Ishmael Toroama - "“We must maintain the spirit of independence that we have always known in our lives"

ANTHONY KAYBING
| Office of the President

BUKA - In his first Christmas message, Bougainville president Ishmael Toroama has urged Bougainvilleans to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ and also to think about being ‘Independence Ready’ by taking responsibility.

“Whether it is at individual, family, clan, church, community, council of elders or other level, we all have a responsibility to be independence ready,” President Toroama said.

“When we talk about being independent, it is not just political independence we should have in mind but also being independent in the way we live our lives daily.

“We must maintain the spirit of independence or self-help that we have always known in our lives.

“We have always built our own classrooms, health centres, churches, feeder roads and so on. We have always worked on the land or sea to look after our families.

“All communities must be socially and economically independent through our own initiatives,” he said.

President Toroama said that Autonomous Bougainville Government officers have consulted with their Papua New Guinean counterparts and reached a good understanding of the pathway to addressing 2019’s the 98% vote for independence.

The president urged Bougainvilleans to take into account their responsibility to upholding the law and supporting the initiatives of the under-resourced Bougainville Police Service.

He said community leaders must support the government by maintaining social order in communities and stopping corruption.

President Toroama also mentioned that people must stop expecting handouts from the government or leaders as this often encourages the misuse of public funds.

He also revealed that in 2021 the government will develop and implement initiatives aimed at growing the Bougainville economy more quickly. These initiatives include increasing internal tax revenue.

The government will also look at establishing enterprises, such as gold marketing, with early revenue returns, reviewing and improving the government business arms.

Reef and atoll off Sialum typical of where 'Christmas' worm catchers ply their trade

PAUL OATES
| Published in PNG Attitude, 25 December 2011

CLEVELAND, QLD - Sialum patrol post was situated on the north-eastern tip of the Huon Peninsula about 60 miles north of Finschhafen, the sub district headquarters.

I say ‘about 60 miles’ because Rudi, the Lutheran missionary at Kalasa, and Hans, the Lutheran agricultural extension officer always argued about how far it was.

Hans reckoned it was 58 miles and Rudi reckoned it was 60. “Definitely 58 miles,” Hans maintained. “Yes,” said Rudi, “but you don’t go in and out of the ruts in the road, you just skim over the top of them!”

Hans’ penchant for being a leadfoot in his old blue Land Rover was well known. He drove a little too fast for sedate Rudi and his wife Martha.

Hans retired to Germany in 1974, while I was at Sialum. There he took a job as a security officer and, sadly, was murdered on the job not long afterwards.

One day at the Sialum station office, I asked the old village ‘komiti’ [councillor] for his Village Book. When first contacted, all villages were presented with a grey-blue covered Village Book. By the end of World War II, most villages in ‘controlled territory’ had been issued one of these books.

The Village Book contained a running commentary of each government visit and notes by government officers on any important points to be followed up by subsequent patrols.

Whenever some government activity occurred, an entry was supposed to be made in the Village Book.

The Village Book for Gitua (a coastal village north of Sialum) contained comments going back to 1944, when the Japanese had been withdrawing towards Madang.

An Assistant District Officer had written about his conduct of the first village census after the Japanese had been forced out and had signed his entry ‘Captain/Assistant District Officer’.

Kiaps in those days had a military rank equivalent (either Army or, in the case of some Coastwatchers, Navy), and it was thought this might help if they were captured: that they might be treated as a prisoner of war rather than being shot as a spy.

The Captain/ADO’s report noted an increase in the population and recorded various misdemeanors he had investigated.

He had also reported that the village was actively preparing for a special feast, celebrating the collection of its share of the annual appearance of sea worms.

Noting the date of the ADO’s entry was near the current date (November), I asked the komiti if the feast was still celebrated in 1974, and he assured me it was.

Later that day, I buttonholed the village komiti from Kwamkwam, just to the south of Sialum.

Would I be able to witness this feast when it was due in roughly a week’s time, I asked.

After some discussion, it was decided it was possible for me to attend, given that, as a white man, any taboos associated with the celebration would not apply.

The villagers all along the coast were keeping a close watch on the rising of the moon, the timing of which triggered the appearance of the worms.

The worms could be caught from the time the sun went down to the time the moon appeared over the sea around half past seven.

Just prior to this time everyone was warned to stay away from the nearby rivers running from the mountains and emptying into the sea.

Sialum government station

Traditionally to go near the rivers at this time would court death. The village people said the worms came down the rivers and travelled into the sea. I thought that maybe the worms were small eels or elvers.

A few days after my enquiry, the people sent word that tonight was probably the night. So in the late afternoon my wife and I walked along the beach from our house to where the villagers waited with their outrigger canoes.

In the centre of each dugout was an empty half 44-gallon drum tied to the poles joining the canoe to the outrigger.

Inside the dugout was a pile of coconut frond torches and a hand net made from mosquito netting.

The team in each canoe consisted of a young girl to hold the lighted torch (bumbum), a young man to operate the net (umben) and a small boy whose duties included paddling the canoe and emptying the net into the drum.

In the tropics, the period between the sun going down and the mosquitoes coming out is the most peaceful time of the day.

The waves of Vitiaz Strait had expended most of their energy on the reef and gently surged to the shore.

Sialum station was situated on a lagoon formed by the outside reef that extended along the coast for about three miles.

At fairly regular intervals Inside the reef there were islets that rose above the high water mark and, through gaps between the islets, the worms were supposed to arrive.

Towards sunset the canoes were launched and paddled towards the gaps in the reef.

Hoping to observe the complete performance closely, I asked if I could accompany a canoe and it was agreed I could.

I was welcomed aboard a canoe and the young occupants paddled me to the reef where the rest of the flotilla awaited.

As I stood on a sharp coral island, I was surprised to see only teenagers and young unmarried people in the canoes.

I was told that those who were married or old could not participate in this part of the ceremony as their genitals would swell and cause their death.

Seeing the look on my face, I was hastily assured this did not apply to white men.

Our conversation was terminated abruptly when a young man yelled, “Em nau, em pesman bilong ol” (Aha, there’s the first of them now).

My young friends called me over to where they stood in about two feet of water. At first all I saw was a brown thread, corkscrewing through the water.

Then the water came alive. As the tide flowed in and the water reached my waist, hundreds and then thousands of worms arrived until they clouded the lagoon.

Some worms were as long as a foot and some just three or four inches. They were about one-sixteenth of an inch wide. Some were rusty brown and others azure blue.

I could feel the worms sliding around my body and it was unpleasant. I joined a team in a nearby canoe.

The technique for catching the worms was straightforward.

The girls would light a torch and hold the glowing end just above the water. The flickering light attracted the worms which formed a seething mass beneath.

The young men would scoop up the worms in the net and hand it to the young boy in the canoe, who would tip the squirming mass into the empty drum and hand back the net.

If the torch flared, the worms would corkscrew away - so a steady light was essential to catch them.

The night was now pitch black and all along the coast as far as I could see, lights were flickering as each village gleaned their share of the harvest.

The canoes rocking in the gentle waves and the torch lights reflecting off the surface in flashes of yellow, red, blue and purple created a surrealist picture.

Other tiny water creatures emitted blue-green phosphorescence which combined with the phosphorescent slime from the worms. It was a memorable sight.

As the nets of worms were tipped into the drums, phosphorescent slime drooled down the outside of the containers clinging to the bottom of the nets.

The netting went on for about two hours before the moon rose. As each drum filled, the canoe was paddled to the nearby beach and waiting adults tipped the worms into saucepans. As the moon rose, the worms disappeared.

Everyone then assembled on the beach and the worms were stuffed into lengths of hollow bamboo.

These were cooked slowly on an open fire for about a day until the contents became a solidified, translucent mass ready to eat. The smell of cooking worms was pungent.

With the moon slowly rising, we politely thanked everyone and walked home. Before we left, I scooped up a few worms of each colour into a small bottle of sea water and took it to study in daylight.

The next morning, much to my dismay, the worms in the bottle had died. However at the bottom of the bottle was a layer of blue eggs.

I assumed that the blue worms might be female and the rusty brown ones, male. I also assumed that the worms were coming to the beach to lay their eggs in the sand and then die, having completed their life cycle.

Before we left the beach that night, the villagers explained this was ‘em Krismas bilong mipela’ (Christmas).

For a week after this feast they would do no work in the village gardens or at the government station.

St Nicholas - definitely not an atheist but a rich man who used his wealth to alleviate suffering

PHIL FITZPATRICK
| Published in PNG Attitude, 25 December 2016

TUMBY BAY - I was about eight years old when I realised that organised religion was a giant confidence trick.

The thing that made me aware of this was my mother’s plan to send me to the local Catholic school.

We’d just moved out of the migrant hostel after arriving in Australia from England and I was bound to a new school.

Although my father was an atheist he was a nominal Catholic, and had succumbed to family pressure to marry in the church.

My mother, abiding by church rules, had converted from Methodism to Catholicism. That marriage and conversion carried a mandatory commitment to raise children as Catholics.

Such was the power of the church in those days.

I rebelled and refused point blank to attend the Catholic school. I wanted to attend the local public school where my mates from the hostel were going.

To rebel successfully, I had to present a cogent argument to my mother. That is, I had to investigate and think about religion.

My conclusion was simple. How could anyone with reasonable intelligence believe this rubbish. It is a conclusion I have carried with me since.

That is not to say I object to anyone believing what they want, no matter how illogical and fantastic it might seem. If it helps deal with life and harms no one that’s fine by me.

I’ve developed my own theories about spirituality and often think it could reside in certain places and things.

Not so much in a supernatural sense, like religion, but in a psychological sense - the sense that we might feel something in those places where those things exist.

For instance, I think that forests, deserts, the sea and trees and certain animals have an intangible spirituality.

I therefore sympathise with the old animist religions that were prevalent in Papua New Guinea before missionaries arrived.

Indeed, those old beliefs seem not to have diminished in the face of the Christianity taught by the churches.

Apart from claims of supernatural intervention, the other thing that bothers me about religion, especially the organised kind, is its overt political nature.

I can’t for the life of me see much difference between popes, mullahs, shamans, priests, rabbis and pastors and other trumped-up appellations of rabid capitalists and mercenary politicians.

To me, they all try to manipulate people for their own benefit.

To do this they have taken the teachings of naïve prophets like Jesus and Mohammed and subverted them into political systems.

Men were busily doing this even while Jesus was alive before the Peter O’Neill of the time, Pontius Pilate, disposed of him.

I think people might be better off listening to the purported words of those prophets, who all seem to have been good men, rather than the words of the churches’ spin doctors.

Those old historic words are still echoed by humble men and women of the church who believe in goodness above all else.

The evil that is apparent in what those religious spin doctors devised is perhaps best summed up by the photograph of the crazy Muslim police officer who recently shot the Russian ambassador in Turkey.

Or perhaps not, perhaps he was just outraged at the awful carnage that has been wreaked in Syria in religion’s name.

So this Christmas don’t celebrate the mad doctrines of the Christian churches.

Celebrate the goodness of that naïve prophet called Jesus, who was, after all, just human like the rest of us.

And if you don’t want to do that, celebrate the life of that great Greek Bishop of Myra in Turkey called St Nicholas (aka Father Christmas), who used his inherited wealth to alleviate the suffering of his flock.

Bomai Witne - "It is a challenging time to assess whether and how we want to keep a link with our tribal heritage. Some of us are struggling"

BOMAI D WITNE
| Published in PNG Attitude, 24 December 2014

GOROKA – What did I inherit from my tribal and national ancestors who migrated here some 50,000 years ago and what did I inherit from colonialism?

I have to find answers to these questions and the answers are hard to find.

I was born in Imil-Tomale, a remote hamlet, under the shade of pandanus trees and clothed with soft and tender leaves.

My mother named me Dominic immediately after my birth. I found out later that I was the namesake of the husband of the woman who assisted my mother to give birth to me.

Naming a child is an important tradition in the Bari tribe in the Kerowagi district of Papua New Guinea. Every name has a cultural story attached to it.

The name Dominic was later confirmed when I was baptised in the Catholic Church a few years later.  However, for some reason, my father registered me at school under the name Dick, which I use now.

I am still interested in why the change of my name occurred.

I was born on the tribal land of the Bari-Kirigauma and grew up speaking Bari. I learned Tok-Pisin and English when I attended school.

My mother shifted from dressing me with tender leaves to nappies and clothes.

My parents dressed me in traditional regalia from time to time and the primary school I attended encouraged traditional dressing once a week.

I remember listening to nighttime stories from my fathers and uncles in the men’s house where bamboo flutes were heard before dawn of day.

The men’s house had rules for the elderly, the young and small boys. Women would sometimes take their husbands’ food to the men’s house where it would be shared with other men.

Hard working young men and boys would be given a bigger share and lazy ones would be given little.

This was a way to encourage hard work, challenging young men and boys to avoid a similar embarrassment in future.

The stories of hard working and good people in the community dominated night time stories in the men’s house.

At other times, they would talk about how they defeated the enemy and how many people they had killed in that war.

They would also talk about how they were defeated and how many of their men were killed and the property that was destroyed.

I rarely saw my father sleep in our family house. I observed the rules in my mother’s house.

My mother and sisters would only sit and move in certain areas. The places in front and at the back of the fire were reserved for food storage. Mothers and girls were could not walk over these places.

Apart from the men’s and women’s houses, there were no institutions where culture and tradition were taught.

I realise now that my people did not have a systematic way of teaching and preserving their traditional way of life.

Few traditional customs were taught in school, apart from dressing in traditional regalia once a week.

The teachers did not explain why we were told to dress this way once a week. I just thought it was a school rule to follow.

Usually boys would wear laplaps, towels, bags or anything that resembled a kondai (loincloth). Girls had their own way.

This might have been the beginning of school children moving away from dressing in traditional regalia and parents’ preservation of it.

When I went to school and met different people, my world view and the way I saw myself and my culture changed.

I used to think that Catholicism was the only religion but now I know it is a Christian faith among many others and is part of the broader religion of Christianity among other world religions.

The village kids I went to school with joined other Christian churches and began to condemn traditional cultures such as the way people dressed.

I saw some of them become pastors and talk to me like experts who know all about the Bible and venture into preaching about hell and heaven.

I did not know what I wanted to become but continued to do well in school.

The primary school, universities and the organisations I’ve been associated with have had a lot of influence in shaping my thoughts and the way I perceive and do things.

And right now, I’m confronted with the challenge of taking my children to the village this Christmas.

I am taking them to see their grandparents and the mountains, rivers, gardening land…. the entire place where I grew up as a child.

I am interested in how their grandparents and the people in the village will react to me and the children.

The children are conversant in Pidgin, but this still presents a communication dilemma for their grandparents who speak little Pidgin.

This reminds me of what the linguists having been saying. “Culture is transmitted well from one generation to another through effective use of a language”.

If this is true, my children represent modern children not acculturated in their own tribe.

They will probably not deepen their misunderstanding of Yuri and Bari culture if they do not speak the people’s language and are not encouraged to visit them.

I guess, the same is true for many Papua New Guineans and their children.

It is a challenging time for Papua new Guineans to assess whether and how they want to keep a link with their tribal heritage. Some of us are struggling.

The architects of the PNG Constitution had the wisdom to see such trend and had made an attempt to establish a philosophical foundation in the national goals and directive principles.

However, the different layers of government, from local level government to the provincial and national governments and their institutions, have taken a piecemeal approach to understanding and using the national goals and directive principles.

There is a lack of political will and commitment to institutionalize and give effect to these goals and principles.

It appears that most politicians at the different levels of government in PNG don’t understand their existence and importance.

And local level government presidents and councillors and some national MPs are amongst the most illiterate.

There are many reasons why.

The national school system has a bigger role to play in building these understandings into the school curriculum and making them a compulsory subject. This will require teachers to be educated as well.

Political parties have a role to give prominence to the goals and principles in their party policies to guide their plans and strategies.

This will require the ruling government not to discriminate between political party members in the disbursement of development funds.

Christianity has far reaching influence in PNG and most of what it preaches and stands for is consistent with the national goals and directive principles.

But pastors, priests and lay people must educate themselves well to share with others and give prominence to the philosophy of national goals and directive principles.

I attended a church retreat last week where Fr Franco Zocca affirmed that God is the giver of life and everything around it. If that was not enough, he sacrificed his son Jesus for mankind.

What does God wants from us this Christmas, as we remember and celebrate the birth of His son?

Fr Franco offered some answers to my question.

He referred to the Bible and highlighted some things that Jesus wanted for mankind as individuals and as members of family, clan, tribal or other groups in today’s Papua New guinea.

For individuals, Jesus, the son of God, wanted people to live a happy life without fear or favour. Jesus always told his followers, “Do not be afraid for I am with you.”

Individuals must strive to live happily with dignity, guided by principles of honesty, transparency and accountability.

We must have the strength to stand up for what is morally and legally right for ourselves and the community.

In such pursuit, we find the joy of being truly free from all forms of suppression. This is also a universal human right, the freedom of individuals.

According to Christianity, Jesus wants to exist in the hearts of people who live a righteous live, a life free of self-suppression and depression.

I recall a signboard placed at the roundabout in front of Parliament House at Waigani - “When the righteous rule, the people rejoice. When the wicked rule, the people suffer?”

These words remind Papua New Guineans and our politicians of the need to toil with honesty and dignity and to promote freedom of thought and expression among individuals to allow them to speak freely about the evils and corruption in PNG, instead of politicians - like the Speaker - shifting blame to innocent carvings in Parliament House.

The teachings of Christianity promote PNG’s cultural heritage of a peaceful community.

They discourage tribal warfare, payback, sorcery accusations, torture and killings. They call for people to live in peace and harmony and to use their goodness to create a better society.

Communal peace and coexistence provides a basis for interaction through sharing, caring and reaching out to the needy. It raises individuals and the community to realise, understand and value the potential and contribution of each member.

We have to stand up in the midst of all our challenges and always take a position for common good.

Corruption and abuse of position to acquire illegal wealth has become a norm in the public and private sector workforce in PNG. It starts with our political leaders and ends in the village.

The people of PNG are the victims of these unlawful and corrupt practices.  All Papua New Guineans must make a personal effort to improve the way we approach work and our obligations to other people.

My father used to tell me that he toiled using a spade and axe and the blisters on his hands healed and grew tough. The people with whom he shook hands knew his worth by the callouses.

He told me he was putting me through school so people would know and respect my thoughts and my deeds.

My Christian affiliation reaffirms that Jesus is the best teacher. His teachings and ways of life promote the teaching of our forefathers.

We Papua New Guineans face many challenges which require us to discern the noble heritage of our tribal and national forefathers and uphold those ideals that are consistent with our current values and laws and throw out those that are inconsistent.

Bomai Witne is a lecturer in political science at the University of Goroka. “I am a Yuri and Bari man. I strongly believe in the power, truth and spirituality of my ancestors”

ARTHUR WILLIAMS
| Comment in PNG Attitude, 5 January 2020

CARDIFF - Christmas lunch with some of my extended family in the United Kingdom was unusual.

I was the only non-vegan there.

Later we met again for Christmas evening fun.

One of grand-daughters had baked chocolate brownies which I really enjoyed.

Then her mum broke the news, "Dad you didn't know it but that cake was made with a 100% vegan recipe!"

Apparently one of the mysterious items was courgettes [zucchinis].

I had believed myself to be a chocoholic for most of my life, and loved nurturing cocoa trees to achieve abundant harvests of the crop.

I mention veganism because in a UK Tribunal reading last week, Judge Robin Postle ruled in a short summary judgment that ethical veganism satisfied the tests required for it to be a philosophical belief protected under the Equality Act 2010.

For a belief to be protected, it must meet a series of tests including being worthy of respect in a democratic society, not being incompatible with human dignity, and not conflicting with the fundamental rights of others.

So the crazy post-modern world slithers further into absurdities in matters religious.

In a local high school they have been allowing pupils to claim, 'Today I am a banana!'

No teacher is allowed under human rights law to dispute the child's belief system even if he or she changes to believing they are apples.

Guess one day soon somebody will claim he or she is 'in love' with the 14 year old girl next door then why shouldn't they be allowed to marry her.

Or perhaps I could marry my grand-son or my cat which I really do love so much. Should I start a belief system of Homo-Cattus.

In the oft-called bad old days such beliefs were called cults.

If you don't believe me and criticise me I may have to sue for religious discrimination.

St Paul met such silly ideas 2,000 years ago.

In Acts 17:23 he is cited as saying: "For as I walked around and looked carefully at your objects of worship, I even found an altar with this inscription: to an unknown god. So you are ignorant of the very thing you worship--and this is what I am going to proclaim to you."

FLORENCE CASTRO-SALLE
| Published in PNG Attitude, 25 December 2015

MADANG - As I lay in bed in the early hours of the morning, my mind drifted to the pictures I took of the Christmas tree in the office.

And then the theme from that Alvin and the Chipmunks movie played over and over in my head, “Christmas, Christmas time is near, time for joy and time for cheer”.

I thought of what I should do for my children and their father this Christmas, and was taken back to my own childhood years where there were presents under the tree every Christmas and where we believed Santa Claus truly existed.

We would leave cakes or biscuits and milk for Santa. Someone, probably dad, would eat them but we were convinced it was Santa who, with his helpers, had left the presents.

Sometimes dad would wake us in the middle of the night and tell us to come quickly or we’d miss seeing Santa.

We would rush outside and see footprints and be told we’d missed him and his the sleigh just by seconds.

As we kids got older, we tried to make Christmas for our younger siblings just as memorable.

One Christmas my baby brother wanted a bike so badly that he prayed for it every night.

We encouraged him in his prayers and told him that the good Lord would hear them and that Santa would bring him a bike.

Come Christmas Eve my brother was so excited he could not sleep, and when we told him Santa would soon make a stop at our house he could barely contain his excitement.

He clasped his hands together and whispered, “aiyo, mi laik krai”. I was moved to tears when I heard these words.

That was the last time we spent Christmas together as a family. There had been so many wonderful Christmases together, sharing great excitement and joy.

We do not have Christmases like that anymore. My parents separated and we grew up and scattered all over the place.

But I thank God for showing my siblings and me the true spirit of Christmas through our parents in those innocent years.

I hope I can do the same for my children: have them experience the true meaning of Christmas.

PHIL FITZPATRICK
| Published in PNG Attitude, 22 December 2017

TUMBY BAY - With Christmas nearly upon us, I have a couple of questions.

But let’s start with some suppositions.

If you are a believer, the true meaning of Christmas is the birth of Jesus Christ. Sent here by God to save mankind from itself.

If you are a non-believer, the meaning of Christmas is mostly to do with the end of seasons and celebrations of goodwill through acts of giving and eating too much.

This is personified by a character variously referred to as Santa Claus, Father Christmas, Saint Nicholas, or Kris Kringle in the USA.

I wonder who sent us Santa Claus. Maybe Mammon or was it an American spin doctor?

We do know, however, that in 1881 this illustration by Thomas Nast in the US magazine Harper’sWeekly helped create Santa’s modern image.

Now to some more profound questions.

How come God sent his son to Bethlehem? In the Middle East of all places? From what I hear it wasn’t a bad spot way back then.

Why didn’t he send him to.… I don’t know, Papua New Guinea. Waigani maybe?

If God was intent on saving sinners what better place could He pick?

Papua New Guinea was positively lousy with sin, just ask the missionaries.

You name it, PNG had it all. False idols, sorcery, tribal warfare, nudity etc. A few of the people were even eating each other for goodness sake!

It seems God’s priorities were a bit off. And why didn’t He tell anyone in PNG what He was up too at the time?

Alright, so he eventually got round to it. But he left it until the late 19th century. Bit late I would have thought.

I suppose there might have been some practical considerations. If He had sent His son to Papua New Guinea we probably would have made Him a Grand Chief.

That would have made the whole story a bit better - driving the corrupt out of the temples and all that.

Okay, so now let’s look at those whacko atheists and those true believers who like a bit of pashing and pudding with their piety.

How come Santa wears a heavyweight red suit with fur trim and drives a sleigh pulled by a reindeer?

Why doesn’t he wear arse-grass and drive a Toyota pulled by pigs?

Now I think about, he must know about the Highland Highway and its unfriendliness to sleighs.

And why does Santa insist on landing on roofs made of grass or saksak that are likely to collapse from the weight at any moment?

Why does he climb down chimneys that don’t exist and putting all the goodies in stockings that no one in their right mind would wear in the tropics?

Positively weird.

Don’t get me wrong. I reckon God, Jesus and Santa Claus are good blokes.

Hang on! Did I say ‘blokes’?

What happened to the ladies?

Is God a lady?

How come God sent Her son, not Her daughter? Has God got a daughter?

How come Santa Claus is an old fat white male? At the moment they’re either on the outer or in intensive care.

Wouldn’t Kim Kardashian make a better Santa Claus?

Oh, I see, big bum – no good for sliding down chimneys. What was I thinking?

What a strange, hyped up world we live in.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we just forgot all that hype and just used the time to get on with each other for once, catch up with old friends and generally bask in peace and good fortune for a while?

Bit boring, you reckon?

Oh well, I tried.

Olsobip Patrol Post, 1969 (PNGAA)

GARRY LUHRS
| Published in PNG Attitude, 24 December 2016

OLSOBIP - Christmas, and the entire festive season, is always a contentious time at the Gentlemen’s Club.

It is the cause of more disharmony than a federal election or a debate on the return of conscription and compulsory national service, or climate change.

Goodwill and fellowship towards our fellow man, I don’t think so! What a load of humbug!

All of these problems started some years ago when the club’s committee, in its infinite wisdom, decided to invite member’s submissions for the club’s Christmas celebrations to cover such items as suitable dress codes for the festive season, Christmas luncheon menus, after luncheon entertainment and the like.

As well, you can imagine the membership divided into roughly two distinct camps.

On the one hand there were the traditionalists led by Enoch McGraw, ex cattle station owner; whilst on the other hand the reactionary group, led by Archibald Blumfeld-Bingington, ex public servant, favoured the Anglo/European yuletide celebratory practices.

I must own up to being a traditionalist myself and I favoured the national festive wardrobe of black football shorts, blue singlet and thongs as evolved by our ancestors against the imported traditions of collars and ties and the like, which are totally unsuited to the local climate.

However; eventually a compromise was reached and open collars and long slacks and appropriate footwear, including socks, are now the order of the day.

Even the choice of carols for the choristers from the Cathedral was a bone of contention. We traditionalists favoured such Christmassie songs like Slim Dusty’s Christmas at the Station and the Chukka-Wankers singing Christmas in a rusty Holden ute against such rubbish as Hark! Hark! The Lark and Deck the Halls with lumps of holy. Whatever that is!

It sounds like reindeer droppings and; there is no way we would allow the buffalo horns and crocodile heads in the trophy room to be bedecked with reindeer droppings.

When the choristers sang ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’ instead of ‘Six White Boomers’; Enoch drove them off with a whiff of birdshot from his double-barrelled Purdy.

I won’t go into the luncheon menu except to say Roast Turkey and Figgy Pudding is definitely off the menu along with banning the barbaric practice of drinking port in the middle of the day. Really!

Now it’s a proper traditional Christmas lunch with prawns and lamb chops and beer drunk from the bottle and the like.

The only thing that the two groups agree on is the dress standards for the five, four ball, overs a side cricket match in the club’s ballroom after lunch. Long cream flannels are compulsory.

The sight of geriatric, septuagenarian and octogenarian knobbly white knees and inflamed and swollen varicose veins is just over the top and quite revolting.

It’s sufficiently off putting to see 22 decrepit bodies wheezing, faces bloated and purple as they try to recapture lost youth and ward off cardiac arrest for a couple of hours.

We always have at least one heart attack or stroke during the game so the twelfth men are assured having the opportunity to show their stuff and put willow to leather, or in our case willow to tennis ball.

Whenever I see these ancient warriors girding up to do battle my mind recalls that incredible cricket match between Australia and the West Indies that took place at the Sydney Cricket Ground in January 1961.

Play was broadcast live on ABC radio and the host commentators were Johnny Moyes, uncle of the kiap of the same name, and Alan McGillvray.

At one stage play had slowed down to a point whereby the spectators on the famous Sydney Hill began to get restless and, as happened in those far off days, after imbibing to excess, insults tended to get bandied about.

On this occasion a pugilistic contest broke out between a gentleman in a brown belt who exchanged blows with another gentleman in grey flannel trousers.

So boring was the test that our two stalwart broadcasters conducted a running commentary of the contest until it was broken up by the strong arm of the law who led the contestants away. But I digress!

As I reminisced my mind meandered back over the roads to the ghosts of many Christmases past and one in particular.

I was the lord and master of the Western District’s most northern outpost nestled in the southern foothills of the central ranges.

Olsobip was a pleasant little station largely ignored and forgotten by the outside world unless the monthly rainfall figures or some other highly important statistical return was not submitted on time.

So as long as I remembered to keep all of my statistics up to date, Kiunga, Daru and the world left me in peace.

Time passed kiapy things were kiaped and I came to know the words of every song on every LP record I owned and I could sing every individual part of the musicals Camelot and Brigadoon.

I could also recite by heart every word on the label of a packet of camel cigarettes and the label of a bottle of Rhum Negrita. Such were the achievements of a solitary existence.

As I sat in my sago and pandanus leaf thatched alpine chateau I mused on the highlights of my childhood and pondered the forthcoming yuletide season.

Then as if a bolt from the blue it struck me. I would host a gathering of my loyal subjects and introduce them to Christmas and the joys of celebrating this most holy of days of the Christian calendar.

After all the station had been established for nearly three years; it was time to introduce the next level of civilisation.

So at the following morning’s parade I announced to the constabulary and the labourers our plans for Christmas. To be honest my announcement was not met with any great enthusiasm.

The corporal questioned the wisdom of bringing certain groups together in large numbers considering traditional enmities and the like.

There were only seven policemen and he, the corporal, did not consider that sufficient strength to contain a couple of thousand tribesmen if they decided to get cantankerous.

“Nonsense!” said I and without any further ado instructed the interpreters to send word far and wide, throughout the realm, summoning the populace to wait on their Kiap on Boxing day. No sooner said than done.

Whilst waiting for the great day to arrive; we were not idle. A greasy pole was prepared, a stock built for pillow fighting, a pig purchased to be greased and released on the day. All the events of a Territory celebration were organised.

Prizes in the form of trade goods, stick tobacco, bush knives, tomahawks, lengths of laplap, trade mirrors and trinkets courtesy of the Government Store were organised. Rough humpies to accommodate our potential guests were erected. All was looking good.

The days rolled by like a dream as we prepared for the momentous occasion. Then dawned Boxing Day, bright and clear. I arose slightly heavy headed from celebrating Christmas but nevertheless anticipating the arrival of the hordes and quite excited looking forward to the friendly competitions that were to take place.

The Star Mountains

At last, we could hear in the distance, the pulsating throb of a hundred kundus, the warble and shrieks of the primitive tribesmen chanting traditional songs as they approached the station from all eight points of the compass.

Then finally, they hove into view, long lines of warriors bedecked in brilliant plumage, their phallic gourds waving like coconut palms in the breeze. Noses and ears pierced with lengths of bamboo and unwashed bodies glistening with perspiration and pig fat mixed with the ash from camp fires.

The malodorous stench of a heaving poorly drained sewer was enough to churn the civilised hungover gut.

The converging lines of savages assembled before me, where I stood in front of the flagpole gently massaging my inflamed haemorrhoids.

A silence fell over the assemblage; I raised both of my arms and acknowledged their acquiescence as they paid homage to their kiap.

I gazed about me and was quite stricken by the moment and surrendered to the temptation to make a verbose kiapy type speech. An English translation went something like this:

“My people! I acknowledge your attendance and I accept your humble deference and the homage that you extend to me.

“You have been summoned here today to participate in the great annual celebration known as Christmas. This occasion will be repeated every year from now until the end of time and it will provide you all with the opportunity to acknowledge your benevolent kiap who offers you his goodwill, love and protection.

“Shortly we will introduce you to the government’s ideals of competitiveness, sportsmanship and fair play. This in turn will lead to your eventually becoming civilized members of this great emerging nation.

“The afternoon will be devoted to competitions and the evening will be devoted to sing sings where boys can be boys and girls can become mothers.

“So without further ado I invite you to place your effects in the allocated humpies and at belo bek let the games begin.”

A jolly fine introduction; I thought.

The assemblage dispersed and, under the direction of members of the constabulary made their ways to the allocated accommodations to settle in and await the commencement of the games.

Barely 30 minutes had passed when the equanimity of the day was broken with blood curdling screams of “Kill! Kill!” rent the air.

A member of the constabulary came running towards me beckoning my presence to the line of humpies. From the noise and tenor of the raised voices it was obvious, even to me, that something was amiss.

As I hastened towards the cause of the disturbance it was obvious that whatever the problem; it did not involve all of the tribesmen. I arrived at the centre of the disturbance. Two groups were facing off against each other.

The goodwill and bon homme of the morning gone; hearts that were previously full of love and fellowship towards each other now replaced by anger and malice aforethought.

As I approached the two groups I saw an enormous rock python, deceased, stretched on the ground between the two factions.

“What is the problem?” I queried. Two hundred voices screamed as one! “It is ours!” “Nay ‘tis ours.”

It transpired that said python was enjoying a post-Christmas nap in the sunshine between two of the humpies when it was set upon by numerous tribesmen, from two different groups both of whom battered it into the corpse that lay before me.

The two opposing sets of villagers claimed it for lunch and were prepared to shed blood to substantiate their separate claims.

“Aha,” I thought, “tis here I can bring my extensive 21 months’ legal knowledge and experience to bear and solve this problem quickly and amicably to the satisfaction of all parties.”

And so, with all the power and authority vested in me by Her Majesty, the Queen herself, I proceeded to dispense British justice with the wisdom of Solomon.

“Constable! Fetch my measuring tape!” The serpent was measured and it conveniently measured twelve feet four inches.

I placed a charcoal mark at six feet two inches and invited the headman of protagonist side A to cut the creature in half and invited the headman of protagonist side B to select which half his people would stew and consume.

Reluctantly both sides agreed to my adjudication and everybody settled down; keeping their mumbles of discontent to a minimum. Problem solved I quietly preened myself and returned to centre stage.

At this point I decided to bring forward the commencement of the festivities; it seemed apparent to me that without direct supervision, the tribesmen could engage in further mischief.

Without further ado the policemen rounded up our guests and directed them to the two greasy poles that had been placed about fifty yards apart. There they stood, two stout posts, the tops of which were adorned with dozens of goodies compliments of the taxpayer.

I realised almost instantly that the concept good manners and gentlemanly behaviour in the form of taking turns was quite alien to the tribesmen.

Jostling, fighting, shouting discontent, the masses charged the poles only to find that they had been liberally lubricated with margarine from the government store.

As a result part of the mass dissatisfaction became directed towards their beloved kiap and his loyal retainers. We the latter withdrew to a safe distance to consider our situation.

My corporal was not cooperating in the true spirit of Christmas and was actually muttering mutinous statements under his breath questioning my sanity in organising the festivities.

Whilst we were pondering a solution; the savages provided their own solution. A few whacks with a tomahawk and both greasy poles thumped to the ground. Joyous cries from those claiming a trophy from the felled poles filled the air.

“Right,” I said, “time for the tug of war.”

Six teams were organised. All items that could possibly be used as weapons or projectiles were confiscated and the teams were lined up preparatory the commencement of the competition.

The sign was given and the competitors took to pulling with a vengeance. All was progressing well as a couple of hundred grunting and sweating bodies heaved to and fro.

Then disaster struck; one of the teams began to give ground and appeared about to be pulled across the centre line.

A loud cry went up from the spectators and before you could say ‘floccinaucinihilipilification’, a group ran to give assistance to their wantoks.

The ripple effect was instantaneous; the tug of war was forgotten and it was on for young and old. All of the competitors and spectators joined into the fray as one.

Kicking, biting, gouging, punching, slapping and in some cases getting quite physical. It was obvious to me that the situation ran the risk of getting out of hand.

“Corporal!” I ordered in my most authoritative voice, “we are going to have to put a stop to these shenanigans.”

I can’t be completely sure but his undisciplined reply sounded something like, ‘You started it. You sort it out.’

“Beat the clanger!” I ordered.

The clanger was a length of railway line that was hammered to call the faithful to and from work. When struck with a sledge hammer it resounded across the valley with a resonance to awaken the dead.

The brawling mob paused; temporarily distracted from their activities by the sound of the clanger.

I raised my arms and walked amongst the seething throng emboldened by the lines from Shakespeare’s Macbeth - “Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of woman born shall harm a kiap.”

The hordes fell silent. I looked about me, my disappointment obvious. I addressed them thus:

“My friends! My people! I am deeply distressed. I ordered you here in order that I, and my policemen, could impart civilised values to you in order that you can take your place in the councils of your emerging nation.

“You have adopted the Westminster system of government which requires acceptance and obedience to the laws that have made our Empire great.

“When I advise the number one government in Kiunga about your undisciplined behaviour he will be very disappointed.

“When the number one government in Kiunga advises the number one government in Daru of your riot he the number one government on Daru will feel compelled to tell the number one government in Moresby and there will be sorrow about the land.

“Then when the number one government in Moresby advises the Queen there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth!

“So what do you have to say for yourselves?”

My speech was met with total silence. The people seemed perplexed they looked questioning at each other obviously overcome with the enormity of their impropriety and unacceptable behaviour.

Savouring the moment I continued:

“In all likelihood, those important people will stop sending us stick tobacco and one shilling to pay you for your labours when you come to the station to work.

“Now return to your humpies, prepare your evening meals; and conduct sedate and cultured sing sings to entertain me as I sleep tonight. I absolutely forbid any further fighting.

“Tomorrow morning you will all return to your villages and remember how civilised people celebrate Christmas.”

The horde dispersed but in doing so they commandeered all of the unallocated prizes and took them along with them. In short the rest of the time was uneventful.

The different groups settled around their fire and as I passed amongst them during the evening they dutifully performed their traditional singsings.

When I awoke the following morning; the sun was shining and I was greeted by the sight of all of the natives assembled on the airstrip obviously awaiting my appearance.

I made my way towards them and six or seven of the headmen came forward to salute me and acknowledge my presence.

Through the interpreters they expressed their gratitude at attending the government’s festivities and, after apologising profusely for the behaviour of their clansmen, trusted I would not misinterpret their high spirits and make trouble with the Queen.

We were all so overcome with the emotion of the moment I couldn’t control myself. I reached out and shook each of the headmen by his hand and sent them on their way.

Kiap's residence overlooking the airstrip at Olsobip, 1968 (Bob Hoad)

Now all these years later as I listen to my old friends in the Gentlemen’s Club waffle on about trivialities I like to think that inside little sago thatched huts nestling in the shadows of the mighty Star Mountains; toothless shrivelled old men huddle around smoking fires and relate the legend of the time that their kiap shook their hands and my heart fills with pride.

And so dear reader it is time for us to part once more. I shall be taking a sabbatical to polish the great Australian novel but in the meantime I wish you and your family a very happy and loving Christmas and a safe and prosperous New Year.

As Little Tim says in a Christmas Carol: “God bless us each and every one.”

Phil on patrol, Star Mountains, early 1970s

PHIL FITZPATRICK
| Published in PNG Attitude, 24 December 2019

TUMBY BAY - In 1970 I received a Christmas present I didn’t really want.

At the time I was the officer-in-charge of Olsobip Patrol Post on the southern slopes of the Star Mountains in the Western District.

Earlier in the month I had returned from a 31 day patrol into the rugged and remote Murray Valley.

It was a consolidation patrol following a previous one where threats had been made and a rifle discharged.

While our main aim had been to smooth over the waters and re-establish good relations with the people, that quickly became a secondary consideration when we discovered an influenza epidemic raging through the valley.

We succeeded in slowing down the epidemic and, as a result, getting our relationship with the people back on an even keel.

But when we finally struggled out of the valley we were all pretty knocked up and a few of us were suffering from influenza.

A good break over Christmas was something we were looking forward to.

There was a tradition of sorts in the northern part of the Western District that everyone converged on one of the stations to come together for Christmas.

In 1970 it was Ningerum’s turn to host the celebrations. Through various means, people from Kiunga, Nomad River, Obeimi Base Camp and Olsobip would make their way there.

The Olsobip station clerk and his family, along with me and my dog, hitched a ride on the weekly supply air charter, which flew from Daru to Kiunga and did a loop to the other stations before returning, usually empty, to Daru.

Olsobip was a one-kiap station, so I was looking forward to catching up with everyone, including my old mate Charlie Brillante, who had recently transferred from the highlands.

My unexpected present arrived on Christmas Eve. It began with a very high temperature and was followed by a bout of shivers and a horrible headache that stretched from my head to my toes.

It was my first ever bout of malaria.

At first I couldn’t work it out. I had been religiously taking Camoquin tablets but they didn’t seem to have worked.

In any event I self-administered a handful of the things and lay back on my bed on the floor of Charlie’s lounge room.

They did the trick and, while I missed out on the Christmas feast and had probably given my liver a bad jolt, I was well enough to enjoy the New Year’s Day barbeque beside the station swimming hole in the Ok Tedi river.

In those days the Ok Tedi was called the Alice River and ran clear and clean on its way to the Fly River.

The timing of the malaria attack allowed me to figure out that I had probably been bitten by a mosquito while on patrol in the Murray Valley, worn down from a dose of influenza and rigorous exercise.

That may have explained why the Camoquin was less efficacious. But what I didn’t realise was that malaria is a gift that continues to give.

Twenty years later, back in Australia, I was preparing to celebrate Christmas with my family.

I had just gotten over a bad cold and was feeling a bit seedy but on the mend. Then the malaria came back with a vengeance.

I don’t know whether you’ve ever tried to convince a doctor in suburban Adelaide that you’ve got malaria and need a handful of anti-malarials but it isn’t easy.

They basically don’t believe you and want to do all sorts of tests.

Once I got over that hurdle I had to find a chemist that stocked the tablets. In short they didn’t and had to get special authorisation to source them.

I gave up and went home.

Luckily the years had worn down the pesky little parasite hiding in my blood stream and I was able to sweat it out.

When I went back to PNG in the 1990s I decided not to take anti-malarials. Camoquin and Nivoquin had lost the battle against new strains of the disease and the new drugs had horrendous side effects.

I carried tablets with me just in case but I never took them. And I didn’t get malaria again.

Maybe my body had done what the bodies of many Papua New Guineans do and developed some sort of immunity.

Nevertheless, that 1970 Christmas is one that I remember well.

Carriers walked long distances carrying heavy loads of wounded troops supplies and equipment (Damien Parer,  1942)

EDITED BY KEITH JACKSON
| Compiled from Voices from the War *

PORT MORESBY -World War II meant that many young Papua New Guinean men had to leave their villages in the service of the Australian and American military forces.

They worked as carriers, medical orderlies, police, cooks and in other service jobs. Sometimes this service lasted until the war ended.

Thousands of young men were also recruited into the Papuan Infantry Battalion (PIB), the New Guinea Infantry Battalions and other units.

For them, the war involved fighting in their own districts and in many other places around Papua New Guinea.

On Christmas Day, 1942, men from Hanau and other nearby villages were supporting the Australian and American soldiers fighting at Buna.

They were carrying ammunition and stores to the front line and returning with wounded men and sometimes the dead.

Some of the wounded had to be carried on stretchers and some could walk with assistance.

Buna, Christmas Day, 1942. Private George 'Dick' Whittington helped towards a field hospital at Dobodura by Raphael Oimbari

One of these soldiers was Private George Whittington, who had been wounded in the head and was being helped to the aid station at Dobuduru by a number of men.

The famous photo of him being helped by Raphael Oembari was taken by the Australian government’s official war photographer, George Silk.

These are the stories of those men who were there on Christmas Day 1942 with George Whittington and Raphael Oembari.

You will notice that they all refer to Whittington as ‘George Washington’.

Lomas Tonu Ani of Hanau village, Raphael Oembari’s grandson, shares his grandfather’s story of Christmas Day 1942:

“We had been performing our task of carrying supplies from Dobuduru to Buna, evacuating the wounded for many days, until on Christmas Day George Washington was wounded with other Australian and American soldiers.

Our carriers took in turns to guide George Washington from the battlefield along the track when Raphael Oembari’s turn came to take over.

They were walking along when the photograph was taken.”

Fabian Jawoambu of Hanau village described the role his grandfather, Toja Jawoambu, played as a carrier on this day:

“They move by crawling behind the Allied forces into the fighting zone and removed dead and wounded soldiers out, then carried them on the stretchers to the care centre at Dobuduru, where the Red Cross was for the first aid.

On Christmas Day, this soldier George Washington was wounded and his Allied men led him out and handed over to the group of natives called ‘half soldiers’ to take him to the care centre at Dobuduru for first aid.

Along the way, Raphael Oembari was fortunately pictured and he became famous all throughout the country and world as a whole.”

Carriers assisting wounded Australian soldiers awaiting evacuation (George Silk,  1942)

The grandfather of Paulus King Taimbari of Hanau village, Tambari Jawopo, was part of a group that went to collect George Whittington:

“When [my grandfather] worked on that Christmas Eve night, they shot George Washington.

So next morning my grandfather went in a group to pick a dead body. His brother-in-law, Stonewigg Haita, brought back a wounded body. He handed over to my grandfather and my grandfather he held him, and then he walked together with him.

[After a while he] handed over to his father-in-law, Raphael Oembari. When he left and passed the cameraman came with a plane, and so they got a picture of Raphael Oembari and George Washington.”

Other men also helped George Whittington along the way. Matthew Ware of Hanau village cited their names:

“Heita, Sirima, Anamo, Oanda, Hibiti, Ware, Jaboko, Kokoro and Gomba, they helped all the dead bodies and the wounded soldier.

They help them and they put it on the stretcher to pick it up, carry it out to Dobuduru aid station.

At that time, my father, Ware Toja, broke the stick and he came and give to George Washington to support him to come to Dobuduru.

The carriers they carry the body up until that time when they hand over the wounded soldier to Mr Oembari. At the same time, the filmer took the photograph.”

The scene at one of Dobodura's many airfields at the end of World War II. The 'boneyard' of  fighting machines that had served their purpose

Original caption:

Buna, Papua, 25 December 1942. QX23902 Private George C “Dick” Whittington being helped along a track through the kunai grass towards a field hospital at Dobodura. The Papuan native helping him is Raphael Oimbari.

Whittington was with the 2/10th Battalion at the time and had been wounded the previous day in the battle for Buna airstrip. He recovered from his wounds but died of scrub typhus at Port Moresby 12 February 1943. (G. Silk, 1942)

*Credit:

Voices from the war, Kokoda Initiative, Papua New Guinean stories of the Kokoda Campaign, World War II, a joint publication of the Governments of Papua New Guinea and Australia, 2015

A G SATORI

Mama, I can't come home for Christmas. I love you and miss you still. I want to say Merry Christmas in person but can't.

But I know where you will be each day.  We had done this together so many times - three days before Christmas service.

That was some church service - five kilometers harrowing walk each way on my small hurting feet. I don't miss that anymore.

I miss you and the gardens and all the plants. I know where you grow your specials. Even the pumpkin runners had their own special place in that red nutrient-less soil.

I know that the hauspik outside the garden will be clean. The small piglet that would be our Christmas kaikai will be doing its last run around its mother.

It will probably uproot the rest of the banana plant I planted so long ago.

I can see Pop cleaning the small mumu place inside the garden fence. He’ll get the fire going to heat the stones.

I think it’s at this time, when the dew is are drying on the leaves, that you would look up the slope beyond the garden expecting me.

First I always visited my small garden plot. You would have seen my head bobbing around there before you heard me.

You know that I always travelled ahead of the girls. You know I did not like their silly giggles and girly prattles. 

Today I wish I had stayed with them because I miss them. I know you will too as they have gone in marriage to other places.

You and I remain. You because you married Pop. Me because it’s my inheritance.

But right now, I wish I were home with you, helping make that half mumu, learning your tricks of the half mumu.

I have tried to explain my yearnings for a Christmas with no tinsel, just a day feasting on the succulent veal of that special you do with the bush kumus.

And that yellow leafy thing - what do you call it - the one you grow at the head of the garden with the agepa and the different pitpit that go into the mumu.

Even the kaukau tasted like veal. That was your Christmas meal for us.

I always wanted to ask you how you could do that - make kaukau taste like meat.

But I have missed you, Kirisimasi after Kirisimasi.

Now I buy a Big Rooster pack for Christmas meal and can only dream and drool over what I lost when I decided to move away from the hauslain.

The expensive dish at the restaurant does not taste like your handiwork.

It does not have that taste that remains in the upper palate long after the last of the succulent piece of piglet is gone

Yes Ma, another day again when I have to wish you merry Kirisimasi  and long for that Kirimasi meal because you went to that place of forever Kirimasi a long, long time ago.

Merry Kirisimasi, Mama.

Emma Wakpi - "There are kinks in the cultures and ways of my people and I continue to struggle against them. But for the most part I am at peace"

EMMA WAKPI
| Published in PNG Attitude, 25 December 2012

MY DEAREST MOTHERLAND - I am writing this letter on the eve of Christmas to let you know how much I love and appreciate you.

This time of the year reminds us of what we should be thankful for and of what love is really all about.

Often times we argue so much about what is wrong and right and how it’s supposed to be done nowadays.

But at the end of the day, you are family, you give me my identity and I find my comfort in your coarse gruffness which conceals a heart so fiercely loyal to me.

At times I pine for things other nations can offer their children and am ashamed to admit that in my youth I’ve oft rued the fact that destiny saw fit to make me a Papua New Guinean.

But as I have grown and experienced what life has had to offer - as opportunities have allowed me to visit other countries and cultures; I have discovered that no one is perfect and even the most ideal of situations have their faults.

Looking back I realise the privilege of growing up as a Papua New Guinean and the unique traits that helped create my identity.

Nowhere else on earth can I find a family so diverse and realise the feat it takes to congregate hundreds of nations into the single entity known as PNG and to keep it functioning.

Individual identities are not smothered but like jigsaw puzzles are being pieced together to complete a picture. How this picture will turn out, only God knows.

I am an integral part of that overall puzzle - my piece of the picture you are designing.

The way you are shaping me is altogether unique, the experiences and memories are what constitute my mind, body and soul.

I realise this now and do not want to take for granted the encounters which you have allowed to mould and shape me.

I therefore would like to reminisce and share with you the impact that you have had on me and how you’ve helped shape my life until now….

I see myself blown up and shaped into a puzzle piece (for aesthetic purposes let it be the capital letter E). The top half of the letter is yellow with flecks of orange.

These are the times of my early childhood, the experiences of my village.

Adults sitting around the open fire in the evening as I lie at the back drifting hazily upon the quiet conversations about the garden and its yields.

That stubborn pig that’s always escaping from its fenced parameter.

The recounting of bygone days with revered ancestors admired for their feats of hunting, fighting, gardening.

Then rising at dawn to hear my grandfather sharpen his axe as he sings old chants; seeing his toothy, bearded grin as he stoops to enter the hut to prepare our smoky breakfast of sweet tea and roasted bananas – his specialty.

I hear my grandmother lovingly calling out to her pigs in the pig house as she ties ropes around the front ankles, leading them to good feeding grounds for the day.

My attention is caught and catapulted to the surrounding kunai hills as my uncle lustily exchanges the morning news with yodelling neighbours while my aunt and mother listen in and make ready their bilums with the supplies needed for a day of gardening.

I see myself straddling my grandfather’s shoulders, clinging to his hair like a young kapul as he effortlessly carries me along, balancing his spade and other working tools on one shoulder while climbing the small hill to work the family garden.

And of him letting me sneak off to play with other children hunting cicadas, grasshoppers and any critters we can safely eat.

The bursts of emotional experience now sweep over me.

The sheer excitement as groups of children and older teenagers go mushroom hunting when the season has started and the cautionary voices of my grandparents telling us to bring everything home to identify before it can be consumed.

The feeling of complete contentment and fun as I see my mother and older cousins and aunts fill bilums full of bedding and clothes, talking and laughing as they take them to the nearby river to launder.

I find myself playing tag with other children, diving and splashing about in the cool shallow pools and drying ourselves, basking lazily like lizards on the big stones.

In the afternoon I follow my older cousins and their friends to the nearby hill which has been laboriously watered to make a slippery slope.

Each child has brought along banana trunks with carved designs stylised from twigs and leaves.

The fun as teams are formed and pairs race each other to see who can reach the bottom first while successfully clinging to the banana trunk.

The exhilaration of speeding down that hill and taking risks; bathed a dusky red by the wet mud.

I see my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins clinging to me and crying as my father gently prises me away from them and carries me into an airplane.

The people inside look fresh and crisp and I am in awe of the air stewardess.

The straight hair, red lips and pencilled eyebrows fascinate me but this is swooped aside and my heart soars as the plane takes off.

A complete sense of surreal wonder overwhelms me as I watch everything fade and cars and houses become like the toys that Dad always brought home when he came on his breaks.

He is taking my mother, sister and I to that place where he works.

When we arrive, the place is green and dense, blanketing and swallowing up everything.

It is a colour I’ve never experienced - my own village canopy allowed sunlight to at least filter through and tinge everything a yellowish gold; it is not so here, and it is a bit frightening.

But slowly it grows on me and envelopes me in its mountainous embrace, solid and soothing.

It is in this mass of green comfort that I learn to speak and read English, to bond with my nuclear family, to make friends in church and school and to become comfortable with neighbours from other countries.

There is a sense of wonder at the modern world I’ve stepped into. Walking into our kapa house for the first time, it seemed hollow and so full of air and light.

Everything is new, white and exciting – the light and fan switches, faucets, shower basin, flushing toilet and we even have a washing machine.

Oh, the wonder of turning things on and off at the switch of a button or a twist of a knob – no smoky lamp and fires to blow, no running down the slope to cart water from the watering hole, no more pit toilets in the middle of the night where my imagination terrorises me with shadows cast from the kerosene lamp.

And dad shows me the television for the first time.

What words can describe that feeling? (I learn to speak and read English watching Sesame Street and Play School every morning and afternoon with mum.)

The sense of awe extends to the start of my education. As I walk into my prep class, Mrs Bignal intrigues me.

Red hair, nails and lips contrast sharply with her pale countenance and she seems rather stern but I soon find she is fun as she untangles me from behind my mothers’ skirt and tells me to go play.

Mr Canham, my second grade teacher (reading a portion of Arabian Nights every afternoon), introduces me to the world of books and helps me discover the magic of the cool library with soft bean bags and captivating shelves holding imaginations of every kind.

Many a lunch and after school session finds me holed up devouring anything that grabs my interest.

The jungle green now transforms into a deep red hue with flickers of black. This is the dawning of my self-realisation - of discovering who I am and how I should live in this country called Papua New Guinea.

My existence consists of several dimensions - family, culture, peers, faith.

I attend high school and university and interact with various nationalities and cultures. How do I balance them all?

I find my friends “don’t get” my village life so that becomes my private world I escape to every school holiday to fall into the loving arms of family and where modern amenities are exchanged for smoky huts as I snuggle close to my grandmother and listen to her singsong voice retelling tales of old.

Of squatting next to my grandfather as he operates on the slaughtered pig for our ‘family Christmas’ feast.

Of wandering into the jungle with my aunt and uncle to see them clear land for new gardens, of following my cousins as they participate in the Christmas games of volleyball and basketball where the rules are made up and which I find a bit too rough for my now town bred self.

But I enjoy watching and cheering and every now and again brave the swinging arms and thrusting hips to play.

My culture has certain expectations of me as an educated man’s daughter.

How I conduct myself in the village, how I dress, how I react to situations, knowing my place - there is a structure which places me on a certain level and this is in stark contrast to the independence I am so used to in school.

I huff and puff and grumble but know that I must comply or else bring shame to my family.

How do I do it so I don’t feel as if I’m being coerced into something?

How do I do it so that I am not condescending but sincere? I realise love, respect and understanding of world views is crucial to achieving this balance.

Having been exposed to a broader view of the world and having decided toward the end of my high school days to accept Christ and follow his teaching, I realise that unconditional love and seeing things from another’s perspective brings understanding.

For this I am thankful for my parents counsel; they too have had to tread this path - my nuclear family helped me fit better into my extended family, culture and Papua New Guinea as a nation.

And now, as I accept myself and my place, I can with understanding address issues that to me are wrong - the flickers of black. Not all things are rosy recollections.

There are kinks in the cultures and ways of my people and I continue to struggle against them.

But for the most part I am at peace, I love and am loved fully in return and find contentment in my identity – I have a place in this world where I can wholly belong - to know who I am even as I interact and am drawn in by an ever increasingly global world and its persuasions.

My dear PNG, as I ponder all this, I realise the privilege and richness of my life.

I thank God for creating me and choosing me to be your citizen and placing me in your care to be shaped and fitted; to experience what I have experienced and to work toward an even better future.

I love you and honour you and this Christmas, as we reflect on the meaning of giving; of love unconditional bestowed with abandon to all mankind, I pray God grant me the grace to live out a life of integrity and love so that I can make you proud.

Merry Christmas, and forever yours, Emma.

SIMON DAVIDSON

When suns setting rays,
Touched western horizon,
The ev’n skies lit up,
And burned as with flames.

I set my eyes transfixed,
At the evenings fireworks,
At the transient glory,
Oblivious to Covid-19’s rage.

That moment in time was serene.
I was then transported,
To a different universe,
To bask in natures splendor.

As night dark shadows,
Descended warily on earth,
And dusks chilling breeze blew,
I left my sweet spot for home.

The night’s news item,
Gave a bleak view of my world,
Where millions were perishing,
As Covid-19 plague afflicted many.

Those serene moment in nature
Consoled my terrified and weary soul,
With hope burning in my breast.
To face another grim night.

“As setting stars incline my head to sleep,”*
And as I slipped into my cozy bed,
In the moonlit night, I had faith,
That I am in his hands.

* From Virgil’s Aeneid

Sir Mekere Morauta - Argued deficit financing is necessary for serious growth. The world caught up with him this year

SCOTT WAIDE
| My Land, My Country

LAE - In school, economics wasn’t really my thing. At the end of one semester, the girl who became my partner got the highest grade and I nailed the bottom of the list.

But years later, the great journalist John Eggins said I had to venture into the realm of business and economics, because I had “the flair for it.”

I didn’t really believe I did. All I ever did was blunder through and try to make sense of the textbook theory.

Then I began talking to Sir Mekere Morauta and Bart Philemon.

The ease with which Sir Mek explained economic theory in the PNG context brought to life the knowledge crammed into my brain by my long suffering Austrian economics lecturer, Dirk Volavsek.

As opposition leader, Sir Mek differed in opinion with then Treasurer Bart Philemon’s push to achieve a balanced budget.

Mr Philemon (excuse my simplistic explanation) argued you must have the cash in order to spend and that deficit financing was dangerous for a small economy like Papua New Guinea.

Sir Mek argued that deficit financing is necessary for serious growth.

Both men understood how the economic machine worked from different perspectives. And I learned from both of them as they argued the theories from their schools of thought.

I was young and ignorant. But they never looked down on my lack of experience.

Sir Mek explained how strategically placed debt could propel a resource rich country to become an economic powerhouse in the Pacific.

Sir Mek was a guru, a thought leader and a brilliantly articulate economist politician.

Only upon the passing of brilliance, and in that void that follows, are people recognising the visionary leadership that, at the time, many people resisted and criticised.

NALAU BINGEDING

PORT MORESBY - As a kid, the Busoo River in the Bukawa area of Morobe Province was the best place in the world to be.

In Wagangluhu village, on the banks of the Busoo, the river was our swimming pool, fishing ground and playground. This and the surrounding lush tropical rainforests provided my friends and me with countless adventures.

Even better, each year the Papua New Guinea and Australian defence forces used the banks of the Busoo River for joint military exercises, and the excitement of watching these after school was a bonus.

The sound of machine guns, bazookas, M16s and helicopters drove our little minds crazy, and all we could think of the next day was to come back again.

Although we were just third and fourth graders, we knew the names of most of the military equipment and the types of action taken by the soldiers.

We also knew the role of the radioman and learned by heart the words he spoke during the exercises.

After this was over and the soldiers left, we usually struggled to fit back into our routine village and school lives.

And if you saw three or four heads clustering in one corner of the schoolyard during lunch break or after school, you could be sure the discussion was about the latest military drills along the banks of the Busoo River.

To get this out of our system, after school we would gather at the river and act out the military drills using whatever resources we could find in the nearby bushes.

We would act out army patrols along the banks of the river and when dusk set in we would return home.

This went on for some time until the military madness flushed out of our system and life returned to normal.

But of all the military enactments, what happened one fateful day is implanted forever in my mind.

It was Friday and we were let off early at 10 am after completing school work parade because our teachers needed to go into Lae to collect their pay cheques.

The school bell rang and it was time to head home, but we all knew where we would meet and what we would do that day.

There was a certain spot along the banks of the Busoo River where we would gather for our military patrol.

This one would be special because the fifth graders had heard our stories and were enthusiastic in joining us third and fourth graders.

We all gathered and everyone went about preparing for the patrol. Wild banana stumps, sticks, vines and stems of golgol [giant ginger] were deployed as substitute machine guns, bazookas, M16s and a wireless radio.

There was silence as every kid in the platoon worked to make the best gun he could. As each crafted his gun, he would glance at the others to ensure his gun was best.

I should add that everyone made a gun except Wayakwa, he was tasked by the platoon commander to make a wireless radio.

Wayakwa was a boy bullied over trivial matters by other kids and most of the time you would not find him mingling with kids after school.

But on that day Wayakwa came to join the platoon and somehow was appointed to be our radioman - and was accorded some respect.

I had crafted an M16 for myself, but its quality was not at par with the other kids. I could not comprehend how they could craft guns that were perfect replicas of real M16s, bazookas and machine guns.

There was something special about this patrol, but I could not work out what it was. I had a hunch something big was going to happen.

As preparations progressed, all eyes were fixed on the radioman and his wireless radio.

Everyone wanted the radio to be a perfect replica of a real wireless radio, and once in a while somebody would comment on what had been left out or what needed to be done to improve its quality.

When he was done, Wayakwa stood beside a replica made of wild banana stumps, sticks, vines and stems of golgol. I reckoned it would have weighed in excess of 20 kilograms.

For third graders, 20 kilograms was usually beyond our carrying capacity, but I could tell Wayakwa was not bothered by the weight. He had been assigned the task and it was his responsibility to carry the wireless radio despite its weight and earn the respect of the platoon.

Finally, everything was in order and the platoon was ready to head downstream. Everyone had their faces painted with charcoal and heads covered in banana leaves or some grass species. Their weapons were at the ready.

Wayakwa was raring to go. His 20 kilogram wireless radio was still on the ground and he gazed at it with a smiling face.

The platoon commander and his subordinates gathered 10 metres away and discussed the patrol plan while we waited anxiously for their instructions.

The plan was that platoon commander Namun was to take the lead and his subordinates Geding and Uyac’ were to strategically position themselves in the patrol line to give necessary instruction should we encounter enemy patrols.

Radioman Wayakwa was to be the last person in the patrol line so he could call for a helicopter from Igam army barracks in Lae if there were any casualties.

Slowly the platoon headed downstream. There was silence as we cautiously scanned surrounding bushes for signs of the enemy.

Once in a while the platoon commander would turn around and signal for us to sit in the bushes and wait for some villagers to pass by.

The patrol had walked for three kilometres and seemed to be progressing smoothly with no casualties.

Villagers returning from their gardens or fishing did not spot us, and we were anticipating a successful patrol when the commander called off the mission in the next couple of kilometers.

Then there was a scream from the front of the line and the platoon came to a halt.

The troopers in front whispered to each other and passed the word down the line so all members were aware of the situation.

Platoon commander Namun was hurt. He had stepped on some rattan spikes and his foot was bleeding badly.

“Quick, get the radioman to call Igam barracks,” said Geding. “Ask headquarters to send a helicopter as soon as possible, our platoon commander is down.”

As the rest of the platoon waited patiently, our medics began work on the casualty. The rattan spikes were removed from Namun’s foot, the wounds were cleaned with clear sap extracted from some nearby vines, and juice from the leaves of the piper plant was squeezed into the wound to dry the blood.

While this was going on, troopers began preparing a stretcher using sticks and vines to carry the injured person to the riverside for the helicopter to come and extract him to Igam barracks for further treatment.

At the same time the radioman began making frantic calls to Igam for a helicopter to be sent immediately.

“This is Alpha 1 calling Bravo 2, over. Bravo 2, do you read me, over? This is Alpha 1. Please send helicopter to Busoo River, over. We have a casualty; the platoon commander for Alpha Company is injured, over.”

Then Wayakwa changed his voice to answer, “Roger, this is Bravo 2 Igam calling Alpha 1, over. Message copied; do you read me, over?”

While the medics were preparing the casualty for evacuation and Wayakwa was calling for help, the rest of us were on alert in case an enemy patrol crossed our path.

Then good news. Wayakwa, after making frantic calls to Igam, informed the platoon that a helicopter was on its way.

It was all thumbs up for the platoon, and there were smiles all round as we waited for the helicopter to arrive.

After 30 minutes or so, there was no sign of a helicopter.

Platoon commander Namun had been placed in a stretcher and he was impatient and wanted to know if the helicopter was really coming.

So Uyac’ whispered to the trooper next to him to send word down the line to the radioman to again call Igam barracks.

“This is Alpha 1 calling Bravo 2, over. Bravo 2, do you read me, over? This is Alpha 1. Please send helicopter to Busoo River, over. We have a casualty; platoon commander for Alpha Company injured, over.”

The platoon intently listened. Then Wayakwa enthusiastically informed the platoon that a helicopter had been dispatched and would soon land to pick up the casualty.

As the platoon anxiously waited, we heard in the distance the sound of an approaching helicopter.

As the sound got louder, there were smiles and Wayakwa was given praise for his efforts.

But the sound of the helicopter engine faded. It was no longer headed in our direction, but for the headwaters of the river.

“Maybe it missed our location,” somebody said. “It would come back if Wayakwa radioed our exact position to Igam.”

We agreed that Wayakwa should get back on the radio and pinpoint our exact location to Igam.

Enthusiastically, Wayakwa called again. “This is Alpha 1 calling Bravo 2, over. Bravo 2, do you read me, over? Please inform the helicopter pilot to head downstream, over.”

Even as Wayakwa was calling, we could hear the sound of a helicopter approaching.

It was heading down the Busoo towards our position.

We could hear Wayakwa back on the radio. “We are located some four kilometers downstream from Wagangluhu village, and eight kilometers from the sea. Do you read me, over?”

We watched anxiously for what would happen next. The helicopter was above us and we could see white men inside. The helicopter was attempting to land on the riverbed.

The helicopter landed on the riverbed only 30 metres away when somebody shouted, “The white men are going to steal us and take us to Australia.”

Part 2 tomorrow

NALAU BINGEDING

PORT MORESBY – As somebody called “The white men are going to steal us and take us to Australia,” every trooper fled from the helicopter in every direction into the thick jungle.

Although barefoot, we did not care about rattan spikes or any other mishap that may be in our way.

We had to flee as fast as we could to get away from the helicopter.

It was a case of every man for himself. It was chaos and nobody knew where the others were as we disappeared into the thick jungle.

The radioman was left behind, still calling Igam army barracks as the civilian helicopter landed on the riverbed.

For us, this had turned into a terrifying experience. The thought of white man catching us and taking us to Australia drove our adrenaline levels so high that running through thick jungle was a cinch.

Then there was a call. Somebody was calling for the troopers to come together.

Maybe one of our commanders. I was not sure, but reluctantly made my way to where the call was coming from.

As I made my way through the jungle, I came upon other troopers and we cautiously headed to the source of the call.

“Come all troopers, we need to make a head count. Come quickly, this is an emergency call.”

We came upon a new garden and there was Uyac’, one of the two subordinates to the platoon commander. He was with some troopers and making a head count. Geding, the other subordinate, was not present.

As the troopers arrived one by one or in groups, we sat in circles in the garden and chatted and laughed about what had happened.

As we waited and laughed and told our stories, Geding and the platoon commander, Namun, arrived.

“Do a thorough head count for us to see if anybody is missing in action,” Namun directed. “Uyac’, Geding, line all troopers and do a head count.”

After a thorough count the two subordinates informed the commander that everybody was present except radioman. Wayakwa. He was missing and nobody knew about his whereabouts.

“He was still on the radio as we fled into the jungle,” somebody said.

Another trooper solemnly pronounced that maybe the helicopter and the white men had taken him away. Poor guy, maybe he is now on his way to Australia. We may never see our radioman again. What will we say to his mother when we get back to the village?

There was silence. Our little minds endeavoured to understand our predicament.

Somebody suggested we should call out again to attract our radioman’s attention. Maybe he is still in the jungle but is scared and does not want to come out.

Everybody started calling. “Wayakwa, come back. We are here in the garden. The helicopter is gone. There is nothing to fear. Come out, we have to go home now. Come quickly, we are waiting for you.”

We called for quite a while, but there was no Wayakwa. We could hear the birds singing, but we could not hear any human.

Maybe Wayakwa has gone home or maybe he is on his way to Australia. If he is on his way to Australia, he would never return to our village. He may become like the white men and speak English like them and live like them.

He may have a better life in Australia and forget all about Busoo River and our little village.

Then we heard somebody coming noisily through the bushes and breathing heavily.

It was Wayakwa. He had heard our calls.

We were mightily relieved that Wayakwa had found us. We were happy he had not been taken away to Australia by the white men.

It was a joyous moment. We were all present and no soldier was missing in action.

As Wayaka sat in the garden, every trooper in turn hugged him.

It was as if Wayakwa had come back from a faraway place after being away for many years.

As soon as Wayakwa regained his composure, everybody wanted to know what had happened after the helicopter landed on the river bed.

Wayakwa burst out in laughter and all of us joined in.

Then there was silence and Wayakwa began his account.

“I was still on the radio calling Igam army barracks when the helicopter landed on the riverbed. My eyes were fixed on the helicopter and I was not you had fled into the jungle.

“After realising I was the only one left, I ran into the jungle with the wireless radio still on my back.

“I ran only 30 meters or so, not thinking that the wireless radio was still on my back.

“But it got stuck in between two trees as I tried to squeeze myself through so I just dumped it and ran on.”

The troopers and commanders were lying on the ground holding their stomachs with laughter.

Wayakwa completed his story and every time it hit a funny part there was laughter.

Wayakwa was commended by the commanders and troopers for being a good radioman he successfully carried out his mission.

This story was played out in the jungles beside the Busoo River many years ago. But we always remembered that our radioman’s call for a helicopter from Igam army barracks in Lae landed a real life helicopter right beside us as we had anticipated.

It was a day like no other and an army patrol like no other. It was an experience we all cherish and will for the rest of our lives.

Where are they now

Nalau Bingeding

Nalau Bingeding, a trooper and the author of this story, is a former public servant and now a private citizen living in Port Moresby.

Wayakwa Aimak, the radioman, is living in Wagangluhu village where he is chairman of the Law and Order Committee.

Namun Awaka, the platoon commander, is now a villager living in Wagangluhu.

Geding Tiaga, one of the subordinates, is the Peace Officer for Wagangluhu.

Uyac’ Dhao, one of the subordinates, is the deacon of the local Pentecostal Church in Wagangluhu.

PHILIP FITZPATRICK

TUMBY BAY - The republishing of Bomai Witne’s 2014 article on how difficult it is for many Papua New Guineans to distinguish how much their cultural perceptions belong to tradition on the one hand and colonialism on the other prompts this greater exploration.

It seems that the link with the past for many people, particularly children, in modern day Papua New Guinea is growing more and more tenuous as the years go by.

If the experience in other cultures is anything to go by, there will come a day when culture and tradition in PNG will have morphed into an entirely artificial creation bearing little resemblance to past realities.

As Bomai notes, children’s knowledge of their ples tok (tribal language) is so bereft they can’t communicate with their grandparents in the village.

At schools during significant occasions and celebrations they are dressed in traditional costumes and bilas (decoration) whose practical function and meaning escapes them.

It seems that the preservation of culture and tradition was not something that significantly exercised the minds of PNG’s founders nor the outgoing Australian administration.

To a certain extent this is understandable because back in the 1970s most traditions, including languages, were largely intact and practised each day.

And, while the Christian missions had made significant inroads, many people were still able to distinguish between their old and new beliefs and accommodate both in their daily lives.

In the same way, modern economic practises were not well-entrenched, and their impact was largely benign and could be accommodated alongside traditional concepts of community and the common good.

Over the ensuing years, however, the pervasive influence of the churches grew and a new form of brutal economics based on greed and individualism came into play.

If it had been possible to predict these future trends, maybe the administrators and leaders of the 1970s could have made plans to counteract the more dire impacts.

But they didn’t do this in any meaningful way.

For instance, they could have properly funded the national museum and art gallery and extended like services to regional areas for instance but they didn’t.

Instead, they extolled modernity and largely neglected traditions. For many politicians, the collections in the national museum were an embarrassment; a painful reminder of a primitive past. Such sentiments continue to this day.

Those administrators and leaders could have supported PNG writers, historians and anthropologists so traditions and heritage could be preserved for posterity. There was action at the time, but it wasn’t designed to be sustainable.

They could have mandated the teaching of culture and tradition in the schools especially attuned to regional customs and practise, but they didn’t do so to any great effect.

They could have set up linguistic programs to encourage the preservation and use of regional languages and, for that matter, the dying lingua franca Hiri Motu, but they didn’t.

That none of this was ever done, or done with little effect, is now, as Bomai Witne laments, to the detriment of modern day Papua New Guineans.

One could now ask whether these unfortunate oversights are redeemable at such a late stage.

It would appear not if recent efforts by Papua New Guinean writers to gain support from the government is any indication.

The government just doesn’t want to know about anything so ‘esoteric’ or ‘irrelevant’ as home-grown literature.

Its mind is firmly fastened on economic matters – material matters - to the exclusion of just about everything else.

If an endeavour cannot demonstrate an economic return, preferably quickly, it fails to attract their support.

They seem unable to connect arts and culture to economics, even though such connections are known to be significant.

When it comes to potential money spinners like tourism, their minds turn to luxury resorts rather than the enmeshing cultural experiences that many overseas visitors seek.

The PNG government is not alone in this of course. In many parts of the world the Disneyland mentality prevails and the arts and culture suffers.

One day in the not too distant future a Papua New Guinean child may ask their parents, “Who am I”.

In a nation that has even lost track of its own history, the answer will be interesting.

Photo from Twitter shared by @RNemala

BERNARD YEGIORA
| The Yegiora Files | Edited

MADANG - The island of Daru has become the centre of attention after a Chinese company announced its proposal to build a multi-functional fisheries industrial park on the island and received encouragement from the PNG government.

There have been both negative and positive reactions to the project based on the economic, political and security interests of various state actors.

But from a PNG perspective, economic and security matters are of greatest importance.

A memorandum of understanding was signed on 12 November in Port Moresby by PNG and Chinese officials.

PNG made it clear in a recent statement that the agreement “provides a cooperative arrangement in managing the relationship and responsibilities between the three parties towards the exploration and facilitation of a proposed integrated and multi-use fishery industrial park investment project.”

The agreement does not include fishing permits or licenses, addressing concern by Australia that Chinese fishing fleets might fish in the Torres Strait border area.

The next step will be to plan properly the next phase of the investment project.

PNG and China through the Belt and Road Initiative want to increase economic opportunities for citizens living in Western, Gulf and Central provinces; in particular, those people who have been fishing the southern seas for generations.

There is a possibility that fishing permits will be issued to them or that the government might ask for a joint venture if local people do not have the capacity.

The Western Province has delta regions and many major rivers. The Balimo area is known for its swamps which contain an abundance of freshwater marine life. The rivers are also well stocked with freshwater fish and prawns.

The PNG National Fisheries Authority and the Chinese Embassy in PNG have an agreement to export seafood to the lucrative Chinese market, PNG being accredited to export seafood directly to mainland China instead of going to Hong Kong or Singapore for customs clearance.

The Western Province has a developed tuna market but need greater emphasis on other coastal fish, crustaceans, molluscs and aquatic invertebrates. Inland fishing is another untapped sector.

Small-scale coastal fishing is not a big industry in PNG and domestic demand for fish is not fully developed due to transportation issues.

Fishermen go out to the sea in their small outboard motor boats to catch fish that they can sell at markets in coastal towns but do not have the capacity to transport fish to towns in the densely populated highlands region.

Inland fishing and aquaculture are growing slowly in the highlands region. The Mount Giluwe rainbow trout farm is the largest inland farm. There is also the Mount Wilhelm trout fingerling distribution hub.

If the PNG government can find markets in China for freshwater marine products it will help with the growth of their commercial fishing. Farmers will also need to manage their businesses to ensure a constantly supply to the domestic market.

The new opportunities provided by China open the door for entrepreneurs in all provinces to access SME loans provided by the PNG government to venture into commercial small-scale coastal and inland fishing.

These loans complement the funding facility offered by the National Fisheries Authority.

It is imperative that this Daru investment project materialises. The onus is now on the government to make it happen.

Vin and Rita Smith with Bob Cleland,  Rabaul,  October 2010

BILL BROWN MBE

SYDNEY - Ernest Vincent (Vin) Smith, who saw notable service in Papua New Guinea as a kiap before independence and a senior public servant after, has died on the Gold Coast aged 90.

In two separate stints totalling 39 years, Vin served PNG with distinction and was admired for his coolness under pressure and great good humour.

The South Australian born Vin had only recently left school when he commenced his training to become a patrol officer at the Australian School of Pacific Administration in July 1949.

At the end of the Short Course five months later, he flew to the then Territory of Papua and New Guinea on Christmas Eve 1949 as a fully-fledged Cadet Patrol Officer.

Wreckage of the crashed Dornier (Kaad Family Album)

Vin served two terms in the Milne Bay District at Losuia and Samarai followed by a couple of terms in Manus, before being posted as Assistant District Officer in Madang in June 1964.

Just three months later he was a passenger in a single-engine Dornier that crashed on take-off from Tauta airstrip.

Pilot Ray Jaensch did not survive and District Commissioner Fred Kaad suffered a severe injury to his spinal cord, rendering him a paraplegic.

The passengers in the rear of the aircraft - Vin, Dr Laurence Malcolm and Patrol Officer Tony Cooke - were severely shaken but not seriously injured.

Vin Smith concluded his first Papua New Guinea career with half a dozen years as Deputy District Commissioner in Rabaul, resigning at the end of 1977.

Vin Smith, ASOPA, 1949

Six years later, footloose in Australia, he returned to PNG with the blessing of Michael Somare as a senior public servant.

He left PNG for the second and final time in 1994.

He and his late wife Rita lived at Mermaid Waters on Queensland’s Gold Coast

Vin Smith was a mighty man. He will be remembered for his friendship, his humour, his achievements and his deeds.

Rest in peace, old friend.

First graduates of the University of Papua New Guinea, 1970

ANDREW MOUTU
| Ples Singsing | Edited

PORT MORESBY - The boy grew up in the village of Kukipi, and at the right age he was enrolled at its small primary school.

There were no blackboards, no chalk and no desks where the children could sit, so the school and the village had to be innovative and work within the constraints.

This Toaripi-speaking coastal village was located close to the beach and there was as an abundance of sand.

Makeshift classrooms were built and students attended lessons in these temporary structures. Each day the students sat on the sandy floor and wrote their lessons and assignments with their fingers.

They used mats and leaves to cover answers until the teacher came to assess them. Then the sand was wiped clean ready for the next lesson. The sand was both a sitting place and a writing board.

So this was the environment in which the young man went to school maintaining the routine of learning in the village hut surrounded by his peers, teachers and elders.

For six years he was schooled sitting and writing on the sand.

After six years of primary school, he went west to the high school in his local town, Kerema.

Arriving in high school, he was greeted by students from other parts of the Gulf Province and teachers, some of whom were expatriates.

In Kerema, he was exposed to the routines of boarding school and writing using pencil and paper and eventually ink pens and exercise books.

The erasers, pencils and paper bore some resemblance to the sand in his classrooms but ink pens and books were more durable.

Four years of high school passed quickly, and the young man graduated with distinctions and moved on.

The senior high school at Sogeri received him in an embrace. More expatriate and fewer Papua New Guinean teachers taught at Sogeri.

He adapted quickly to the standards and expectations of the school. Two years later he matriculated with a record of excellence steeped in science and mathematics coupled with a poetic disposition.

The University of Papua New Guinea was just receiving its first set of students and he was enrolled there in the preliminary year.

He was studious and applied himself to his studies. His strengths in the sciences, mathematics and the arts left him with many options for a career path.

Around the university and the country, conversations and aspirations for a new and independent Papua New Guinea were in the air.

He considered his preferred options - medicine or economics, eventually being persuaded to take a bachelor’s degree in economics.

He moved through the course with a similar spirit of dedication and commitment - also studying for a few semesters at the University of Adelaide in South Australia.

He returned home to graduate amongst the pioneering class of the University of Papua New Guinea.

Upon graduation he took a job with the Department of Finance when Papua New Guinea.

He listened and learned and surrounded himself with the pool of expertise that made up the intellectual hub of the department.

He learned the ropes of administration, threw himself into intellectual conversations and took up the call of challenges, risks and opportunities.

Soon enough his leadership and talent as a strategic and prudent economist became obvious.

He was promoted and became the first Secretary of Finance in the era surrounding PNG’s independence (1972-1982), serving alongside other notable Papua New Guineans including Tony Siaguru, Charles Lepani and Rabbie Namaliu.

He helped with the establishment of PNG own currency, the kina, with the establishment of the PNG Central Bank and with the many economic policies developed in the post-independence era.

He moved to the PNG Banking Corporation (1983-92) and the Central Bank (1993-94).

In 1997, he entered politics and became the member of parliament for Moresby North West.

And in 1999, when Papua New Guinea was ransacked by the economic mismanagement of then prime minister Bill Skate, he raised his hand in a critical move that saw him become the seventh prime minister.

He was renowned for his insights and leadership, strategic reform and governance.

After a period out of politics, he returned in 2017 to fight systemic corruption in government and in 2020 has now gone home to rest in eternal peace.

Thinking of his life and accomplishments of that young boy, I am left to ponder about the values and aspirations of this simple village, Kukipi in the Gulf Province, that raised up a man of such a grace, wisdom and intellect.

I wonder what kind of mathematics is found in the sand drawings of Kukipi village and what lessons exist in the art of sand writing.

It formed a man with a signature that born of sand and who was able to deal with the politics of fluidity in PNG and provide the economic reforms it required at the time.

Vale, Sir Mekere Morauta.