated.

“No!” I screamed, but it was too late.

I crawled over to Din. When I turned him around, I saw his face covered in blood. I couldn’t fight back the tears.

“God help him,” I prayed and called his name.

Every time we returned from duty, we would be met at the airport with a welcoming band and eager families aching to see their sons, dads and husbands.

This time it was different. We were on an emergency. As the chopper whirled down to land, I could see the ambulance.

On the ground, the medical orderlies ran to the chopper with a stretcher. I ran after the orderlies as they wheeled Din to the waiting ambulance.

I was stopped abruptly by the doctor. “We will take him from here soldier,” he ordered.

Helpless, I stood and watched my brother‘s body on the stretcher hauled into the ambulance.

“Sergeant!”

“Yes sir!”

“Back to the base!”

“No sir!” 

MARK EVANS | Pacific Politics

THIS month the Spirit of Hela left from Papua New Guinea to deliver its first shipment of liquefied natural gas to Japan, now the world’s hungriest consumer of the product.

PNG’s $19US billion LNG project -more than 190 million work hours in the making with investments spanning five provinces- has been sold as an opportunity to independently finance an ambitious development agenda.

This LNG production will soon launch PNG to the list of the top producers in the world. Yet it was more than two years ago that the O’Neill government began enthusiastically driving funds towards ‘development enablers’ such as fee-free education and free primary healthcare.

While this milestone should be a time for celebration, excitement has fallen away to concerns over debt burdens and unclear behind-the-scenes financial agreements. Port Moresby is flush with speculation about the risks of rapidly unwinding 10 years of fiscal prudence.

Details of PNG’s public finances only trickle out during the year but signs are of a government storing up problems for itself.

With concerns about the state of the economy heightened, vague reassurances are unlikely to assuage fears. It is in government’s own interest to begin communicating the evidence.

For many people it is no surprise that an air of scepticism hangs over the start of PNG’s largest ever resource project.

Late last year, one of Papua New Guinea’s founding fathers, Sir Julius Chan, boldly statedthat all of the major resource extraction efforts of the last 40 years had ‘failed’. This was not because the resources had failed to be extracted, he said, but because they created no improvement in the lives of the people.

In fact, the 1990s economic crisis and the Bougainville conflict (both resulting from resource extraction), suggest that he was understating the situation.

In this latest instalment in PNG’s natural resource saga, there has been ample advice from development partners, academics and international financial institutions to ensure this time was different: carefully managed revenues helping to foster broad-based development.

Yet recently we saw the Ombudsman step in to block the first interest payment of the controversial (and perhaps illegal) $1.2 billion loan agreement used to finance the government’s shareholdings in Oil Search.

Then PNG’s foreign exchange dealers began discussing rumours of foreign exchange shortages and the Bank of PNG once more intervened to support a weakening kina.

There is a genuine fear that clear-headed thinking may have been lost in the scramble surrounding natural resource extraction.

Economists are increasingly concerned that an overly excited government has loosened its grip on the purse strings, borrowed too much and inadvertently left the country vulnerable to economic instability.

This would not be a first for PNG. If we cast our eyes back to the early 1990s to a time when the country was eagerly awaiting revenues from Kutubu Oil project and Porgera Gold Mine, we see a government, drunk on the anticipation of this windfall, that ran its public finances off the road.

Ill-equipped to deal with an economic shock, PNG fell into a currency crisis and was forced to manage the distress of an International Monetary Fund structural adjustment program whose legacy lasted for the better part of 10 years.

Unfortunately the government is all too tempted to dismiss worries and quash expressions of concern. The removal of high profile officials and Ministers, failure to adhere to parliamentary and judicial processes, and threats of deportation for dissenting voices, have served merely to inflame these worries and fuel speculation about incipient signs of the resource curse.

The situation is finely balanced. The government, in its recent spree of deficit spending, has ignored advice from the IMF as well as its own previously announced strategies, and taken the government finances beyond the legal benchmarks of responsibility. This is only likely to get worse in 2014.

In the formation of a government budget it is often said that wars on public waste are the last refuge of politicians who can’t make their sums add up. In PNG’s 2014 budget refuge was also found in uncertain compliance measures and assets sales.

More recently we heard news of poorly performing mining and petroleum taxes to add to this list of revenue sources likely to fall short. Given this, it seems increasingly likely that the required revenue growth of 30% in 2014 – ten times faster than growth in revenue seen over 2013 – will be missed. Even before March all indications pointed toward the likelihood that the budget deficit will open up further and the limits in the Fiscal Responsibility Act breached again.

Then in March came the mammoth UBS loan agreement that led to the ousting of the Treasury Minister Don Polye and Petroleum and Energy Minster William Duma – the former continues to dispute the agreement’s legality. But whether or not this loan agreement is legal, it means that in two years we have seen the country committed to two multi-billion Kina loans without serious oversight.

While the Ombudsman and lawyers pore over the legislation, analysts should be debating the implications of adding to the debt pile. The government has prevented this conversation.

While willing to fight the legality of this deal, the economic logic remains a discussion that only a few are privy. We do not know the implications for government revenues or for official foreign exchange reserves, which are already heading southward with the Kina. Neither do we know the implications for the Sovereign Wealth Fund.

Unfortunately the ‘wait and see if we were right’ response to critics of the UBS loan agreement that financed the government’s interests in Oil Search is unlikely to ease the discontent.

Recent Oil Search share price increases are unrealised paper gains and not, as reported, a ‘windfall’ for the government. More importantly these gains do not tell us whether the decision was in the public interest or value for money. We know that this was a good deal for Oil Search, who used the capital to expand interests in the Elk and Antelope gas fields, but the public interest is less clear.

In between budgets, the PNG treasury only provides limited information on the state of public finances. This makes it a challenge to understand whether an already large deficit will get larger or whether huge loan agreements are likely to become too difficult to manage. Yet, the indicators available already suggest that the consequences of deficit spending may be creeping up behind the government.

With commercial banks edging closer to the limit of their ability to lend to government, the rollover risk alarm bells have begun to ring. The government is finding it harder to borrow to cover repayments, increasingly eating into those vital cash reserves necessary to pay bills and salaries.

This is the stuff that keeps treasury officials up at night.

A glance at the recent string of hugely undersubscribed government bond auctions and the rapidly increasing cost of short-term credit reminds us of a mounting pressure that the government must carefully manage.

Over the past year interest rates on one-year Treasury Bills have rocketed from 2% to 6%. At the same time commercial banks desire to lend is waning- the government’s 30 May request for K200 million is a good example of this pressure, it took just K44 million in accepted bids.

The government has one more card to play if commercial banks lose interests. It can go cap-in-hand to the only institution that has the ability to ‘create kina’, the Bank of Papua New Guinea (BPNG).

A glance at BPNG’s balance sheet and data on recent stock auctions shows that the government is increasingly doing this – over the past two years, lending to government has more than doubled, reaching historically high levels and worryingly they have also stepped in to the short-term bond market. This is also a sign of the tightening environment for the government.

For the better part of a year the BPNG has been concerned with a rapidly falling kina, whose depreciation has been worse than expected.

While there is no doubt that this is partly driven by the gap between the construction and production phase of the LNG project, injecting liquidity into the banking system to fund the government’s deficit at best could be considered out of line with their policy, at worst could have contributed to the kina’s weakening.

Leaning on a central bank can quickly undermine the goal of maintaining financial stability with low and stable inflation.

In an ideal world a central bank governor in this situation would be making firm statements that the currency printing press should not become politically captured.

Instead, the BPNG avoids discussing its own policies and limits around government lending in its latest policy statement, while reversing their advice from six months prior by telling the government ‘it should not be constrained by the limits on its total debt’. Not a line heard often from an independent central bank governor.

Since the 2013 budget the government has been accused of spending LNG revenues before they arrive. There is some truth to this, but given the slump caused by the conclusion of the LNG construction phase, controlled deficit spending can be justified by economic logic.

Yet, as is all too often the case in the formation of government budgets, economic logic is used retrospectively. The increase in MP’s funds (through the District Services Improvement Program) that helped open up the hole in the budget was driven more by politics than a thought-out stimulus package. Nevertheless, the litmus test of interventionist fiscal policy will come when government needs to cut back.

Foreseeing this challenge, in the 2014 budget government officials made commitments for stringent real spending cuts for 2015 to pull the deficit back to manageable levels. Longer-term fiscal projections tend to be light on political buy-in, but they can shape discussions as we move closer to the end of the year.

But while we might hope that O’Neill’s government has given itself some breathing space behind the integrity laws to heed this advice, they are more than aware that a 30-month grace period is only as strong as their ability to hold enough members on side.

Spending promises are still integral to holding together the government. But with debt financing challenges nipping at the government’s heels, there may be little choice left.

Down the line nobody wants to be looking back at another missed opportunity. With the stakes so high, the government would benefit from fronting up and engaging these issues rather than relying on reassurances or closing down discussion.

As the sustainability of deficit spending comes into question and strains on the economy take their toll, the desire to know the government’s direction only increases.

For the government of Papua New Guinea, credibility has become the most important commodity of all.

CAROLINE EVARI

An entry in The Crocodile Prize
Kina Securities Award for Poetry

Inspired by homelessness. While some of us have everything we need in life, someone out there is suffering. So learn to be content and appreciate what you have.

The lonely heart sits in the silence and whispers into the thing air
A message only his heart carry’s
A message of one heart but with many voices
He looks to see if there’s anyone watching him
But all he sees is darkness, grief, pain and emptiness
His muscles shiver as his mind is bombarded with voices
Fear begins to take hold of his strength

Fear of love
Fear of confidence
Fear of faith
And fear of life

His heart weakens with brokenness
As in place of love hatred gains boundaries
Faces and words flash before him in memory
Of those who rejected him
Of those who looked down on him
They hover over his head like a thick black cloud
As he quickly hold back tears gushing out his weary and shadowed eyes

His heart beats faster as he fights his tormenting memories
A battle he finds himself losing every time
He shivers and shakes now that his body floods with sweat and dirt
He looks out for more air
Air that is fresh and refreshing
But again his environment is only filled with maggots, sewage and debris
He finds a way to comfort himself and looks for hope

He tries to stretch his feet to relax and keep calm with little courage
The sound of rats squeaking and nibbling become louder
And the snoring of his cuddled up neighbour becomes his company
He feels for his cardboard mat and folds his arms up against his chest
With one big sigh he leans backward and rest
Has he shuts his eyes tightly a tear rolls down his chilled face

This was the only comfort he knew
The only fair place he knew
And so he wondered off in peace
And this no one knows
No one hears 

GARY JUFFA

IN Papua New Guinea, death is no stranger, just the gritty reality every child faces growing up in a hard and unforgiving country.

It is ever present in every society pervading through villages, settlements and urban centres. The ultimate thief, it steals children from parents and parents from children, siblings from each other.

My childhood was by no means unique and I experienced my fair share of death as I grew up in Kokoda, Oro Province.

I cannot recall how many funerals I attended. The first was with my grandfather. I held his hand and we walked to a settlement behind our cocoa block in Kokoda.

I must have been about four and had no idea it was a funeral. I was humming and skipping at his side, as I usually did whenever we went on walks. Life was one big adventure.

We crossed the river and I begged to go swimming but my grandfather quietly said no. We walked across the stream and came to a house. People were gathered around it. Some were seated.

I recall with vivid detail the sight of a woman prostrate on the ground. She was weeping. Frightened, I clutched my grandfather’s hand. He walked towards the people and the group parted and became quiet.

Then I saw my first corpse laid bare on a mat on the ground. Its stomach was huge and distended and its skin grey. I tried to look away. But my grandfather held me firm and whispered, “Look at it. You will see more. Get used to it. This is death, the brother of life.”

The walk home was long. I said nothing and neither did my grandfather. It rained heavily and he cut a large taro leaf for me. I held it like an umbrella and walked behind him.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. For years, on some nights, I would suddenly awaken, covered in sweat, having seen this vivid image in my dream, the dead grey body, the protruding stomach, the stench of sweat, mud and death.

Oh, the smell of death is unique. You never get rid of it. It is etched deep into your memory from the first time it invades and you are captured by that pungent scent. Youremember it forever.

That day it rained hard. Dense, dark jungle rain. The sun banished early and the night arriving ominous and fast. Later that night, as I lay beside my grandfather and my grandmother wove her bilum by the dim light of a hurricane lamp, the rain beating down on the tin roof, I heard the sound of bats squeaking outside our window and shuddered.

“They are carrying the souls of the dead on their backs for a last time on earth before disappearing to their new home,” my grandmother told me, and I covered myself with my blanket lest they take me along with them.

Only three years later, my grandfather would be snatched by death, leaving me confused and lost for years to come. It was a terrible lesson for a child. A lesson I have been drawing from ever since.

It is that no matter how much love you have for someone, the fateful day will come when they are taken away. And you can do nothing about it. Not a single thing.

That day, I awoke to silence. My grandmother was not there. My aunt was asleep beside me instead of on her mat.

I ran to my grandfather’s bed and it was empty. I felt it and it was cold. I knew he had not slept in it. I ran outside and looked around the homestead.

It was a crisp Kokoda morning with the mist beginning to creep away. Not a sound to be heard. A faint wind rustled the leaves of the cocoa trees. The night was just leaving and I stood alone. Not a sound I heard.

Then as the leaves moved they made a sound and I watched fascinated as they seemed to take a life of their own atop of the giant cocoa tree that was my grandfather’sfavourite sitting place.

It seemed to want to say something to me. Here he would place his fold-up deck chair on Sunday mornings, dressed in long sleeved white shirt, crisp-ironed and starched long white pants and white shoes, rolling a Tally Ho cigarette.

Near his long legs would be his favourite wooden table with his giant tin mug full of steaming black tea. A record player would be playing country songs and I would be happily chasing the hens as he watched.

My grandmother would be cooking Sunday breakfast and humming some obscure hymn that only she seemed to know.

That day, a dreadful silence seemed to envelop our humble home. There was only the rustling of the leaves of the giant cocoa tree.

My grandfather had been at Kokoda Hospital for a while. A week probably, that seemed forever to a child, especially one who spent every waking hour with his grandfather.

I had visited him yesterday. He had held my hand. He looked tired and smiled, saying nothing and yet so much.

I asked when he would come back home and he looked away. I looked at my grandmother and she was looking away too.

I know now that he was crying. He knew he was saying his final farewell and the giant hand that hauled me onto his huge shoulders when I was tired from walking would not be there again.

Never there to wipe my tears or dust my knees when I stumbled or comb my hair or make my tea or bring me supper.

There is nothing more painful than the loss of one so loved that you feel the loss in your heart every day. That pain was only matched when my grandmother finally left us to join her beloved husband and my mother to join her parents some years later.

It is the tragic reality of life, that death is its constant companion and always nearby....