Paul Kurai with Assumtha and his boys in Australia

DANIEL KUMBON

WABAG - An obvious sign of embarrassment and guilt appeared on Paul Kiap Kurai’s face as he recalled how in Mt Hagen 27 years ago he had been blindly betting on horse races and, over a three-year period, lost all his savings.

“They said I was a good gambler,” Paul said. “The one who bet on the right horse and always won.

“I thought they were telling me the truth and kept playing.”

Between 1993 and 1996 he led a wasteful life which nearly destroyed him and his family – including small children from his first and second wives.

Although he was unemployed, he did not notice his savings dwindle as he kept betting on horses with strange names which were racing at Eagle Farm in Brisbane and other racetracks in Australia.

At times, Paul won up to K1,000, but his bank account never saw much benefit. One day in 1996 he saw he had only K200 in the bank.

It was then he made a desperate decision that was to change his life forever. After it, he never looked back.

In 1993 he had suffered two simultaneous blows that probably triggered his habitual gambling. First, he left his job as a senior recruitment officer at the Porgera joint venture mine. Then, Ruth Buka, his first wife of 10 years who bore him two children, left him when he married a second wife.

Ruth was a teacher and had been the one to provide food and financial security when Paul left his job.

Theirs had been a good relationship but there was a big problem that led to their painful separation.

Paul Kurai wanted more children but Ruth was content with two – a small girl and an adopted son.

It all began when they both visited a family planning clinic to seek advice on how to space their children. But a poorly trained health worker had given Ruth the wrong medicine which permanently damaged her reproductive system.

“It was painful but we separated. I wanted more children. I patiently waited for over 10 years but when no child came, I openly planned to marry a second wife. Ruth didn’t like it and left me,” Paul explained.

He married Assumtha from Londol, also in the Ambum Valley. She bore him three boys and four girls who currently live in Australia, occasionally travelling home on vacations.

But in those years before he could send Assumtha and their children down south and go on to marry more wives and have more children like his father before him, Paul Kurai was on the verge of self-destruction.

With his lifetime savings evaporated and only K200 left, he became depressed. He found it hard to imagine how he would raise a growing family. Everything was dark and dangerous. He was on a collision course. It seemed there was no sun in the sky.

Paul firmly feels that if he had taken to drinking at this point, it would have destroyed him completely. But somehow he remembered there was a heavenly father who loved him. And in 1996 he pleaded with God for divine mercy and direction.

“I prayed to God and asked him if he had created me to end up like this,” Paul said.

“I asked Him where was I leading my family to and beseeched Him for forgiveness, to show me my real purpose in life and guide me along the right path.”

Paul recalled that when he went to sleep that night, he had two pleasant dreams.

“I saw my father come to me,” he related. “I thought to myself, how come he was still here when he had died in 1980.

“My father told me he had prepared two supermarkets for me which were half full. I had to fill them to the rafters and look after them.”

When he awoke his mind felt light and free. It was like watching a mountain peak emerge through the fog in the early morning sunlight exposing a real splendour.

Immediately after that experience, Paul went to Wabag, almost aimlessly. At a street corner, he overheard some people discussing an advertisement about a building project that had been tendered by the Department of Enga administration works unit.

He rushed over to Keas, where the unit operated from, and boldly told the expatriate manager that he was a jack of all trades could get the job done within the required time frame.

The manager told him to pay a K100 tender fee like everybody else. Paul rushed to the bank in town, withdrew half of the remaining balance of his account and paid the fee that same day.

That evening, Paul went home satisfied. He felt he had bet his money on the right horse this time.

His standing in the community as a councillor, his educational qualifications and previous work experience as a kiap and recruitment officer gave him the edge over competitors and he won the K9,000 contract.

He was required to build a small staff house and a clinic at Pipkungus aid post in Laiagam.

The department would supply all the building materials and Paul had to provide the labour. He didn’t have to possess trade skills; he just had to coordinate and manage the project, hire the carpenters and pay them.

It didn’t take long for him to find out that the carpenters he engaged were not properly trained. They had lied about their work experience. And he had exhausted his last remaining K100 to buy rice, tea and sugar for them.

Sensing that his contract was in jeopardy, he braced for the inevitable. Then, the foreman appeared at the building site unannounced and was so unhappy with the work he ordered the buildings pulled down.

The carpenters hadn’t correctly pegged and laid out the foundations.

“Em wanem kain wok yupela mekim? Yupela kanaka kapenta bilong wanep hap? Yupela igat save long wokim haus or yupela wokim nating nating? Em haus sik yupela wokim. Rausim kam daon nao tasol.”

“What type of work is this? Where are you illiterate carpenters from? Do you know how to build houses? This is an important hospital project. Pull it down now,” the irate foreman had shouted at the top of his voice.

Paul had to calm him down and defend his contract. In front of a gathering crowd of villagers, he walked up to the foreman, smiled and reached out to shake his hands, asking him to please speak in the Enga language and lower his voice a bit.

Paul told him he had recruited the wrong carpenters and pleaded for a second chance.

“The foreman was lenient,” Paul said. “He had pity on me and allowed me to continue the project. He showed my carpenters how to lay the foundation according to the plan - and taught them new skills too. Some have remained with me since.”

The foreman was James Tipitap from Aipus village near Wabag. He was an experienced tradesman and visited the site regularly and helped complete it within six weeks.

“If James reported us, my contract would have been terminated. I would not be where I am today. I owe it to him,” Paul said.

When the project was completed Paul received K9,000 and paid K3,000 to his underserving carpenters who could have cost him his contract and reputation.

He gave James Tiptap some money too to show his appreciation for understanding the situation Paul was in.

Unaware of James Tiptap’s involvement, the expatriate manager was impressed with Paul Kurai for having done a fine job in record time and offered him another contract to build a staff house at Yango Health centre in Laiagam.

Paul picked up K12,000 after successfully completing this second project in 1997.

Coincidentally, project officers from the Porgera joint venture were impressed with Paul’s work. It seemed the expatriate manager from the works unit had recommended him to company officials.

Sensing the potential in the construction industry, Paul flew to Port Moresby and registered Neneo Construction with the Investment Promotion Authority.

Having worked for the Porgera joint venture he knew that the company followed strict procedures and would offer contracts only to properly registered companies.

Now registered, Neneo Construction was offered contracts by the joint venture to build a teachers’ houses and classrooms at Sari, Sakarip, Lakolam, Tumbilam, Talum, Yokonda, Kaipale and many other schools in Enga Province.

The new company expanded and Paul recruited more staff.

Unlike with the horseraces, Paul Kurai got lucky and won more contracts. His reputation for completing successful projects grew. It was the beginning of a stellar business career.

Then his wife, Assumtha, told him she had met James Tiptap, the foreman, at St Paul’s Catholic Church.

“My heart dropped when Assumtha told me James had lost a lot of weight and was in Mt Hagen hospital. I rushed over with some money. When James saw me he cried,” Paul said.

James said nobody was visiting him anymore, not even his relatives. Paul was the only person who had visited him in months. He had been abandoned.

Paul comforted him, gave him the money and he and his family kept visiting James until he eventually died.

Paul does not know where he would be today if James had terminated his first ever contract. He believes he owes his success to him.

BAKA BINA

FICTION – “Watch where you go there. Don’t you see your brother’s momberr? You will walk all over your brother’s tapolis!”

What momberr or what tapolis, and what language are they this time?  I need not ask about the latter.

That was Forapi or Low Lufa language from the Eastern Highlands Province.  It was Bubu’s sentimental language.

Sentimental, he said, because as a young boy he left his puppy love with a woman and a son there near the Kami River. His Kotuni people lived in the Bena flats and would trade with people there.

How he ended up at Kami River over near Oliguti is a long story.

He said that after accompanying his parents to collect salt infused reeds at Hha’aginito near the now Bena Bena Provincial High School, he somehow left them to follow his heart to spend time and learn a new language at that fast flowing river.

Now you have to realise that this bit is in the dark old days when Europeans had not come into the Bena valleys and every village was a tribal enemy. 

His Kotuni people lived in the mountains three walking days away and the Bena people spoke another tokples to them and Forapi is an alien tokples.

My grandfather, he was old then, knew another dozen different tokples and sometimes would wake up and speak all day in one of these. 

When that happened we would all think that he must have gone loco. But I think he missed the camaraderie and the opportunity to speak in one of these tokples in his old age. 

In the prime of his life he had been a trader of live pigs, kina shells, bird of paradise feathers and salt - traversing the valleys and the mountains in the west in Simbu. 

He had great archery skills and was a deadly marksman from a long way. It was these archery skills that bought him a passageway between tribal enemies and friends.

His world started between the lower Lufa plains, also known as Oliguti, and ended up in the Waghi Valley. 

It traversed two mountain ranges through upper Asaro and over into Gembogl and into the Waghi Valley, passing through seven tokples.  

He knew an additional five tokples and we children would sit up all night as Dad and his dad would engage in a marathon speakathon in each of these tokples.

How he could speak Engan was something that I could not understand. 

Dad knew about nine of these and his cousin, Bubu’s nephew, knew about six, and they would happily wile away the nights and sometimes days telling their fancy yarns in whatever tokples they decided while we children looked on, stupefied and in awe of them.

My father’s favourite was the old South Simbu rant. This was an old tokples spoken at a fast pace.  Bubu and Dad jokingly said it was their angry language and they would play act being angry. 

We would be enthralled by the actions of their faces and we rolled around on the ground, holding our stomachs. 

Sometimes Bubu would be rightfully upset about something and he’d rave about it in this tokples and his son, Dad, raved back. The village would think it was all an act and they loved it and laughed them to pieces. 

For all his troubles, Bubu got paid with the best kaukau the mothers could find in their garden. 

The front of our house was always crowded in the afternoon when villagers who knew another tokples would turn up to have a speech contest with him and we children packed around the fires listening to these contests. 

It was good when this was happening to other people and you were part of the audience. 

However it is not the same when you become involved by being addressed in a tokples you do not know and when assumptions were the rule of the day. 

On the days when Bubu woke up and starts speaking in one of these tokples, he usually attracted a crowd of happily confused villagers.  They would not know if he had lost his mental facilities for the day. 

I grew up with it and would try to respond with a few smatterings of what I thought he was saying.

And that was my very problem. Every time he went wokabaut with his tokples, I got my dose of it, and I got it big time. 

My pet story is when he accused me of taking my brother’s marbles.

Last week’s papoli turned to yesterday’s mfogonti and so today, it had become today’s momberr. 

My brother had somehow left his marbles in Bubu’s care and he had a name for them.  However it was called in each of the tokples he knew and he called them in these languages.

For the one thing – one of my brother’s marbles - I was hearing a dozen different names. And this was a bit confusing at times.

Momberr has no equivalence in my local Tokano tokples vocabulary. It was from Kuman – an upper Simbu tokples. But whatever it meant, it defied my understanding. 

The only word that sounded similar was mapoli which was our Tokano tokples for marbles. So, unless he was talking about marbles and especially my brother’s marbles, then I understood they were about my brother’s marbles.

Then again, he might have meant something completely different – as I was to discover later.

My big brother, Nama Lulume, only came to the village once in a blue moon. When he did so, he was always drunk and accompanied by a lot of fanfare and a host of similarly drunk people. 

The name Nama Lulume was apt because nama means ‘bird’ and lulume the Sicklebill Bird of Paradise with the long black tails.  This bird of paradise was frisky and was never patient enough to stay in one place for a long time.

My sisters and I would scramble around to attend to my brother and his drunken friends, including going to look for more of their black market beer and to serve as their cooks and attendants. 

They never came with food, only beer, so I would go and dig up Dad’s garden and live with Dad’s wrath thereafter.

Bubu, however, would sit enthralled that his grandson had finally come for a visit.  His grandson made him sit centre stage and it made him feel important as he was feted and showered with accolades. 

And then, just as he arrived, the grandson would be gone, leaving him with a glow only a grandson can give to their Bubu.

I don’t know what was special about my brother that my bubu liked. The grandson would not even think of buying him a bag of rice when he came. 

The same big brother never slept in the village, in our old dilapidated round house.  He always went back into town.  He slept in hotels or with the friends he came with. 

It was always after he was gone that my troubles with my grandfather began. 

Bubu could see no stains on my brother and, on one unfortunate visit, he must have left his marbles behind and asked Bubu to look after them, or something along that line.

In the garden around our house there was a small patch that Bubu liked to potter around as his garden.  It was mine, but I ended up giving it to him after he kept interfering in my trial gardening.

Bubu was in this plot when my brother and his friends drove around one day.

Seeing him in the garden, my brother drove the vehicle through the fence and up to where Bubu was pottering around.

After spending the afternoon there with his friends and drinking their senses out, Nama Lulume and the entourage left. 

After they had gone, while I was helping Bubu collect all the empty bottles, he told me that the garden plot was where he was keeping my brother’s marbles. 

Concerned that passing children would see the marbles and steal them, I set out to look for them.  I searched high and low over this small patch of garden.

“Bubu, I see no marbles here.  What type of marbles did he leave here?  I’ve been searching around this patch of garden for ages.”

“Egghe, egghe, you be careful there.  Don’t you play around there or you will lose these momberrs.  If you are there you will play with them. So you move further down to play.”

“Bubu, I don’t see any momberr…rrrs.”  I mimicked his words putting stress on the rrrs. “What is a momberr?”

Bubu does not answer at first. He wanted me to be careful walking around his patch of garden.

“There, there, can’t you see your eyes.”

“No! Yes, I’m trying to see my eyes. Which one should I see first?” I responded as I squinted my right and left eyes, each trying see the other.

“On the ground there, look at your feet. Where are you looking?  Stop looking into the trees,” he called back, exasperated. And with a few additional choice of words from one of his tokples.

‘Yes, I can see all these plants. There is ginger, pineapple, sugar cane and one taro kongkong. But I see no momberrrrrs.  There is a long line of flowers and tanget but no marbles among them.”

“Now you see the momberrs and you are playing with me. So leave that spot there and now go, raus.  Go on. Raus!”

Raus was his first and only attempt at adding to his Tok Pisin vocabulary.

I raused myself in retreat back to the village, looking over my shoulders.

What the heck was that all about?  Momberrs, what! My brother’s marbles!  Well, I have about five of my own. Three were chipped and two were my ‘spear’ marbles.  I rummaged through my small bilum to check if I had missed any.

Crazy old man – to think that I would steal my brother’s marbles when I have plenty.

I climbed over the fence gate into the village to join a group of children rowdily playing marbles.  For the time being, I forgot Bubu and his marbles.

Later in the evening, Dad asked what I had done with my brother’s marbles.  I looked perplexed. 

“The old man is upset that you were playing with your brother’s marbles.”

“Dad, I have my own marbles. Plenty. See here, there is a bottle full here too!” I pulled and rattled the two litre plastic container that was full of marbles.

“I won these from other children in the village.  I don’t need to get at my brother’s marbles.  When I was there in the garden, I did not see any marbles. So where did your father bury my brother’s momberrs?

“And that other son of yours likes to stay in town and there are plenty of momberrs in the town. So can’t he just buy a few new ones?  Why can’t he come and give Bubu some more and ask him to bury them for him again?”

“That is a matter between him and your brother. If he says that your brother’s marbles are there, then they are there.”

I shook my head in amazement. My father was caught on with this idea too that his son left his marbles over in that small patch in the garden. 

I could do a quick workover to find those marbles.  So I volunteered.

“Dad, I could dig up the plot to find those marbles?”

Dad just shook his head.  Bubu had not woken up from his afternoon sleep yet so he could not approve of me digging the plot to find the marbles.

The next day, however, I pulled out a spade to take to the plot.  I dug up and around all the plants and dug up the garden where he said the marbles were.  I found no marbles. 

I left it at that and joined the boys to go to the big river for a swim and gather firewood for the house.

When the boys and I returned, the village was quiet.  Even the evening birds were not chirpy.

Bubu was outside sitting in the evening sun. Then, suddenly, all was let loose.

I dropped the firewood bundle that I was carrying and I cowered to one side and tried to make myself as small as I could.

Bubu had been upset during the day.  Somebody had nearly dug up the momberrs.  He had been ranting about it in the old fast South Simbu tokples to all passing villagers. 

He also had his special bamboo cane with him there.  He was going to whack the person who had dug up my brother’s marbles.

It was just that nobody had seen who had dug up the garden.

Ma came to my rescue to say she dug up the garden to plant her next patch of kaukau for him.  Well, Bubu could not take the cane to her. So the talk petered out.

After a good berating from Dad, my sister and I never neared the spot again for a very long time.  If Bubu saw us, he would pull up his bamboo cane and shout at us. “Don’t come near here.  Do not disturb your brother’s momberr.”

Until one day I dared return to the garden and saw that the one pineapple plant had fruited.  I carefully glanced in that direction every time I visited the garden.  In my own good time, when it got ripe, I was going to do something to that pineapple.

Then it happened.

My brother’s marbles had disappeared.

I threw down the log that I had brought up from the garden as firewood for the house.

Whack! The bamboo cane split itself on the log.

Thinking I had dropped the log on the old man, I rushed over to him.  He said nothing, but gave me a good whacking with his splintered cane.

Then the old man went berserk and put all his languages on display.  I could hear him swearing in each of the twelve tokples he spoke, with me trying my best to keep at arms’ length and bamboo cane length to avoid being whipped.

“Who was it that took the marbles?”

“Whose marbles?” I called out as I tried to get out of the lashing cane’s way.

I was culprit number one in Bubu’s mind.

“What?  Stop denying that you don’t know about your brother’s momberrs.  They were there only this morning.  Now they are not there.”

“Eh, that favourite grandson of yours took his marbles with him - a long time back.  What marbles are you going on about?” I yelled and kept out of his reach.  I said anything and everything to soothe his anger.

“Egghe, now what did you do with your brother’s momberr, mapoli, maholi, tapoli, tovoli, hivoli, somoli, mfogonti?” And on and on he went.

“What momberr?” The bamboo whiplash stung sharply.

“Bubu what is an mfongonti?  What is a momberr?”

“Eh, stop acting like you don’t know!” A whack and another whack followed.  I was jumping all over the place in front of the house.

I was thinking it was one of his funny days. But he was not using his fast tokples.  I was left prancing around like a goat trying to get out of the way of his bamboo cane.

It was comical to the rest of the villagers who had come to see the commotion and also get a good laugh at my trying to get away from Bubu.

Another whiplash struck my back and it stung.

“Bubu what marbles are you talking about?  Your grandson took his marbles with him.  Didn’t you check his trousers?  I’m sure he still has them on him, even today,” I shouted back to him with a smile that made him angrier.

“I am not talking about that type of momberr, or ghijehola as you call them in Tokano.”

Now ghijehola is scrotum in my Tokano tokples.  So momberr or mfongonti may be scrotum in one of those far off tokples. 

“Young man, Ghijohaneka, listen, I am talking about this momberr,” and he threw the crown of the pineapple my way.

“The momberr was attached to this piece.  What did you do to it?”

A huge beaming smile and a roar of laughter fought its way up my throat to get out.

“Bubu, that is a pineapple head and the pineapple is stuck to it.  It is not a momberr or mapoli or capoli or papoli or whatever names you’ve being calling it.

“For a start, that is not my brother’s mfongonti or momberr or marbles.  Another thing is that I planted that pineapple crown in the first place.”

“Brrr……. Eghee, Ghijohakane, that was Lulume’s momberr.”

A 1965 Olivetti Lettera 32 portable typewriter

PHILIP FITZPATRICK

TUMBY BAY - We often complain about the difficulties of getting anything published these days but in reality the opportunities, and particularly the process, are not a lot different than they were back in the good old days before computers took over the world.

Among our complaints is the demise of print journals, magazines and newspapers that would publish our short stories, poetry and articles and, importantly, pay us for them.

Nowadays a lot of commercial websites seem to think publishing our stuff is reward enough. Others maintain a closed shop of writers from whom they extract all their content.

The long-form publishers that have survived the digital revolution by amalgamating into publishing conglomerates maintain their heft by using only proven money-making authors and only reluctantly take risks with new writers.

I was mulling over these changes while rifling through some of my pre-digital writing that I’ve kept as clippings and, in some cases, as entire magazines and journals.

Looking at a couple of them I recalled how they had come about.

All those early stories and articles were essentially freelance efforts. That is, I wrote them and sent them on spec to publishers who I thought might be interested in them.

A few were commissioned but the physical preparation was much the same.

In the first instance each piece was typed. In my case on a much loved Olivetti portable typewriter called Dora that I still have in its original case.

Don’t know what a typewriter is? Better Google it.

Obtaining a clean, neat, error-free paper copy of a story or article suitable for presentation to the editor entailed typing it from start to finish several times over.

First you did a draft. Then you read through it editing by hand and typed it again. Then you put it aside for a few days and re-read it. Then you retyped it again, hoping you’d make no mistakes. Publishers didn’t appreciate copy containing too many white-out corrections.

Don’t know what white-out is? Better Google it. Or if you like go buy some, they still make it believe it or not. Just as you can still get typewriter ribbons.

No, not ribbons for decoration. Inky ribbons on spools that produced letters when banged with a typewriter key. What is a typewriter key? Google it.

It was important to make a copy of your final version using carbon paper because if it was rejected by a publisher you’d need to retype it to send to another prospective publisher. Carbon paper? Google it!

If it was an article with photographs the preferred format was a transparency, otherwise called a slide. They were photographs through which light could be shone to produce a projected image.

For clarity and detail they were much better than prints and provided they were well-processed could be archived.

You didn’t send off original transparencies because often the publisher would lose them or deny ever receiving them in the first place. What you did was copy the transparency.

You could do that by taking it to a professional film processor or by doing it yourself with an attachment you could add to your film camera.

Essentially you took a picture of another picture. There was always a slight drop in clarity with the second generation transparency but that would happen when the publisher reproduced it on paper anyway.

When sending photographs to a publisher it was essential to include a selection so that they could pick what best suited their purposes.

It was also essential to include a stamped, self-addressed envelope. This was necessary if you wanted to get back your original work but also in case the article or story was rejected by the publisher. Without the stamped envelope all your hard work could end up in the publisher’s bin.

Getting the original back also made it easier to submit it again to another publisher. Sometimes you had to send it away several times before you found someone willing to publish it.

If your work was rejected and you were lucky enough to have it returned it often came with a small generic rejection slip which simply said it was not suitable for publication. It that case it was up to you to figure out why it wasn’t any good.

Occasionally a publisher might send back a contribution with a letter explaining why it wasn’t suitable. Sometimes they’d even suggest how you could rework it to make it suitable.

At other times they might say your work wasn’t suitable but encourage you to send them more stuff in the future.

Those letters were almost as good as one accepting your work.

All of this took a lot of time. Several months might elapse before you got something published. There was no quick exchange of emails involved. There was no email.

Then, of course, there was the payment. Sometimes that took forever. An editor might like your work and publish it but it was the accountant who paid you. If the editor and accountant were one in the same on smaller publications it made little difference.

That’s when you had to resort to reminder letters and occasionally threats. Curiously these threats never really alienated a publisher, it was all part of the game and they would happily publish more of your stuff and play the same game all over again.

To succeed back then you had to be determined and patient.

Which, as I said, is not much different to today. It’s just that the processes have changed.

For the better? Well, I don’t know about that.

Sir Iambakey Okuk - the famed Simbu politician who died prematurely and is not a prisoner of the Vatican as the mythology would have it

ARTHUR WILLIAMS

CARDIFF – There are two significant moments in Papua New Guinea’s political history that I will never forget.

The first was when Lavongai’s bikman Walla Gukguk was persuaded by Wally Lussick and Goroka MP Sinake Giregire to stand for the Kavieng open electorate in 1977.

With huge support from the followers of Lavongai’s TIA (Tutukuval Isukal Association - ‘Stand Up Together and Plant’) and the main island’s TFA (Tutorme Farmers Association) Walla easily beat his opponents.

These included the young, up-and-coming Gerard Sigulogo a wantok who traditionally should have been ashamed to stand against such a popular elder of his tribe. Gerard later became the MP for Kavieng but lost his position after a corruption conviction.

Walla Gukguk in later life (Alamy Photo)

Walla gave up attending the meetings and never completed his term as he once told me, “I’m fed up with too many of the members of parliament being corrupt!” And that was his opinion in the first few years of Independence.

The other event occurred in 1982 when the popular MP Iambakey Okuk lost his Chimbu regional seat.

I recall this particularly because Iambakey had decided to provide a ‘piss-up’ to persuade people to vote for him.

Accordingly he organised huge supply of South Pacific Lager to be divided between clans at Kundiawa.

If I had been Iambakey I too would have been most disappointed by the failure of my largesse.

But this was not the end of the maverick Iambakey Okuk story because less than a year after losing Chimbu he dispensed with his oft proclaimed motto of ‘Mi Simbu!’ to contest the Unggai-Bena by-election in the Eastern Highland.

Perhaps Okuk hoped for success as his wife was from the area. He won too, only to face an appeal in the Court of Disputed Returns.

This didn’t stop his progress though and he became not only leader of the National Party but also of the Opposition. Eventually in 1984 the legal process removed him from office because he did not have two years residency at the time of his election to Unggai-Bena.

But in electioneering irony, justice had been delayed for so long that now he had two years residency and was legally entitled to stand in the by-election caused by his own termination. He regained his seat and was still an MP in November 1986 when he died of liver cancer.

By this time he was not only Sir Iambakey Okuk but a former deputy prime minister and was to be the first PNG national leader to be given a state funeral.

When Okuk died of liver cancer the Simbu people were so distraught their subsequent rioting caught international attention of the world. This is The Age newspaper's coverage

His body was flown to major towns for viewing before being buried in Kundiawa. Sorcery was suspected and riots erupted as people mourned his death.

Then a myth was generated that postulated he did not die as claimed but had been kidnapped and taken out of PNG and imprisoned in the Vatican.

It was claimed the body in the coffin was not the man himself but a wax dummy of Okuk.

I notice that over the past few years the newspapers have reverted to calling the Okuk Highway its earlier name of the Highland’s Highway.

Is it merely forgetfulness of a bikman history or perhaps some of the reporters are too young to know much about the man who was such a commanding presence in highlands and Papua New Guinea politics.

But who is definitely not a prisoner of the Vatican.

The murdered Tari student and his grieving schoolmates

SHILA YUKULI PAIA

ADELAIDE – We have joined in grief with students of Tari Secondary School to mourn the loss of a young man, inspired to be educated and become a leader, whose life was cut short - slaughtered in the name of tribal revenge.

Hela proudly became a separate province of Papua New Guinea in May 2012 and we hold in the highest respect the founding fathers for giving back to our generation the true Hela identity.

We hold the values in which they believed; the values that justified Hela becoming a province, an entity of its own. A place not only of the world but of space and time.

Then we saw one of our very own leaders rise to the top job in the land. We held our heads high. We stood tall. We walked tall.

But was this built underwater? Did we go wrong? What happened to the values of our forefathers who founded the province?

As I reflect on the lawless slaughter of this student of Tari Secondary School, I call on the public to stand up against this form of violence. This innocent child needs justice.

And many more children, women and innocent lives deserve peace, security and wholeness. There should be no need to live in fear with threats, intimidation and violence where one calls home.

The historical dreams of our founding forefathers such like Sir Albert Mokai, Aruru Matiabe, Hon Alfred Aluago Kaiabe, Sir Matiabe Yuwi, Sir Andrew Wabiria OBE, Handape Tiahape and Damian Arabagali came to reality when the national parliament declared Hela a province on 17 May 2012.

The population in 2020 has risen to 400,000 and we the people have embraced and are proud of this landmark achievement.

I look at Sir Matiabe Yuwi who worked with Sir Michael Somare and others to create the Constitution of PNG, which is one of the best in the Commonwealth.

Our national constitution enshrines human dignity, participation, equality and respect for one another and our beliefs.

These strong human moral, ethical and human rights values should form the basic framework of our thoughts, actions, interactions and deeds.

And they should form the foundation of all our work, including development work.

I also reflect on the work of Hon Alfred Aluago Kaiabe. He fought diligently for Hela to come into being as a separate province. He believed in Hela not only as a place in the world but as a place in rel time and space.

He saw it as a place which had its own unique cosmology, culture, creed, colour and calibre.

Then there was Sir Andrew Wabiria OBE, this chief of Hela who was the pioneer member representing Kutubu-Komo-Koorba in the first House of Assembly in 1964 and remained in parliament until 1977.

When he established the PNG Chambers of Mines and Petroleum, he knew what he was doing.

And the uniqueness of Handape Tiahape was extraordinary. His illiteracy didn’t stop him having a say on the floor of parliament. He had substance and his wisdom was clear in English as it was interpreted from his own Huli dialect.

There is our colourful contemporary leader, who also built on the early foundations of our forefathers, Damian Arabagali. He reiterated their values and beliefs and strongly acclaimed the Dadagaliwabe, the supernatural in whom our values originated.

My list of course can extend to many others who share these Hela values and who contributed in their own way to make us stand out and be independent.

I have found little anthropological record of the fabric of society during the time of our founding fathers and little discourse about how we have come to the time of today’s generation.

There are few studies that focus on the behaviour, attitude, interaction and relationships of people, especially in relation to leadership, conflict resolution, peace-making, justice and equality.

I search vainly for answers to questions of why these tribal fights, revenge behaviour and lawlessness.

I presume the majority of our people of the past would have been less educated compared to our time.

Did these people interpret morality, ethics and human rights in a discourse which was more effective and fairer than we do in our time?

Did people share the values of our forefathers more spontaneously than in our time? Where have we gone astray, if we have?

We need to find the answers to these and other important questions in our own quest to contribute to building the Hela society we desire and to realise the historical dream of our forefathers.

We need to foresee how to create a society worthy of our children and their children to come.

So let us return to our national Constitution, the initial lines of which declare homage to our forefathers, the source of our wisdom and heritage.

It follows to assert that power and authority belong to the people through their elected leaders:

“…. respect for the dignity of the individual and community interdependence are basic principles of our society that we guard with our lives our national identity, integrity and self-respect that we reject violence and seek consensus as a means of solving our common problems, that our national wealth, won by honest, hard work be equitably shared by all.”

If I were to choose a summarising phrase from our Constitution, it would be that society is built on dignity and respect for each other, in peace and harmony rejecting violence of all forms, and to work hard and equally share our wealth.

In Hela we believe in hard work. We use our natural resources, we build the houses that identify us as a people, we cultivate the land where we were born and where we are buried, and we produce sustenance and livelihood.

We give respect to and value our neighbours and we share what we have with them and others who cross our paths. We have no strangers, we warmly welcome anyone into our homes and our lives and we embrace them as people worthy of our hospitality.

These are acts of generosity and we should hold our heads high.

I believe such values and morals were reflected in the Hela genealogy.

We are told we generated from Hela, our father, who had four sons and a daughter. The sons include the Huli, Opene, Yuna and Tuguba with their sister, the Hewa.

These peoples not only share geographical boundaries. They share language, culture, values and stories passed down from generations and carried forward.

We also have our own unique way of viewing equality. Between man and woman, young and old, rich and poor, elite and ignorant, leader and led.

We seek to blend the customs of our forefathers with the contemporary world we are confronted with.

And then we also have the wealth of the resources under the ground like the Hides gas field discovered in 1987 which expanded to the Juha, Angore, Mananda, Kutubu, Moro and Moran fields supplying the PNG LNG Project operated by Exxon Mobil subsidiary, Esso Highlands Ltd.

There is also the Mt Kare gold project in the lands of the Pujaro and Heli tribes in the Tagali River area. There have been recent explorations of Mt Tundaka gold prospect in the upper Wage in Magarima.

Then there is the Agogo Production Facility from which liquids are piped to a central production facility for further processing, storage and export.

We have the South-East Manada oil project discovered in 1991 and the Kutubu oil project covering Iagifu-Hedinia, Usano and Agogo fields in the Southern Highlands Province.

Hela has been identified as one province that is contributing through these natural resource developments a big share of Papua New Guinea’s economic prosperity.

But there is sadness. Most schools in Hela have either been burned down as a result of tribal warfare or closed due to a lack of teachers and school resources.

Most health centres and community health posts located in remote communities to provide basic health care services lack health workers and resources.

The highlands highway which runs through Tari township to Lake Kopiago is dysfunctional in terms of providing transit for ordinary cars. Only people who own LandCruisers and other four-wheel drives manage to negotiate huge potholes, large rocks, deteriorating bridges and blocked waterways.  

Ordinary people lack access to markets for generating cash income to build small businesses. On a larger scale, local participation in natural resource development is absent.

With the education system restructure allowing children to become school leavers at year eight, ten and twelve, we have seen a crack in the most basic fabric of society. We force children to drop out of formal education at the age of 15.

These children return home and to their community and accept the label of failures. Psychologically, we have made our children accept rejection and failure.

In the village they are conscious of what their families and community make of them as failures after all the school fees paid with an expectation of success.

Research show that to be labelled as a failure stagnates the further development of individual potential. A low sense of self-worth and self-rejection leads to involvement in anti-social behaviour.

Aggression, rebellion and bitterness become emotional extremes. Then we see abuse of drugs and alcohol, violence and lawlessness. We then blame our children for not being good. We blame and shame.

We need to revisit the vision and the values of our founding forefathers. We need to unearth the key principles of our Constitution to build the Hela society they envisioned: a society of hope, peace, justice and fairness.

We need to build on our uniqueness to work hard and share with others. We need leadership - a kind of leadership that does nothing more than this. Leadership is not politics. Leadership does not gain power by greed or violence. Leadership is not selfish to gain power for personal gain. Leadership does not accept exploitation of vulnerability and ignorance in sharing power and wealth.

Leadership is selfless, collaborative and respectful – sensitive to the needs and dignity of all, including the voiceless and vulnerable.

We the people of Hela must call for effective leadership as a matter of urgency.

We need leadership that unites us to fight the system that is failing us and our children. We need a leadership that can capitalise on our natural resources and bring back what belongs to the people. We need leadership that shares our resources and wealth with fairness.

We do not need to pay back violence with violence, fear with fear, extortion with revenge and life for life.

We need to put away our anger, violence, hatred, bitterness, and revenge. We need to put down our weapons and hold up the shield of respect, dignity, fairness, peace and justice.

To the child whose life has been taken too soon, we pay tribute. We are ashamed of this violent act. It is unbecoming of a people who hold true the values that form the fabrics of our Cconstitution.

These experiences must give us the opportunity to revisit our true identity and values and find true leaders, the likes of our founding forefathers.

And together we must rebuild the Hela that was the genesis of our founding fathers.

A G SATORI

FACTION - I sidled up to Ve’ Maghe working on his next piece of writing or legal argument.  He was engrossed in penning a few lines and did not look up.

I’d been friends with Ve’ Maghe for a long time and had been around him so long I think he could recognise my smell, especially the lavender cologne that I liked to wear.  It was registered in his brain.

I had no intention of introducing myself. This was his favourite writing haunt and it was a spot where I could always find him.

“You hear that FN passed on?”

He grunted something through his nose, slowing what he was putting to paper and paused long enough to look through the windows of the Heritage Bar at Crown Plaza. I looked out too, towards Ela Beach.

I thought he didn’t hear what I said, so repeated the news.

“Buddy, Francis Nii passed on last week in Kundiawa.”

This time he turned around and I looked straight into his glassy eyes. He must have had some feelings for Francis. I knew on his occasional visits to Kundiawa he had tried to make it to the hospital to visit him.

“Sats, I knew that a week ago,” he whispered in a slow drag. “He was a shining star in the PNG literary world. Writers are going to have a hard time filling that void.

“He was all things pioneering with getting books published. He was a flickering light extinguished too early. But in a sad way it was expected.

“And I was helping him remotely on his court case pro bono.”

“Yeah, you told me that,” I responded. “How was that progressing?”

I knew that they were conversing on a matter before the courts that FN had lodged in Kundiawa. I had seen Ve’ Maghe working on the Nii affidavit sometime back.

I had asked about it then and Ve’ Maghe had shrugged it saying he was just providing legal paperwork remotely.

It was just unfortunate that the Public Solicitor’s office in Kundiawa and Goroka or Mt Hagen were either too far away or not interested or just fully unhelpful.

I hadn’t being to Kundiawa but from what Ve’ Maghe related to me, it was a feat for FN just to get to these offices and the court house from his hospital bed down from the airport on the far side of Kundiawa, let alone for him to travel up and down the highway on a PMV bus.

“Now brats, what is going to happen to his matter in court?” I was pumping him now.

“It is a relator matter. He was prosecuting as the ‘next friend’ being the father of the prosecutrix.”

“Hang on.  Don’t go legalese on me.  What’s a prosecutrix?”

“An incapacitated person going to prosecute a matter in court.  It is another way of saying the complainant or the plaintiff but in this case, that person would not have the ability to represent themselves in court.

“In most cases they would be minor. So a relative steps up to the plaintiff or complainant as the ‘next friend’ then the real plaintiff or complainant is said to be the prosecutrix.

“That is a relator proceeding. You understand now?”

I nodded my head - confused but pretending to understand.

It was not easy trying to get my friend to speak normal language when his mind was soaked in legalese - like now.  Maybe I should change the subject.

Before I could, Ve’ Maghe was into it, more speaking to himself than to me.

“Without being subjudice, as the matter is still in court, first the prosecutrix may have gone past being a minor, he’s aged, so maybe he can prosecute his own case.

“He has to make it known to the court he will now prosecute the matter himself.”

I interrupted. “Ve’ Maghe, what’s all this subjudice business you’re talking to yourself about?”

“You don’t need to butt in as I am talking to myself but let me explain to my better half. You.

“My lovely Satori, you see the matter is properly before the courts and the courts have been vested the power to hear and dispose of this dispute that Mr Nii as ‘next friend’ has lodged with the courts.  I have no business discussing it with you here and if we publish this, it would be subjudice.”

“You make it too confusing,” I said. “What could a man in a wheelie be doing taking people to court?”

“Sats, that is the problem. He was in no condition to be the ‘next friend’ but there was no one else to assist or step in as the ‘next friend’.”

“In Kundiawa?”

“Yeah, that seemed to be the problem.”

“What problem?” I was getting flabbergasted by my friend’s habit of going the long way around to explain something simple.

My unsophisticated brain could not fathom what the problem was let alone know what a solution might be.

Leaving Ve’ Maghe to talk to himself, I sought out the bar attendant for a glass of cold water.

Mags was still mumbling away when I returned to the table.

“People nowadays don’t seem to have empathy for one another, especially towards someone in a wheelchair. FN seemed to be fair game.

“Listen, my love Sats, the short of the long story is this.

“A man’s son is locked in a police cell for 21 days and not charged. It’s a struggle to get him out of the cell because extortion rules the day.

“The cops know the court rules about that no wheelie is allowed to be a ‘next friend’.

“That was the relator application I wished I’d never heard of and something I wished had never happened upon my friend.

“In doing the legal paperwork, the little bit of respect I had for human beings died, especially with those people who hold officialdom as a whacking baton.

“It was one of those unfortunate burning inequities in life that passed my friend’s way.

“And now he’s gone.”

I sat with my glass of water in silence.

Kerry Dillon - at 22 plunged into the intricacies of bringing western criminal justice to Papua New Guinea

KEITH JACKSON

The Chronicle of a Young Lawyer by Kerry Dillon, Hybrid Publishers, August 2020, 384pp. ISBN: 9781925736410, $35. Available from Booktopia & all good bookstores, www.hybridpublishers.com.au and as an ebook from Amazon, Kobo, Google Books and Apple iBookstore

NOOSA – In 1970 I was the 25-year old assistant manager of Radio Rabaul , my main responsibility being running its news operation.

For most of my time at the station my staff consisted just of me.

The Mataungan Association, a proto-independence movement, was in full cry and its legitimate call for social equity and fairer land apportionment for the Tolai people was mixed with the illegitimacy of rebellion and violence.

The court system in the town ran red hot with litigation, some of it of great importance socially and politically as well as legally, and when the major cases were running, I spent a few hours each day in the court house or in magistrate Quinlivan's small room covering proceedings.

I was learning law reporting by doing – struggling through some complex matters - and I clearly recall one of my early lessons in the art.

I was departing the court one lunch time, striding up the street to file a report for Radio Rabaul on the morning’s proceedings in a criminal trial, when I heard a voice calling out some distance behind me.

Running at pace along the side of the road towards me was a bewigged, black cloaked figure wildly waving its arms.

As it approached I realised it was the clerk of the court, who asked me was I going to report on the morning’s proceedings.

“Well, yes,” I responded, to be breathlessly told that the court had been closed by the judge (an act I had missed) and the story I was about to tell the world was subjudice and I was about to place myself in contempt.

This was a situation where I really required the services Kerry Dillon, the author of The Chronicle of a Young Lawyer.

I don’t know whether Kerry was present in Rabaul for that particular trial but I now know that he travelled the Papua New Guinea supreme court criminal circuit from 1969 to 1971 – and Rabaul trials were a significant part of his life.

“The volcanic political atmosphere in the bubbling cauldron of the caldera that was the Gazelle Peninsula came to a head in December 1969,” he writes, the year he was appointed at age 22 to the office of the Public Solicitor, WA (Peter) Lalor.

I arrived in Rabaul in January 1970 and that caldera continued bubbling for all that year and beyond.

Kerry’s memoir, written half a century later and from the mature and knowledgeable perspective of a man who achieved high legal office, tells of how the young lawyer appeared as counsel defending indigenous people accused of serious criminal offences including rape and murder.

Like all of us who spent the early years of our careers in the then territory, Kerry learned and experienced very much in a very short time.

The Chronicle of a Young Lawyer tells the story of his day-to-day life and of criminal cases in both big towns and remote out-stations accessible only by air.

It depicts the clash of cultures as Australian criminal law was introduced and required to operate alongside traditional law, and sometimes conflicting with it.

Fortunately the legal system under pax Australiana was mostly benevolent, legal practitioners generally understanding and sensitive to the difficulty and incomprehension to Papua New Guineans of the ideas of western law they were introducing.

As Michael Adams QC has written in an appraisal of this book, “The differing ways of life between Papua New Guinean communities, and the wide variation in the character of their interactions with Europeans and the [Australian] Administration, was a significant part of the complex environment in which Kerry’s experiences in the country took place and which his account illustrates”.

Kerry grew up on a farm on Bruny Island, Tasmania, before studying law. After Papua New Guinea, he became a magistrate in Hong Kong and then director of the Australian Legal Aid Office in Tasmania, assistant director of the Legal Aid Commission in Queensland and Director of Australian Legal Aid Office in New South Wales. He now lives in Queensland.

There have been few books written by professional lawyers on the coming of western law to Papua New Guinea and this chronicle of a young lawyer who experienced the territory in a critical time on its journey to independence is a valuable addition to that small legacy.

The years before PNG independence in 1975 were a time when many of us were coming of age in our careers just as a country was coming of age in its sovereignty and The Chronicle of a Young Lawyer deserves to join on the bookshelf those other valuable memoirs of young Australians who were working at an unusual time in an unfamiliar environment.

ROBIN OGE
| DevPolicy Blog

PORT MORESBY - In a recent article, Dr Eugene Ezebilo of the Papua New Guinea National Research Institute asserts that “PNG’s Constitution does not recognise Christianity as the country’s religion”.

He proposes that if PNG wants to be a Christian state, Section 45 of the Constitution should be amended to specifically recognise Christianity as the state religion and a state church be established.

Following this, the PNG National Executive Council recently approved a proposal to formally declare PNG a Christian country under the Constitution.

While this may seem logical for a country like PNG where 97% of its people identify as Christians, the framers of the Constitution understood that it would result in religious authoritarianism, a pernicious consequence.

The PNG Constitution finds its origins in God. It protects every man, woman and child and gives them certain unalienable rights while simultaneously conferring upon them certain obligations and duties towards fellow humans.

One could certainly argue, and indeed I would, that the PNG Constitution is founded on objective moral laws, values and duties, and the idea that God is the source of objective moral laws, values and duties, and, therefore, that God is the source of the Constitution of PNG.

The Preamble to the Constitution states in no uncertain terms that this nation was established under the “guiding hand of God” and pledges to pass on to future generations the “Christian principles that are ours now”.

Beyond these references in the Preamble, however, Dr Ezebilo is correct that Christianity or God is not explicitly part of the PNG Constitution.

Section 45 deals with freedom of conscience, thought and religion, and makes no reference to Christianity. This omission is intentional.

First, an explicit preference for a particular religion in Section 45 would be a direct contradiction of that very clause.

Second, Section 45 emanates from rich Christian concepts that find their origins in God.

The freedom to choose was given by God so that humans can decide to love and obey Him freely, for without the freedom to choose a person cannot truly love.

It ultimately follows that a person can decide to not love and obey his fellow humans and God. Therefore, Section 45 when referring to the human right of freedom of conscience, thought and religion is not in contradiction with Christian principles and teaching. It is consistent with them.

The case of Somare v Zurenuoc 2016, regarding the removal of sculptures from the National Parliament, hinged on the National Court’s interpretation of Section 45 of the Constitution.

The court’s interpretation was as follows: that everyone has the right to practice, manifest and propagate their religion and beliefs.

However, they are subject to a number of restrictions including not interfering with the freedom of others, not intervening in an unsolicited way into the religious affairs of other persons who have different beliefs, and, finally, not forcing their religion on other persons.

This interpretation is in harmony with Christianity.

The unification of the church and state would present several significant problems. Throughout history, it has resulted in states usurping power by claiming divine authority for political use.

The inquisitions throughout Europe at the beginning of the twelfth century are evidence of states managed by tyrannical clergies and evil politicians.

Second, the separation prevents undue influence on the church by the state. Every government measure is compelled by the use of force, which stands in direct contradiction to the principles of the Christian church.

The union of the church and state would result in the latter corrupting the former. History is replete with the desecration of churches by the state, such as the infiltration and corruption of the early Christian church by the Roman government.

Third, which church would actually be selected as the state church? PNG is home to a number of thriving and in some ways competing denominations.

The American legislator Thomas Jefferson recognised the importance of the separation of church and state.

Thanks to his and others’ efforts, the First Amendment to the US Constitution states that “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.”

This ensures both that the government does not show preference to a certain religion and that the government does not take away an individual’s ability to exercise religion.

In other words, the church should not rule over the state, and the state cannot rule over the church. With the separation of church and state, the freedom of religion and conscience is assured, conflict becomes less likely and cooperation for the common good is much more likely.

Christianity contains the foundational principles that permeate the Constitution of PNG. A lack of preference for Christianity and establishment of any official religion in the PNG Constitution is crucial for the sustenance of order and harmony in PNG.

It would be unchristian to amend the Constitution to give preference to Christianity.

Robin Oge is a medical doctor and public health scientist at the Port Moresby General Hospital

Dave Rogers and his aircraft - safe on the ground

DAVE ROGERS
| MAF Australia Pilot

SYDNEY - Probably one of the most common questions I’m asked by friends and supporters back home is, “What’s it like flying in Papua New Guinea?”

I thought I’d take this opportunity to answer it.

The risks of operating light aircraft, particularly in PNG, necessitates strict adherence to procedures and extensive training.

For each airstrip we go to, we have published parameters for things like wind, temperature and surface condition that vary how much load we can take in or out, or may prohibit us from landing completely.

The parameters themselves vary for each airstrip depending on the elevation, length, slope and surrounding terrain.

There is a fair bit of margin built into these parameters to allow for unexpected fluctuations beyond what we’ve planned for.

Aside from the safety achieved by only operating within these proven parameters, there is a stringent training and checking process to ensure pilots are competent to fly into each place.

This covers not only landing and taking off at the airstrip, but also flying the route to get there as well as any alternate routes.

Typical landing approach, the wingtip marking the approximate committal point and exit path if the touch down needs to be aborted

So what does a typical approach to landing look like?

Well I thought I’d show you one of my favourite examples, depicted here. The red line shows the approximate flight path of the aircraft on approach to land.

The blue line shows the exit path in the event we need to abort the approach.

The dotted line indicates times the aircraft is flying behind the terrain and the pilot cannot actually see the runway.

One vital element about flying in PNG is what we in MAF call the ‘committal point’. This is the point on the approach path that is our last opportunity to safely exit a difficult approach.

That is, if we continue past that point, we must land, there is no option to abort!

In most of the aviation world, a missed approach is typically possible right up to the point of touchdown, and often after.

In my example here, the committal point is just a bit before touchdown. At some airstrips it can be as far as a minute out from landing. A lot can happen in a minute.

Before we continue past the committal point, we need to be confident the winds are suitable, the runway is clear and that turbulence will not destabilise our approach.

There are rare occasions where unforeseen changes to wind or turbulence occur past the committal point, and in those situations we are glad for the safety margins built into those operating parameters I spoke about.

The takeoff equivalent of the ‘committal point’ is the ‘safe abort point’. This is the latest point along the takeoff run at which we can safely abort the takeoff and come to a stop with some runway remaining.

The safe abort point is something the pilot nominates before each takeoff, and can vary slightly depending on the conditions at the time.

For a flat airstrip the safe abort point might be somewhere around halfway along the runway. However many airstrips in PNG have slopes of over 10%, and so stopping is impossible after releasing the brakes. In those cases we have no option to abort a takeoff and must continue.

All that might make you a bit nervous. But rest assured, it makes us really safe pilots.

Because there are less options and margins for error than we might have operating in Australia, every decision we make is well thought out and considered – there is no room for a she’ll-be-right mentality.

We are forced to be very actively engaged in the flight.

Hope that answers the question!

Francis Nii with Daniel Kumbon, Phil Fitzpatrick, Martin Namorong and Keith Jackson, Noosa, 2016

KEITH JACKSON

NOOSA – The manuscript of the Francis Nii Collection, so generously funded by a number of PNG Attitude readers, is nearing completion and shall soon be despatched to Jordan Dean – who runs Papua New Guinea’s only affordable publishing company - for design, layout and publication.

Entitled Man Bilong Buk, the tribute volume includes the best of the late author’s provocative and entertaining essays, revelations from his astonishing life story and insights into how an author imprisoned by his own body in the corner of a hospital ward managed to become such an exceptional figure in fostering a home-grown literature in PNG.

You can download here the Contents pages from Man Bilong Buk which provide a detailed view of what the book offers in meeting its goal of ensuring that the legacy of this iconic figure will be sustained.

Download 'Man Bilong Buk - Contents Pages'

And what a legacy. As Phil Fitzpatrick writes in his Preface to the book:

“He was a fearless commentator, not afraid to criticise and chastise individual politicians and to rebuke them when he considered what they were doing was wrong. He particularly abhorred corruption and wrote at length on its evils.

“In the confusing and often brutal world of Papua New Guinean politics this took a great degree of courage. He was not averse to demanding the resignations of recalcitrant politicians, including the prime minister, nor of pointing out hypocrisy and bad faith.

“As people who have experienced the backlash from such disparagement can attest, such public disdain runs a very real risk of physical intimidation in Papua New Guinea.”

Phil also points out that Francis’s sights were targeted on Australia as well as Papua New Guinea:

“He was an astute observer of the Australian media and the goings-on of the Australian government and in particular its representative in Papua New Guinea, the Australian High Commission. In this respect he was critical of Australia’s lack of understanding of Papua New Guinea and its people and the unconstructive and misdirected way it allowed aid money to be spent.

“He was also alarmed at the way Australia seemed to be missing in action when it came to climate change and the rise of China and dismayed at its persecution of asylum seekers by marooning them on Manus Island in a dodgy deal with the Papua New Guinean government.

“From time to time, Francis allowed himself to ponder whether Australia was the ‘big brother’ and friend of Papua New Guinea that it purported to be. Many times in his essays he expressed his sadness and dismay at what he considered the errant decisions of the Australian government and the waste of the many billions of aid money it lavished on Papua New Guinea.”

Man Bilong Buk also includes seven essays written by peer writers which describe and evaluate Francis’s contribution to PNG literature not just as an author but also as a mentor of new writers, a literary administrator, a publisher and a visionary whose goal, ultimately unfulfilled in his lifetime, was to gain broad public recognition within his own country of the cultural, social and educational value of a home-grown literature.

The book contains a section on Francis’s university years when he not only began to write prolifically but also engage in building a foundation for a sustainable PNG literature through the sadly short-lived PNG Writers Union.

In addition to reproducing some 90 of his most important pieces of writing, Man Bilong Buk also includes a poignant essay on his death, an important bibliography of all the books he authored, edited and published and a chronology of his life and literary events,

There is much more, too, and we at PNG Attitude hope that one way or another you will get hold of this book when it is published later this year.

So far we have sufficient funds for a print run of about 200 (400 if we forego colour, which we would prefer not to do).

We want to distribute most of these to strategic institutions and fellow writers in PNG in the expectation that the book will serve as an inspiration and as a guide about how a home-grown literature – which has been through many fallow periods in PNG – may survive and flourish.

That this has not been able to be achieved in the last 50 years of literary fits and starts is a condemnation of those institutions which should understand the importance of a national literature.

But that it has, somehow, been able to survive nonetheless is a tribute to those writers – now growing in number if not in resources - who will not let the flickering candle gutter and die.

Man Bilong Buk is a small attempt to keep that creative spirit alive.

You can still donate to ensure that readers in Papua New Guinea can obtain a copy of Man Bilong Buk.
Bank transfers to Keith Jackson / NAB / BSB 082-302 / Account 50650-1355.
All donors of $50 or more will receive a collectors' edition signed by the editors.

The late Francis Nii - showed us what was meant to be an authentic human being

PHILIP KAI MORRE

KUNDIAWA - A giant has fallen, his sufferings and distress he has lived. He is gone to his Father’s House where there are many mansions.

It was Sunday 2 August that I visited Francis Nii for the last time at around 11.30 am.

I saw him in so much pain and with complications such that his survival looked grim.

Francis did not yet know whether he might get well, but he was preparing for his long journey.

Here lay a brilliant writer whose inner strength and willpower made him live longer than most other people bound to a wheelchair.

As I watched him, his inner strength seemed to diminish as his body faded away in agony.

I felt sad that I still had some unfinished business with him. The launching of the Provincial Disability Policy which he helped draft was yet to be launched.

He would not be present physically but he would be with us spiritually guiding us.

After some hours his wife Cathy rang to tell me that Francis had passed away.

My mind returns to one of the saddest days of my life. My heart broke and hot tears ran from my eyes.

But I was not present enough to comprehend the death of Francis Nii.

So his life had ended. He had shown us what was meant to be an authentic human being with unique qualities which enable him to conquer physical disability.

Within hours condolences flooded in from all corners; from those who knew Francis personally and many others, especially students who had read his books but never met him face to face.

Social media and Facebook offered headlines grieving his death. It showed his great impact on the life of others not only in Simbu and Papua New Guinea, but in Australia and other countries as well.

Francis’s intellectual ability and his facility as a mentor, philosopher, author, editor and publisher can not be questioned. Here was a genius who could solve complex issues. 

He was also a king of charity, a giver who received and abundance of love and respect. Even though he was in a wheelchair and looked helpless, he never had to beg from others.

Amidst all his difficulties he sustained a living, and was the bread winner of his family.

Francis would never want us to think that he was special, that he needed to be awarded with a Queen’s honour or looked upon as a hero to be praised for all his deeds.

He did not need to be a big name or even to become popular. He used his gifts to help others in need either in charity work or through writing and editing books and provide consultancy services.

When it came to social justice and fighting corruption or addressing human rights issues, Francis was always there to take the lead.

He was a critical political analyst; a man of courage who feared no politician, including the prime minister. In fact he played a crucial role in the downfall of Peter O’Neill.

In mid-2015 I gave the manuscript of my book to Francis Nii, it was a technical book and the most difficult book he had ever edited.

Francis had a hard time refining the information on drugs and their effects, content which was complicated for a non-pharmacologist or chemist to understand.

Peter Kepa, an editor for the English Teachers Association, also corrected my English grammar..  Francis in his wheelchair; Peter with a walking stick.

I also gave Philip Fitzpatrick a hard time and so his brother in law, a chemist with a PhD, helped us to check the scientific and technical aspects of my book.

Finally the book was published and is now in demand amongst schools in PNG. In its more recent second edition, I have added five new chapters. Francis is owed a lot.

Francis Nii did so much for me, not only editing books but providing other support that I needed.  My appreciation is not measured in monetary terms but priceless. I will always remember him as the most generous person I ever met.

There is no other person I ever experience the same relationship with as Francis. We never came to conflict in opinions or discussions of social issues.

His intellectual ability was beyond my scope and I listened to him attentively and took his prudent advice seriously.

Francis was my mentor and a shining star. May the angels in heaven welcome him as he is an example of God’s grace and a gift upon us.

The haus pik - not the perfect location for a primary school but rather more edifying than the Chimbu Club

KEITH JACKSON

NOOSA – Amongst the joys in life of most school teachers is to run into or receive a missive from a former student who has done well in life and remembers their schooldays with some fondness rather than as a dreadful chore.

Although I taught school for only three years, this kind of pleasant coming together has happened to me a few times.

Most recently it occurred yesterday, when Dr Robert Johnston, an ex-pupil at Kundiawa Primary A School, my first teaching post where I taught in 1964 and 1965, was kind enough to use our Comments section to renew an acquaintance from 55 years ago.

“My sister and I were among the 10-15 students in your one room, all ages, school in Kundiawa during 1963-67,” Robert wrote. “It was - by far - the best educational experience of my life.”

Well, I’m ruby red with embarrassment as I respond to this, Robert. I do recall those days clearly and what seemed like the daunting challenge of a novice teacher in a one-teacher school with pupils ranging in educational needs from Preparatory to Grade 6.

Hard at work in school in the living room of the haus pik

My next gig was at Gagl Primary T School, perched in the foothills of the Bismarck Range roughly midway between Kerowagi station and Mingende Catholic mission, where there were four teachers and 150 pupils.

But Kundiawa A always remained special –because it was first and because of the unusual circumstances which made it a school at all.

One of the commitments the colonial Administration made to expatriate folk who decided to accept jobs in the then Territory was that their children would receive an education equivalent to that they would receive in Australia.

This was a real challenge in tiny outposts like Kundiawa, which had a population of about 80 expats at the time – most of them single men like me.

When I was told that Kundiawa A would be my maiden posting, I was initially disappointed. After all, I’d just finished two years training at the Australian School of Pacific Administration, ASOPA, in Sydney with the specific goal of teaching in T (indigenous) schools.

The new schoolhouse - community built - shortly before completion. Across the road from the Chimbu Club and next door to the haus pik

But Kundiawa A needed an Australian qualified teacher and I was the man. It was a narrow thing as it turned out. If a community couldn’t muster 12 children of primary school age, it would lose its right to a teacher.

Kundiawa could muster eight. But with Heagney’s two mixed race kids, the daughter of a Papua New Guinean doctor who was given a leave pass and an under-age child who we were able to sneak in, the magic number was reached and the school survived.

But there was no school house, although the community had rallied together to build one, so the temporary arrangement was to hold classes at the Chimbu Club, where two things would occur simultaneously at four in the afternoon.

School would finish and the first drinkers would arrive.

That said, most mornings around ten you could hear a rustling behind the shuttered bar and the whistle of gas entering a keg as mechanic Cec Schulz curated his regular glass of morning beverage to keep him alert until lunch time, when Dick Kelaart’s Kundiawa Hotel opened.

It was fine balance between education and libation at Kundiawa A – and eventually I moved the entire school across the road to the living room of my dilapidated quarters, known locally as the haus pik (pig sty).

This required the bemused approval of my housemates, cooperatives officer Terry Shelley (who was to marry a Chimbu flower and spend his whole life in the region as successful entrepreneur and community leader) and heavy equipment driver and heavy drinker John Jones.

Di Siune, my long time manki masta, and  me at 19 soon after my appointment to Kundiawa A

By the second year of my term, the new school building, right alongside the haus pik, was completed and at last Kundiawa A had its own quarters. A very fine building it was too.

The parents were always very supportive of the school, and of their young schoolmaster, and I found the task of teaching the Kundiawa dozen a real pleasure.

I discovered that teaching pupils whose ages ranged from six to eleven was not so difficult, it just required a bit of organisation – and part of that organisation was the willingness of the  older students to assist with the learning of the younger ones.

So I thank Robert Johnston for bringing back these joyful memories of the real reason I was in Kundiawa – to teach school – and not just to enjoy the Chimbu Club and its frolics and, with the late Murray Bladwell, to publish the Kundiawa News, which was by chance to guide me into my long and rewarding career in the media that continues in its latter stage with PNG Attitude.

I was sad to hear from Robert that his parents, Jack and Una, have died. I recall them well. Good, decent people; great contributors to our small community; and always interested in their children’s education.

Robert said Jack and Una long remembered a stanza from a song I wrote for one of our occasional concerts in the Chimbu Club: “Maruk, maruk, maruk / We always smoke maruk / Maruk, maruk, maruk / The tobacco that makes you crook.”

Yep they were the days before we knew that all tobacco made you crook, not just maruk and brus.

Jack and Una may well have recalled another of my favourite lines: “POs 1, POs 2 / CPOs can POQ”. But then probably not.

Golden days.

STEPHANIE ALOIS

You had your plans
But I wish you had involved hers
You told her you love her one moment
But disappeared in the next
You knew she’d risk anything for you
That she’ll face the world alone
But you still left anyway
Why were you so selfish?
How could you?

You moved on in life
But I know her memory bring you back every time
You heard she had a child
But it appears she couldn’t care less
Because you were careless
You left bad footprints on her mind
Did you know she can make you a proud parent?
How will you?

You’re always rushing
But we see you catch nothing
You’re always working
But we hear you’re improperly appreciated
By those you abandoned us for
Are they worthy of your presence in their life?
How would we know?

Living like we’ve stopped caring
But we all know deep down its hurting
Wishing to freeze the clocks and restart
And this time make it right but
Lying to chase the memories
But we all know it’s useless
Absorbing whatever affection available to fill the void
When we all know that pure love is hard to find
That our history’s missing pieces
Will have to come with blood, sweat, and tears
And the question that keeps us stuck is how?

A Talair Cessna over Omkolai, 1966

COMPILED BY KEITH JACKSON

NOOSA – MAF pilot Dave Rogers’ recent yarn about the skills required to land on and take off from some of Papua New Guinea’s many preposterously difficult airstrips attracted much commentary and many war stories from our readers.

I’ve curated a few here, but first one of mine.

I had just become engaged to my first wife, Sue, at a grand party we had at my remote highlands school 10 or so kilometres from Kerowagi and Sue was on her way back home to Sydney to explain it all to her mother.

The Cessna 185 on the Kerowagi strip was packed to the gunnels with bags of kaukau and other fresh vegetables as well as a few cages of chickens, leaving two narrow seats at the rear for Sue and I.

The 185 hurtled down the flat Kerowagi strip with no sign of becoming airborne until finally applying whatever resources were at hand to avoid the embarrassing denouement of being capset in the perimeter baret.

“We’ll have another go and get her up this time,” the pilot said with a confidence we at the rear did not share.

Spectacular view of a Macair Cessna 185 take-off from Obura,  1968

Then he told us that, en route to Goroka, he had some mail to drop off at Omkolai for John Biltris and the other good folks at Gumine. My heart sank. Omkolai was the steepest strip in the southern hemisphere and had an apron the size of a pocket handkerchief at the top. It was a notorious landing ground.

Anyway, old Two Goes the pilot guided us to a neat uphill landing, gunning the motor violently doon after touchdown to power the aircraft to the small apron.

Take-off was a doddle, the 185 moving forward a few paces with the airstrip and then the valley plunging away beneath us.

Sue got home to Sydney all right. Nothing much could frighten you after a morning like that.

PHILIP KAI MORRE

As far as I know, Keglsugl was the first airstrip built in Simbu in 1937 by Fr John Nilles and it was followed by Mingende, Kup, Koge, Derima, and Yombai.

The airstrips were used mostly by SVD missionaries and some of whom lost their lives. Kerowagi, Omkolai and Kundiawa were built by kiaps; the most dangerous being Omkolai, most times you pray for safety.

FR GARRY ROCHE

Many remote communities depend only on MAF for service. As a passenger I’ve landed at airstrips in the Jimi and also at Bundi and Keglsugl. Some of these landings were good for the prayer life.

ROSS WILKINSON

In early 1969, as a very inexperienced Cadet Patrol Officer, I flew from Kundiawa to Omkalai in a Cessna 337 which was commonly called a ‘push-pull’. This was because it had twin engines forward and rear of the cabin. It was often considered a cheap option to get twin engine endorsement for a young pilot.

And this was the case on this flight as there was a pilot and check pilot beside him which meant I was in the second row of seats. There was a young Chimbu woman beside me who was traditionally dressed as was so in those days with her best assets on display. It was all I could do to keep my eyes forward to observe what the pilots were doing and saying.

The plane was apparently an interesting model to fly and it appeared to me that we seemed to fly alternately with one wing tip forward and then the other as the young pilot adjusted pitch and trim.

Finally we turned on to the ‘short final’ approach path when the pilot commits to the landing. At this point we appeared to be heading towards a very steep strip of mown grass and red clay, but sideways.

Gebrau high mountain strip from the air

Suddenly a hand gripped my forearm and I looked sideways into the fear-ridden eyes of the young woman beside me. Then both arms wrapped around my upper arm and her head was against my shoulder. At that point I appeared to have gained a girlfriend.

In what seemed like seconds before touchdown, the plane was flicked into a straight line ahead and we landed. About halfway up this steep incline, the pilot gunned the motors to climb to the top where a horizontal hard-standing pad had been carved out of the red clay. My travelling companion took off like a startled rabbit as soon as the doors were opened.

I’ve flown into some spectacular strips - Tapini, Aseki and TepTep - and none was as fearsome as Omkalai.

WILLIAM DUNLOP

Yes, Omkalai. My last trip there was in 1970 with Talair pilot Alan Wardell in a Skymaster. It was a fuel charter I had organised due to the road to Gumine being out. After that particular airstrip experience, I elected to travel on no more fuel charters.

PHILIP FITZPATRICK

Omkalai in Simbu has a steep slope and a pad at the top to park an aeroplane. Upon landing it is necessary to speed up to the pad to prevent the aeroplane rolling backwards and into a valley several thousand feet deep.

Kiap Graham Hardy told of a pilot saying to him that it was an airstrip "where you could take off in a four-bedroom brick house and still become airborne."

CHIPS MACKELLAR

My only frightening experience occurred when a few of us were travelling in one of Bobby Gibbes' three-engined Junkers from Goroka to Lae.

Halfway down the Markham valley an engine conked out and I called out to Bobby, "Hey Bobby you just lost your port engine." He called back, "Don't worry, we still have two more."

We were terrified, thinking that if one engine conked out maybe the other two would follow. But we landed safely on two engines.

On the ground at Gebrau

ARTHUR WILLIAMS

Peter Whitehead, the officer in charge at Taskul government station, had to find something useful for me to do in my first week as a new kiap.

So he sent me - an ex-bank clerk and teacher - to supervise a labour line working on an airstrip at the eastern boundary of the station. The line was busy planting kangaroo-grass, which provides quick cover for the landing strip. Others were constructing the perimeter fencing.

Little did I know that I would one day be one of the few commercial passengers who ever flew from it, possibly on the last flight in the 1970s.

When I last saw it in 2007 the SDA church had and it looked as if there were vegetable gardens on what had been the landing strip.

ARTHUR WILLIAMS

I was transferred to Tari and given the Air Niugini and Talair agencies after the local council had been unable to provide an efficient service. One task I had to get to grapple with was to handle corpses arriving from other airports.

The first one I had to manage saw me caught up in a wailing crowd that rushed the plane to get their wantok from the rear cargo hold of the Dash-7. I had to get my workers to hold them back to stop anyone being struck by one of the rotating propellers.

There was also a scrimmage as two groups of relatives had brought trucks to collect the corpse and were eager to fight for the body, which was wrapped in thick transparent plastic, enough to make out the corpse’s frozen features.

The Koroba Kopiago airport workers wouldn’t have a bar of handling this gruesome package and happily allowed the scrum of relatives to manhandle it out of the plane and eventually onto one of the trucks.

ARTHUR WILLIAMS

In my time I have flown into many remote airstrips, some of which are restricted to licenced mission planes and can be quite hair-raising.

One of the best to experience for a first timer is the Episcopal Church’s mission at Pangoa in the middle of Lake Murray (I think now closed). The landing is at breakneck speed uphill from the lake to a quick throttle back at the flat top apron on the strip.

On the other hand, take-off is like a fairground ride as the aircraft hurtles at gathering pace down the slope heading straight for the water before a surge of power lifts it off and up and over the lake.

But my scariest moment, not improved by the site of a pranged plane near the strip, was the descent into Oksapmin. Apparently there are unpredictable air currents  and wind sheers that must bd mastered to land safely.

I enjoyed sitting alongside some of the aviators of PNG and have admiration for all who ply their trade amongst its mountains and deep valleys.

ROBERT WILSON

My first sighting of Kundiawa airstrip in January 1964, stall siren blasting away

When I was a young didiman posted to Usino Patrol Post in 1973 there was a serious locust plague in the Ramu Valley and the agriculture department had vehicles chasing and spraying the swarms from Gusap to Dumpu.

My role was as a spotter for these vehicles in a chartered Talair 207, my task being to locate the swarms along the valley and to have the aircraft chase them up ravines and small valleys.

It was hair raising stuff but I suspect the pilot revelled in the normally illegal flying he was being paid to carry out.

At the end of it all I asked how anyone could enjoy flying with that continuous horn blaring in the background. I was then told this was a stall warning that indicated the plane was ready to fall out of the sky. Ah, the innocence of youth!

Still to this day I can recall those close-up views of waving fields of kunai on the valley walls and beside the fast flowing creeks as we swooped mere feet from it all. Absolutely the best years of my life!

ROBERT FORSTER

One morning in 1974 I was standing outside Tapini’s trade store when a Norman Islander aborted its landing and throttled desperately in an effort to avoid hitting the Sub-District office at the top end of the strip.

It was the noise that attracted my attention so I cannot be sure when the pilot gave up on his landing. However it must have been be well beyond the usual point of no return.

The plane’s escape was made all the more dramatic because it had to bank to port at the same time to avoid the hill behind Tapini. The engines were howling, the ascent was laboured and the passengers were horrified, mouths wide open as they stared down at what was happening below.

One gave the impression that if she could have prised open the window she would have jumped out.

Needless to say the Islander circled, re-approached and landed safely. As I recall not much was said while passengers got out and the plane was unloaded.

It was just another day at the office.

CHRIS OVERLAND

The mail plane from Sydney at Kila Kila airstrip in Port Moresby, May 1938

Most kiaps will be able to recall some fairly hairy take offs or landings in PNG, especially from strips that featured unusually tricky locations or approaches.

In the Gulf Province, landings and take offs from Kaintiba could be rather fraught due to the slope of the strip and an approach where the point of committal was quite a long way from the strip.

This was because the surrounding mountains were too high to allow any plane (except, perhaps, a Pilatus Porter) to climb out of the valley if something went wrong.

Upon landing, the pilot had to immediately open the throttle in order to power up the slope to the top of the strip where he had to abruptly cut the throttle again to avoid overshooting the apron and ploughing into the bush.

The take-off was something of a kamikaze manoeuvre because the downhill slope was such that an aborted take-off was out of the question.

As I recall, there was a wrecked plane at the bottom of the strip just to drive home the point that once committed there was no turning back.

Anyway, I survived a couple of visits to Kaintiba in a Britten Norman Islander without mishap and, as far as I know, the strip never saw any major prangs except for that one aircraft lying forlornly at the end of it.

I had a few exciting moments while flying in PNG but not enough to put me off the sheer joy of flying over such marvellous and beautiful country.

As the manuscript progresses towards production and publication of Man Bilong Buk - The Francis Nii Collection - we are still seeking donations that will enable the story of this remarkable man to be distributed free of cost to worthy institutions in Papua New Guinea.

Bank transfers to Keith Jackson / NAB / BSB 082-302 / Account 50650-1355

Francis Nii – author, publisher, literary leader & patriot who died early in August - was a remarkable man who left behind a huge legacy of work. Now PNG Attitude needs donations to publish a collection of his writing and the story of  his extraordinary life. Man Bilong Buk includes his best journalism, his astonishing life story and his powerful advocacy for the development of a home-grown literature in Papua New Guinea.

DONATIONS SO FAR $6,124.34

Thanks to Monica Minnegal, Fr Garry Roche, John Meek, Paul Flanagan, Dave Ekins, Susan Conroy, George Ivanow, Norman Wilson, Arthur Williams, Dr Gordon Pepeake, Judy Duggan, Ronald Sandell, Janis Roberts, Craig McConaghy, CY Young, Corney &Tanya Alone, Chris Overland, Bob Cleland, BK Bennett, Jim Moore, Joe Herman, Geoff Hancock, Dr Lance Hill, Ed Brumby, William Dunlop, Ross Wilkinson, Lindsay Bond, Paul Oates, Rob Parer, Robin Lillicrap, Philip Fitzpatrick, Bernard Corden, Keith Jackson AM, Anonymous x 2. Donors of $50 or more will receive a collectors' edition signed by the editors so please submit your postal address to Keith Jackson here

RAYMOND SIGIMET

Have all good poems been written
That we today have none to share 
What then of the heart being smitten 
By the beauty of eyes that stare 
Or the walk that none can compare 

Have all good poems been written 
That we today have none to read 
What then of the loss that burden 
A broken heart held by a thread 
Or photo lost to time instead

Have all good poems been written 
That we today have none to hear 
What then of the sky and mountain 
Their beauty and our fear 
Or how far yet to us near 

Have all good poems been written 
That we today have none to write 
What then of the difficult mundane 
The highs and lows we must bite 
Or the hopes that we bear in spite 

Let words be not silent and dead 
Or sleep alone in our single bed 

Graham Hardy talking to a meeting at Wabag, late 1950s

PHILIP FITZPATRICK

Over the Hills and Far Away: Memoirs of a Kiap in Papua and New Guinea from 1952 to 1975 by Graham Hardy, privately published, 2020, 207 pages with numerous photographs, $42 plus $9.95 postage, available from the author at gandphardy@gmail.com

TUMBY BAY - If I could live my life over I think I would prefer to have been born 20 years earlier.

That would have made me too young to take part in World War II but just the right age to go to Papua New Guinea as a kiap in the immediate post war period.

That period, especially in the highlands, probably represented the halcyon days of the Australian Administration.

The Papua New Guinean people still lived a largely traditional lifestyle, there remained large areas unexplored, and development after the war was still in its infancy. There was a lot happening and life was exciting.

In that sense, I’m envious of Graham Hardy who went to Papua New Guinea in 1952 and remained there until 1975.

His memoir, written mainly for his family, is one of the best I have read.

In kiap terms, there is nothing particularly spectacular about his time in PNG but the story is honestly told with a wry sense of humour and describes in fascinating detail his day to day experiences.

Graham began his kiap career at Kikori in the Gulf District but as usual the practical exigencies of administrative life saw him soon sent to Beara Patrol Post as officer in charge.

He was still a Cadet Patrol Officer when he carried out his first patrol. It a rule that cadets had to be accompanied by a senior officer on their first patrol but that never happened then or anytime later.

I had a similar experience and just like Graham put my trust in the senior policeman and made up the rest as I went along.

Graham attended the ‘long course’ at ASOPA in 1956 and was then posted to the Western Highlands, first to Wabag.

His time there makes for interesting reading and I’ve forwarded copies of the relevant chapters to Daniel Kumbon who is writing a history of Enga Province.

The large guest house at Tambul

Graham married Patricia in 1958. Their favourite posting was Tambul and while they were there they built a large round house for visitors. Ten years later I was living in the same roundhouse while based there with officer in charge Ken Wallace.

To give you a feel for the book, among the interesting details that Graham provides is a description of the general practise of kiaps as creative book keepers.

Each station received funds to buy sweet potato to feed staff and prisoners:

“As the amounts allocated by Treasury were always far in excess of the amount actually needed to feed station people, fictitious sales were created and the money thus generated, known universally as “funny money”, was put in a safe place for use in building houses or buying equipment that was not available through official channels.”

Hardy as a cadet patrol officer in the Gulf District

While in charge of Wabag Graham was nearly caught out when a Treasury auditor arrived unexpectedly. He had over £700 of ‘funny money’ locked in a stationery cabinet, “so a spending spree resulted with all stations in the sub-district getting lawn mowers and other exotic items available from the Lutheran Mission store at Wapenamanda – a very useful outlet for laundering funny money.”

Not to labour the point too much, another funny incident occurred when Graham was allocated £2,000 to improve the Wabag airstrip and did exactly that. This horrified Bob Bell, who was the Assistant District Officer at Wabag but was in Mount Hagen filling in as District Officer while Mick Foley was on leave.

Bell told Graham, “You don’t use airstrip maintenance money on airstrips!” He obviously had other plans for the money and Graham had upset them.

Several of Graham and Patricia’s eight children were born in Papua New Guinea and Graham describes how his wife, while looking after her children, often had to deputise as the station’s unofficial officer in charge while he was away on patrol.

This included taking the police parade in the morning and allocating the day’s work for the station staff, attending to the radio schedules and carrying out Graham’s other normal duties. Not a lot of credit goes to kiaps’ wives but in many places they were integral to the running of remote stations.

Graham was posted back to the coast in 1964, to Kaiapit in Morobe District. In 1974 he was based in Port Moresby.

About that time negotiations were underway to design separation packages for permanent Australian administration staff and Graham and Patricia decided to take a “golden handshake”.

Graham, son Ben and Patricia, mid 1990s

Their year or so in Port Moresby, where cyclone wire barriers on residential windows was becoming necessary, was a deciding factor and a portent of Papua New Guinea’s coming problems.

Graham wryly and modestly notes that he never quite made it to District Commissioner level, although he acted in that post several times.

As noted above, the book was written mainly for Graham and Patricia’s family and only a limited number of copies were available and I was lucky to obtain one.

Given the quality of the writing and the wide ranging content it is nevertheless a valuable historical document, especially for Papua New Guineans anxious to know about those fascinating times.

An ailing Francis Nii leads the big bushfire rally for Australia from his wheelchair in Kundiawa. He saw the huge funds raised from this poor province as a token of the close relationship between the two countries

MATHIAS KIN

KUNDIAWA - My friend Francis Nii rang me on a Friday afternoon in early January to say he wanted to meet me about something that had been bothering him.

He briefly told me over the phone that it was about the terrible Australian bushfires and that he was surprised the Papua New Guinea government and other organisations were not doing anything about it.

We met the next day as usual in the Mt Wilhelm Hotel foyer to further the discussion. The outcome was that we decided the Simbu people needed to do some fundraising to assist the affected people of Australia.

As a first step, we called a meeting of friends to gauge opinion before asking other interested people to join us.

That afternoon Francis put up a notice on Facebook and I pinned notices around town. On the following Sunday, I went to the hotel to find 15 interested people, mostly our own gang, already waiting with Francis.

During the course of the meeting another five likeminded people joined us.

I was elected unopposed as chairman of the appeal, Francis treasurer and various other positions were filled. Simbu Administrator Michael Temai Bal was appointed patron.

We called ourselves the ‘Simbu for Australia Bushfire Appeal’ and, at this stage in early January 2020, ours was the first group to commit to assisting our friends in Australia.

Among other goals, our target was to raise K400, 000. That was one kina for every person who lives in Simbu Province.

Francis was adamant about the huge amount of money and also that we raise it in just one month. Many wise people in the group, including our great author Arnold Mundua, questioned the possibility to raise this much money in just one month.

As usual, Francis stood his ground.

Our plan was to do a launch on Friday 10 January. So we carried out an awareness campaign on Facebook and Radio Simbu, and distributed signs to business houses, government agencies and notice boards around town.

On the day after the launch, various groups of people pushed wheelbarrows around town and shouted through loudhailers starting at each of the foa kona of Kundiawa and converging on the town centre.

Francis and I were together and I enjoyed pushing the bugger’s wheelchair while he did most of the shouting.

Money started flowing in toea and kina. Table mamas and street vendors, PMV commuters, policemen, students, teacher, nurses, doctors and other public servants all contributed. We had a permanent station at the front of the former NBC and the BSP Bank and played old Slim Dusty records and other Australian music at peak volume on PA systems.

Big crowds assembled at these two stations every day, many of the not so young along to enjoy their favourite Australian country music. On the first day we raised K390, most of it in coins and K2 notes. Only a few 10s, 20s and 50s. Simbu is not a rich place.

We continued doing this daily. At about 4 pm each day in the hotel foyer, the takings were poured onto a table and counted and banked the next morning.

By the end of Thursday we had collected over K1,000 kina. K400,000 was still far away. During the week we planned a bigger launch on Friday 10 January.

As the big launch approached, Francis told me he was developing pressure sores around his backside due to the continuous sitting in his wheelchair and being pushed and bumped around, the heat of each day also contributing to his condition.

I knew what Francis was going through but cracked a joke like I always did: “Put some bloody bandage on your ass and be up here early tomorrow.” I didn’t want to mention it, didn’t want to impose on his psychology, great man that he was.

On the Friday, we prepared the NBC area early with big banners, Australian and PNG flags flying high and loud and Australian blaring from the big PA system.

As usual Francis was at the venue early, being pushed up by his uncle Maima. The crowd got bigger and people gave speeches. By midday a lot of important people including government officials and business houses representatives had said something. Many ordinary villagers and church elders volunteered to take the messages to the villages and parish. A lot more people contributed to this day.

At the usual 4pm meeting at the hotel, all the members high fived each other and expressed overwhelming gratitude at our success.

Throughout that day, however, I could see that Francis was not well.

Every time I asked he kept on telling me, “It’s OK, this is important, I need to see it through”.

Straight after the event, I got him into the front seat of the car and threw his chair in the back and drove him straight to his hospital bed.

When he was finally lying down, I took the nurse aside and told her that Francis was not well and would need attention.

By the next Saturday he seemed to be recovering but did not attend our wheelbarrow pushes. I noticed that he was absent at several times during the appeal. Only our close friends knew of his condition.

It was Francis’s way to always tell us not to worry too much and not to tell others about it.

Meanwhile, we would go to the parish churches to share the message of the bushfire appeal. At Goglme we were welcomed by parish priest Fr John who invited us to attend mass with the 1,000 people in the big old church.

The priest put a small box in front and the Simbu people contributed 10, 20 and 50 toeas. It really touched me to see this outpouring of sincerity from simple people who themselves hardly had enough to live off among these mountains and gullies.

On 18 January we had a breakthrough moment when Greenland Motel presented K5,000 kina to the appeal. As chairman I was to speak but instead I asked Francis to talk. Before he could say a word, Francis broke down. It was the first time I had ever seen my sturdy friend in this situation. On seeing this, a number of us present freely shed tears.

After our struggle, this was the biggest amount we had ever collected. Over successive days we were to receive large amounts from other companies.

Each evening Francis’s other duty was to update Simbu and other friends on Facebook about our efforts each day.

I still find it hard to imagine my good friend Francis sitting up each night after a hard day’s activities to write the inspiring lines in his posts.

These daily updates had a great effect. Now thousands of kina were coming in to our appeal from our Simbu friends overseas. As Francis would often say, the heart of a Simbu man is as big as our mountains.

Each day in town, Francis in his wheelchair was always the attraction and the leader.

Jimmy Drekore, a few others and I took turns pushing his ‘car’. We had an Australian flag and Simbu flag flying side by side as we walked through the streets, always attracting attention.

We never organised meals or drinks and at times a Good Samaritan would appear to give us K100 kina for lunch or water bottles. Only the Good Lord knows your hearts.

One afternoon I saw that Francis was not his usual self.

Despite looking ill he volunteered to chair the usual 4 pm meeting but afterwards, as we were driving back to the hospital, he told me he had not eaten the whole day and that he had diarrhoea for two days or more.

He was also worried about where he would get money to get Digicel flex cards so he could post his regular report on the day’s efforts.

With the only K10 kina I had I bought him some flour balls, a couple of cans of Coke and a K3 flex card.

Our major breakthrough came in early February when our patron broke the news that all seven Simbu MPs led by the member for Chuave Wera Mori had pledged K50,000 each to the appeal. We organised Friday 7 February to be the day for the MPs to give their contributions.

Francis made a speech that included these words: “We know Australia is a big wealthy country with a strong economy and capable of taking care of itself during disasters like this. “Our Simbu people’s contribution, however small, comes from our hearts and will only be token of appreciation of the mother-child relation between our two countries.”

Francis as always was resolute in his actions and speaking and writing on Facebook and PNG Attitude. The social media attracted more attention to the cause and contributions and applause from in PNG and Australia and other places around the world.

By mid-February the gallant efforts of Francis Nii and our volunteers gradually phased out. From K390 on day one, we raised K174,000 after mid-February. Eventually the target was reached.

Francis Nii was somebody I came to know really well and like very much.

Everybody who stumbled upon him liked him. Apart from his writing talents, he was a leader of men and such an indomitable character.

He always stood for what was right, never taking a back step as he fought what was ill in society, especially official corruption among elected officials and the bureaucrats.

His urge at the end of his life to help Australia because Australia had helped us was huge.

We are going to miss him.

The refurbished buildings behind the perimeter fence

ALEXANDER NARA

PORT MORESBY - Traffic at the Three Mile roundabout here in the nation’s capital is sometimes very unkind.

Especially in the afternoons and especially if you are stuck in one of those overcrowded city buses.

Overwhelmed with the heat, you slump there helplessly as the bus crawls along in the queue towards the turn.

But if you’re heading in from Hohola way, you will find some comfort once you reach those old rain trees that grow alongside the perimeter fence of PNGDF Force Support Battalion.

Thick branches as if in search of the heavens stretched over the road, casting heavy shade onto the sidewalk and the passing traffic crawling towards the roundabout.

So let’s stop right there under those trees and take a look inside the fence of the Force Support Battalion.

Almost hidden by the hanging branches are three identical white barracks that had stood there, rundown and neglected, for many years.

They were built around 1994 and had been home to many soldiers since those days.

History tells us that 1994 was one of those trying years for our nation’s military, marred by the Bougainville conflict which was raging at that time.

Today, after years of being overlooked, the three buildings stand ready to open their doors again.

Defence Secretary Hari John Akip & Major General Gilbert Toropo

Defence Secretary Hari John Akipe confirmed that they had been earmarked for upgrade by the Defence Council under the Defence Public Improvement Program Funds.

Akipe said the PNG government has directed an increase in the strength of the PNGDF to 10,000 by 2030 and housing them is a high priority.

So the three buildings were among key housing infrastructure identified for urgent refurbishment beginning this year.

Akipe said that the Covid-19 pandemic had also been a factor in providing suitable accommodation for members of the PNGDF and their families as PNGDF members are being deployed to support the government’s response to the pandemic.

Last week PNGDF commander Major General Gilbert Toropo and Secretary Akipe stopped by at the buildings to see progress.

The two men confirmed that all contracts were tendered through the National Procurement Committee where all state of emergency directives were observed and complied with before approval was granted to commence the refurbishment.

The Defence Council had underlined abuse of procurement processes, poor coordination and splitting of contracts to avoid proper procurement procedures as the cause for much deteriorating and incomplete infrastructure across PNGDF establishments.

Early this year, stern directives were issued by Secretary Akipe for processing all contracts worth from K500, 000.

“This is the setting for this year and years to come in order for the organisation to deliver infrastructure worth the money,” Secretary Akipe said.

Planning Secretary Koney Samuel shared the same sentiments, highlighting that accountability and value for money are the key pillars that must embrace all levels of decision making and contract management.

For the Force Support Battalion accommodation project, work is set to begin on the third building with the first two ready to be officially opened.

Members of the PNGDF Engineering Directorate

The smell of varnish, paint, freshly sawn wood and floor treatment lingered in the corridors as I stepped inside the buildings last Friday afternoon.

It is know that most of the soldiers who lived there during those trying years of the 1990s have left the PNGDF, either retired or passed on.

It is said that the spirits of a rundown building hide inside their broken walls but here there was a feeling of newness and warmth as if they had been set fee after all those years.

Each building has the capacity to house 60 people and will be fully occupied when you look in next time.

But for now, I’ll let you go back and join the traffic.

RAYMOND SIGIMET

We who fear darkness 
Or stoke his powers
Will come under his spell 
A pit hard to ascend 

Our breath will become his 
Giving life to him 
And all things sinister 
That imprison our will

He will live among us 
A menace hard to end
Coming from this pit in hell 
Stealing light where we dwell

He will dwell in our talks
And work his power charms 
Weave spit in our whispers
Making his ways our norm

We who fear darkness 
Must never stoke his will
Or make peace and alliance 
Giving him birth to life