Keith Jackson & Friends: PNG ATTITUDE

Yo ho ho & a book – full speed ahead; damn the critics

PHIL FITZPATRICK

UNLESS SOMEONE HAS GOT a blockbuster ready to go and poised to spark a bidding war among international publishers, the way ahead for writers in Papua New Guinea is digital and web-based.

Get the book up there for the world to see and you never know, maybe one of those big global publishers will snap it up.  It’s happening already and e-books are morphing into million sellers everywhere.

We live in hope.

With that philosophy in mind Pukpuk Publications is proud to announce from its backyard headquarters that the following titles are now available on Amazon, the behemoth of internet booksellers.  You can buy them either as e-books for your Kindle or as a hardcopy.

Pomong u’tau - my Bougainville poetry manuscript

LEONARD FONG ROKA

A WEEK OR SO AGO, my mate and Papua New Guinea’s award winning poet, Michael Dom, shot me an email.

He asked me: ‘Have you thought of making a submission for book publication? I know your blog and PDF format is easy for sharing but I believe there is value in a published book’.

This kind suggestion provokes me to tell more about my poetry dream.

A highlander, William Mania, was my English teacher at Arawa High School in 1997 and he was the figure that had my class writing poetry.

A Bougainvillean song to the Papuan

LEONARD FONG ROKA

IN A LECTURE HERE AT Divine Word University, we were talking about community development and people empowerment.

Then the discussion turned to the marginalisation of peoples.

I somehow thought of the marginalisation story in terms of the Papuan people who I see are becoming more and more powerless on their own land as Port Moresby expands and squatter settlements proliferate.

Sadly, my Papuan lecturer had to cut the session short because it was such an emotional experience to contemplate the fate of her own people.

Tok Pisin: expression of intermingled Melanesian culture

MICHAEL DOM

I’VE BEEN ENJOYING the discussion in PNG Attitude about the literary merits of Pidgin English. I think Tok Pisin can be a remarkably expressive language. But then what language isn’t?

With Tok Pisin, because of the challenge of not having a full complement of vocabulary for many words in English, there is a need to be much more descriptive.

For example, big, large, huge, enormous, gigantic, great, tremendous, etcetera are all represented by either bikpela or traipela in Tok Pisin.

Whereas, in the foregoing English sequence, from big to great to tremendous, the meaning and intention of the adjectives change.

The subtle but real differences in word meaning are what make English such a versatile language.

Should Tok Pisin be the language of literature in PNG?

PHIL FITZPATRICK

“Those who wish to develop literature in Papua New Guinea need to address the key question, should PNG literature be written in English or Tok Pisin? Tok Pisin is more the language of the common man and English is more the language of the elite. When PNG finds its Chaucer, I believe he will be writing in Tok Pisin” – Cygil, in a PNG Attitude comment

THIS IS SOMETHING that Keith and I debated in a roundabout way when we kicked off the Crocodile Prize.

It is a very pertinent question and one that is difficult to answer.

I especially like poetry written in Tok Pisin.

It has a very distinct flavour all its own that you can't reproduce in an English translation.

However, Papua New Guinea now exists in a globalist world whose language of choice is English.

If a writer wants to reach out beyond PNG shores then it is wise to do it in English.

Politics: A post mortem of the Sukundumi impasse

FRANCIS NII | Supported by the South Pacific Strategic Solutions Writing Fellowship

YESTERDAY I INADVERTENTLY came across the biography of Grand Chief Sir Michael Somare in Wikipedia.

As I browsed, the memory unfolded of the political impasse between the Grand Chief and the O’Neill-Namah regime that almost brought Australia’s closest neighbour and traditional friend, Papua New Guinea, into constitutional crisis and anarchy.

As reminiscence continued, I felt tranquility sweep through my being. The most turbulent period in the political history of PNG apart from the Bougainville crisis had come to an end with peace and stability.

As we celebrate the New Year, we are on course.

The impasse and its related events are now all water under the bridge - the enactment of the controversial judicial conduct laws, the ousting of the Grand Chief from Parliament and his East Sepik provincial seat (subsequently regained at the general election), the military fracas and the storming of the sanctuary of the National Court by Belden Namah in pursuit of the Chief Justice, Sir Salamo Injia.

Post election, the Grand Chief buried the hatchet in Alotau and aligned himself and his National Alliance MPs with the coalition parties and made his former rival Peter O’Neill the prime minister.

This humble act by the father of the nation prominently overshadowed all the outstanding constitutional references, court proceedings and other outstanding issues and paved the way for normalcy and stability.

As we know, PNG is the land of the unexpected and the most unfathomable and weirdest scenes can unfold in any circumstance whether cultural, commercial, ethical or political.

Moreover, in PNG society, personal virtues and morals at leadership level and among the citizenry are not really important compared with western and other societies.

Like most people, I first thought Somare’s u-turn decision was just one of those expect-the-unexpected PNG styles of response to circumstances and issues.

But as I continued to take knowledge of his entire biography, my conscience was troubled.

My mind was searching. How could the longest serving politician in the Commonwealth, the father of the nation, the warrior in his own right and the Sukundumi (the river god) of the Sepiks stoop that low and align himself with the rival under whose administration his personal reputation, clout and dominance were tarnished, humiliated, dragged and muddied?

How could he suddenly forgive him and  join him as a friend?

Maybe he didn’t have a third and better option.

However, in my pondering for a palatable rationale, another question popped up: Had the political marriage between Peter O’Neill’s People’s National Congress Party and Belden Namah’s PNG Party continued into the July general elections and the formation of the new government, would the Grand Chief bury the hatchet and reconcile with them?

Bolga ingu – the pig kill as a victim of modernisation

FRANCIS NII | Supported by the South Pacific Strategic Solutions Writing Fellowship

SIMBU’S MOST CELEBRATED, friendship fostering, peacemaking, wealth and leadership mentoring tradition, the bolga ingu [pig kill], has sadly waned into the history lane through the callous forces of modernisation.

And I’m glad that I had the privilege of dancing in what I have now realised is a now extinct historical ceremony.

It was 1974, the year I did my second grade at the village community school and before PNG gained independence in 1975, that I danced in the bolga ingu conducted by my Yobai people of the Karimui Nomane district in the Simbu Province.

My father, Tultul (the title given to him by the colonial administration as deputy headman) Nii Duma, dressed me in the finest Simbu regalia and, along with other youths, we danced to the beat of the kundu and songs of the forefathers in the week-long singsing.

Leading to the day of the pig slaughtering, we sang the traditional songs, beat the kundu and danced; not realising that this  would be the last time this exuberant, colourful, fascinating and merry tradition was conducted in that part of Simbu.

Just as Papua New Guinea is so rich in economic resources, it is also rich in culture and tradition. Some are unfathomable, esoteric and perplexing. For example, the shark calling of the Kontu people of New Ireland  Province, the fire dance of the Bainings of East New Britain and the haus tambaran of the Sepiks.

Others are simply fascinating, friendly and economically beneficial. For example, the moka of the Western Highlands, the yam feasts of Milne Bay Province and the bolga ingu of the Simbu people.

Bolga ingu was a pig slaughtering ceremony and the phrase literally means ‘the year of pig killing’ in the Kuman dialect of the Simbu Province in the central highlands of PNG.

Once every ten or so years, a certain rest house ( a phrase used by the PNG Electoral Commission to define a cluster of clans that share common boundaries, social and economic interests, culture and traditions) would slaughter thousands of pigs and distribute them to old and new friends from other rest houses.

Before the pig killing, men, women and children would attire themselves in the famous Simbu traditional bilas (regalia) of birds of paradise feathers, malo and purpur made out of grass and cuscus furs, and colourful face painting.

For several months they would dance from one village to another within the pig killing rest house. Clans of other rest houses that would benefit from the pork were invited to take part in the singsing.

They would go from village to village singing and dancing. It was a period of resting, feasting and merriment from the years of hard work of raising the pigs.

That was the time nubile girls and young boys from inter-marriage clans eloped and married.

The pig slaughtering took at least some days because every family killed several pigs. The chiefs and clan leaders killed more pigs than the rest to maintain their status. This was the main reason for the chiefs marrying more than one wife in those days; to raise more pigs for killing.

Other people, particularly the widowers and the unmarried young men, helped out in the preparation and slaughtering of the chiefs’ pigs.

The pinnacle of the pig slaughtering ceremony was the pork distribution which was the end of the ceremony. It was really the epitome of festivity, dancing and pork feasting.

The singsing groups would take turns to perform in their finest regalia for the last time from one pig killing village to the other, on the same day receiving pork from their friends.

If daylight ran out, the singsing would continue into the night lit by bonfires and lamps until all the singsing groups completed the journey.

The chiefs would ensure that every member of the singsing groups had something to take home. No one would depart empty handed.

Apart from the obvious display of wealth and fame, the untold underlying benefit of this tradition was establishing and fostering friendship, respect, peace and harmony.

Since the introduction of western culture and Christianity, many of the customs, traditions, rituals, magic, and taboos have died out.

Some have died out because of intentional shift to Christian principles and values.

Others have died out by default dictated by the callous forces of modernisation.

They were no longer as relevant and valuable as they used to be.

Sadly, the famous bolga ingu of the Simbu  Province has fallen victim to modernisation in the same way.

I don’t know whether it would be viable to revive it but I am glad I had the privilege of taking part in what happened to be a great tradition.

An escape from the savagely wielded axes

PETER MAIME

IT WAS IN THE YEAR 1982 that I did Grade 8 at Minj High School in what is now Jiwaka Province.  I don’t know what the school is like now because I haven’t been back since completing Grade 10 in 1984.

During my time there were no dormitories for the boys.  The girls had one small dormitory.  This building for the girls was an old converted administration office.  The boys who came from distant areas were given land on the school grounds to build their own houses to live in and go to school. 

My two cousin-brothers, Alki Tine and Du Kunagel, who arrived there before me had a house and I was accommodated by them.

Alki had left at the end of 1981 and gone to Goroka Technical College.  I was with Du who was doing Grade 9.

We had to find food ourselves.  Du and I were unfortunate because we were cut off from home due to tribal fights.  Our home was some 30 kilometres away from the school.  We depended on Du’s sister for food since she was married to a man from Kudjip, at that time a 50 toea bus fare trip away.

Our staple food was kaukau.  We would cut flat kaukau and fry them on a heated drum oven.  If we were lucky we would have them with tea.  Most of the time we just had to be content with kaukau.  The school only provided lunch and we had it with the rest of the students.  Lunch was mostly rice and tinned fish.

One weekend I decided to go home and see my family because it had been almost a year since I had seen them.  The tribal fights at home had stopped and people were now moving around freely.  I went on a Friday. 

My mother wailed and cried because she was happy to see me again.  I am her first born son.  My other family members were also happy to have me in their midst.

On Sunday it was time for me to return to the school.  My mother filled an empty rice bag with some kaukau that she had dug and three round cabbages from my father’s vegetable garden.  Then my parents walked me to the next village to catch my transport.  The distance between my home and the next village was about three kilometres.

I was lucky.  There was a car ready to leave with some passengers for Minj when we arrived.  Our neighbouring Golekup clan owned the car, a green Toyota Stout.  My parents put me on the car and saw me leave before they returned home.

The magic of kunu’nava

LEONARD FONG ROKA

Nem’makaa…
the magic little boy
loves blowing his kovi
high in the black hills.
Lusts listening erect
those sinking, rocking sacred echo go
rolling
bumping
crushing pellucid quake!
through the deepest valleys to the kunu’nava
that legend house heat
of mystic  chastity
scaring away the owl spells
like clouds fading dying
due to no adoration dogma,
but just chatting o
laughing away’d his trespasses.

O magic.
The magic…the magic little boy
who blows across ranges
tunes of strangeness…
anew
mysterious
tempos that retrieve
the blood of  virgos;
o chaste magic little girls
from the initiation of kunu’nava.

Amazed.
Shocked in disbelief
and inclined to the verses
of joy sweating, burning and glowing they sing:
‘o magic…
the magic little boy
come…o come…
come you magician
of a hundred rivers and slopes.
Come kiss this cone
sharp breasts and
caress them to fire
and fetch your share of dreams
and power.

Come… o come…
come disqualify my holiness.
Smear  my lips
with  that spell of mystic oils—
the surge of your pride—
that pride…o…pride.

O magic…
magic …the magic little boy.
Come…o’ii  bakaa  nem’makaa,
the heir of my menstruation genesis…
oh boy, o.
Boy of my happiness and heritage.
Come!
O come…by
the taboos of your forefathers
pay your homage
to the night owners—
o killer of souls—
who  keep the door of the kunu’nava
as owls of death.

Death. O death…
In the dark canopies, it’s death.

Death it is, my magician
Of a hundred rivers and slopes.
O magician,
homage the spells over and over
with the magic flutes
from the blackest hills and peaks of fog.’

To the verses, the boy yodels: ‘o owl spells,
care for my womanhood, I am the boy…and
she owes me the powers.
Pleasures.
Joyful dances
and wisdom potions of rain making –
seasons and life—and prolonged love making nights.

Secure my life,

my good servants of the kunu’nava,
she’s the cuddle of my loins…
fattened by the first produce
of the land and seasons.

She is the pride of me, the foreigner.
O magician of a hundred rivers and slopes.

The traditions of the Bena Bena people

ANTHONY KIPPEL

THE BENA BENA SPEAKING PEOPLE of the Eastern Highlands are found towards the north-eastern side of the provincial capital Goroka, sharing the border with Madang Province to the north, Lufa District to the south and Henganofi District to the east.

Today, the number of people who live in this district number about 50,000 and are distinguished by the different dialects of the Bena language that they speak; namely Upper Bena, Lower Bena and Kona Bena. One can easily distinguish the origin of the person by the dialect they are speaking.

The Bena Bena area was one of the first highland regions to be opened and exposed to modern civilization when the Leahy brothers came prospecting for gold up the Bena River. 

An airstrip was established at Hapatoga with the first mission school opened at Hogisopagu by the Seventh Day Adventists. Some of the later products of this school include Benais Sabumei, a former defence minister and member for Ungaii-Bena and his eminence, Sir Akepa Miakue.

The legacy of the Leahy brothers includes the former Collins & Leahy group of companies, East-West Transport, Bena Cooperative Society, Bena Coffee Factory and Magitu Tobacco factory.

As in many other societies of Papua New Guinea, the Bena Bena have their own culture, legends, folklore and myths unique to their setting and environment.  This environment is comprised of savannah grassland, rolling hills and plains surrounded by guardian-like mountains. Mt Otto, to the north, is called Smanuga Sma, which means ‘mountain where snow and mist never fades’. Migipa stands to the East and Ungaii to the South West.

The author was privileged to be able to witness the transition from a traditional culture to a modern western culture brought about by the influences of religion, education and the need to acquire modern wealth. 

For the Bena Bena, the SDA church had a very profound effect causing the abandonment of their culture & traditions.  Today, the Bena Bena people are predominantly SDA’s (myself included) and the majority of the SDA’s in Eastern Highlands are from the Bena Bena District).

The same has happened in many other PNG societies and include the influence of the Lutheran Church in Morobe, the Catholic Church in East and West New Britain and East and West Sepik and the United Church in Central, Milne Bay and Oro.  The latter churches have, however, incorporated and integrated some traditional cultural practices into their teachings and doctrines.

What is happening in all of PNG is that many cultural aspects, such as singsings, legends, folklore, dances, stories, practices and even languages are dying ‘a natural or cultural death’ through a combined effect of outside factors and influences.

My objective in describing the following traditions is that it will serve as an inspiration for modern day Bena Benas to take a moment to reflect back on their cultural and traditional history and, if possible, resurrect some of it in their own way.

A poet’s quest

JEFFREY FEBI

If humans were formed from dust, and poetry is human's meagre attempt to reveal the beautiful or sublime; the beauty of this dust from from which we originated is unsurpassed

Once a man in his quest to be poetic,
Twisted and mingled words to find
Subtle beauty in meager arrangements.

At birth of day;
When the day was ripe;
At death of day;
Even when the night’s eye
Was sleeping, he searched

His dreams. Reaped them apart;
Turned them upside down and
Scribbled their charms on memory.

Only to find hosts of
Re-arranged clichés.
Exhausted, out loud he cried.

'Give me a drink of thesaurus, and
Cigars rolled in pages of a dictionary.
I'd be drunk with beautiful metaphors
And be high with unusual rhymes that

Sing and dance. I’d sing along and
Sprightly dance that our voices may
Reach over vales and hills
Till my mind’s ink is drawn.

Yes! O yes, an echo on shelf
Lonely and dusty continues to sing.
On platforms or from behind silent corners,
I'd care not because, time …;
Would’ve dealt with me”.

Jeff Febi is a geologist working in the oil and gas industry.  He is an accomplished poet and writer and won the 2011 Crocodile Prize for short stories

Dominoes of love

PETER SEVARA

THE DRUNK’S EYES ARE MOLTEN RED as he sets out to grab innocent females in the evening dimness. The female’s yelps of fear are drowned by the loud music blaring from the taxis parked leisurely at the bus-stop.

The cop-shop is all but empty and deserted. It’s Fortnight Friday at Boroko bus-stop at its peak hour. Hova is among a handful of late passengers heading for Waigani. She checks her phone.

Why isn’t he answering my text messages? Darl I need you. Fear creeps up her spine. She logs into facebook: dayumm…stranded @ bko bustop 4 2 hrs nau! Log in time: 5:30pm.

The sun glares down at Ela Beach. Haivavu is sweltering in the 38 degree heat; He brushes off the droplets of sweat on his “goaty” and tucks back his sharp jaw in a yawn. His brown deep eyes scan the sea for some peace of mind. His tall lanky frame steaming under the heat!

The beach is mostly filled with teenage love-birds, street vendors, and a handful of public servants boozing away. He walks towards the Okari trees lining the beach. He is playing patience because Hova is late - again.

Hova wipes her broad sweaty brows as she waits with her cousin-sister, Uaopou at Boroko bus-stop. The buses are all full. Her dimples show because she knows that Haivavu is already tired of waiting. Her full lips sucked in.

It’s been two hours now and she still hasn’t got a chance to get on a bus. She looks around at the raskols sneering for an opportunity, pushing amongst the passengers to fish out a phone or wallet. She shivers. No! She would rather wait for an empty bus. She turns to Uaopou.

“Sorry for keeping you with me tita.”

“Nah it’s okay, you just worry about your bf ok?” She offers kindly.

She gives her a weak smile and logs into facebook: oi osem wanem? PMV short ah? Kasssttt!! Log in time: 2:00pm.

Haivavu tires of waiting. Two hours is too much to wait. He ignores her messages and leaves town. An hour later as the bus rolls into Tokarara Service station, Haivavu checks his phone and sees a new message. It’s from Hova. 

“Wer r u? m @ town alredi. Walkn 2 ela beach nau. Wer r u?”

‘Ye lon taim yu stap lo wer? Wari blo yu.’  He ignores the text and sets the alert to silent. Its 3:30 pm.

He gets off for the main market. As he walks toward the market he senses eyes on his back. He turns around and hears Hirisi calling his name as she crosses the road.

“Hi sexy?” she drawls.

This is my place

MICHAEL DOM | The Crocodile Prize

This prose poem is a story about creativity and unity from the perspective of a young child

I want to stay in this place.

It’s beautiful here and it’s so …peaceful, and … free!

But even though I can come and go as I please, I know I can’t stay for as long as I’d like to.

(Not yet anyway.)

I have to go back out into The Real World and be with everyone else, together – Suffering.

I wish I could bring my friends with me, when I come here

But it’s hard to fit them all into my head, and maybe they have their own places to go to.

That makes me sad about being there, in The Real World.

My friends and I, and everyone else as well, we all go into our own-little-worlds.

So we live together separately.

And going into our own-little-worlds is nothing at all like coming to this place.

All of The Real World is crowded with billions of different own-little-worlds

With only one thing the same: Isolation.

And coming here is like an escape from my own-little-world to a better place.

So I wish my friends had a place like this to go to.

But I don’t know if those places would be quite the same as here.

Although I don’t think they could ever be too different.

I heard that Different and Same once lived together in one-big-room, called The Unreal World.

Then Somebody decided to build a great-big-wall called Isolation.

And make two-small-rooms and give them the name The Real World.

One of the two-small-rooms was called The Different Real World.

The other one of the two-small-rooms was called The Same Real World.

Nobody knows how everyone got split up into those two-small-rooms or why it happened.

Then Everybody kept dividing up the two-small-rooms into smaller and smaller rooms

So that Somebody could see that Everybody was in total control.

Somebody said the great-big-wall of Isolation made The Unreal World become The Real World

Because the great-big-wall could be seen and touched and there was no escape from it.

Not like in The Unreal World where there were wide-open-spaces stretching until Forever.

Now everyone could be kept under control and not wander around everywhere

Or cause trouble or get lost or be hiding away so that Somebody didn’t know where they were.

Circle of tears

AGNES ARE | The Crocodile Prize

I know you can never understand the way I feel for you
It’s harder for me to forget the times we shared
The way you find so easy to do.

Logically it’s wrong to lie without a doubt but this feeling
within my heart can never be denied even though you’ve
locked me out.
To you, I’m just a friend but that’s what I’ve led you to believe
and nothing more.

I know that if to love you were a crime, I’d have broken every
law.  Maybe I’m misguided or just unwise but I find
something special when I look into your eyes.
something that tells me that you too hide behind the curtain
of lies.

I’ve witnessed as you gave your heart away to a different person
It hurts so much to know that you care for someone else the
way I care for you but I know it’s just a symbol to prove
we’re through.

Sometimes, I’m certain you do like me no matter what you say
But your love is just an image
I cannot find the key, like a wild animal you were born to be free.

Even though I may be walking against the wind
the price so far from my reach, I’m not willing to give in
If you think your friendship brings less pain than for your
sake I’ll carry on the game though you make me hide from
the truth, I know the charade is not in van.

I know you have friends you wish to keep
I don’t want to take them away from you.
I only want to be a part of your life.
Is that too much to ask, am I prying too deep?
I don’t want to worry,
I’ve hurt so much trying to deny I care
I just want you to know that I still love you
If you ever need someone, I’ll always be there for you.

Maybe things could be better
Maybe as time goes by you’ll see
Maybe the circle of tears will end and you’ll understand how
Special we could be.

Agnes Are (23) was born in Mumeng in Morobe Province.  She is in her first year of teaching at Kundiawa Lutheran Day High School.  She enjoys writing poems, especially ‘love poems’.  She started writing poems as therapy after a broken relationship

Love when bought

ERIC GABRIEL | The Crocodile Prize

SHE STOOD THERE STARING AT ME, unsatisfied and sobbing as I offered my last words of comfort. Grieving tears rolled down her face. She no longer looked like the beautiful girl I knew from childhood. Her beauty had vanished; devoured by the ugly pain.

I cleared my throat, as if it was the only thing to do, and stared into the approaching darkness. I wanted to be strong because that was what she saw in me, and if there was anything I wanted her to remember me for before we parted for the last time, it was this attribution - the one she adored.

The tide was already coming in. The surrounding palm trees stood still as if saluting the approaching night. The wind had ceased and the shrieking call of crickets and the faint buzz of night insects suddenly seized the silence. 

Sea birds in thousands crowded the beach pecking at one or two unfortunate fishes. Suddenly, I envied this liberty nature had bestowed upon the wild – the birds had the ability to soar high above earth in limitless freedom unknown to mankind. The serenity of the atmosphere drew upon me, it was getting late, and we both knew we had to part.

Seeing she was adamant to leave, I reached out to her and gently stroked her shoulders. She did not move. “We are born, but into a society”. I spoke gently. “For us the society must labour. That is its essence, so we become one of them. Owned and attached to them in a web of invisible values.

“Our will must correspond with our traditions, which in turn control, determine and even attempt to establish love between partners. You and I are victims of our own ways of life, you see”, I explained.

“I wish I had the power to change the course of everything”. She whispered, almost to herself.

I looked at her sympathetically, “You should not despair; love rejuvenates. Like a tree felled, it will always grow back to regain its natural shape and beauty. I will be gone, but for him, you will still have the same kind of feelings you have for me…who knows you might come to love him even more…” I added, hoping to make it sound convincing”

“What if I hated him?” She cried out. “What if I ran away? What if I hang myself? What if I …”

Fire truck

BIANGO BUIA | The Crocodile Prize

BANGI WAS ALWAYS NOISY in his class and the teacher Miss Sama Saki put him up with a girl called Dorrtie.

Dorrtie was a “nice girl” said all the teachers in the school. She never said bad words, was never late, an obedient girl and always very clean.

iss Sama had thought that if she put Dorrtie and Bangi on the same desk then there was a chance that Bangi would quieten down and that maybe some or all of Dorrtie’s goodness would rub off on to Bangi.

Bangi and Dorrtie were in grade three at the Morehead Primary School in the South Fly District of the Western Province.

While they were the same age at 11, in the same school, in the same grade, and on the same desk, they were very different in outlook. Some teachers suggested that they appeared more like an angel and the devil on the same desk!

While in Grade 3 Bangi, his village friends, Wills and Boni and Mila the son of the Head Teacher were playing marbles at the edge of the school yard on a dry Saturday afternoon. After playing for some time Bangi ran into the nearby scrub, pulled done the front of his shorts and began to pass urine.

His friends heard some giggling from the scrub and ran to see what Bangi was giggling about. What they saw was quite funny. Bangi was spraying the lizards in the scrub and the lizards were running in every direction to avoid the “mighty waterfalls” of Bangi.

It looked so funny that the other boys pulled down the front of their shorts and also started spraying the lizards. It was so funny to see the whole lizard population in and around the scrub running for cover in all directions.

The boys laughed long about this situation. But sad to say the young boys ran dry of “ammunition” to the relief of the lizard population.

Then Bangi suggested, “Let us go drink more water or anything that would make us pass more urine and chase the lizards again.”

Then Mila, said quite excitedly, “Hey Bangi, you know when my father drinks beer how they always go to the toilet to pass urine at short intervals.”

Bangi screamed; “Yes Mila”.

Mila said, “Well my father and Dorrties’ father were drinking last weekend and when the Pastor came to see how we were going they hid the beer bottles at the back of our garden”.

“Okay, Mila run right now and find the bottles,” commanded Bangi.

 Mila ran as fast as he could and returned in record time with the three bottles.

Wills and Boni were quite nervous now.

 “Bangi, you are not going to drink beer are you?” they asked.

 “Well, not drink but we want to chase the lizards and we need the water, so that’s why we will drink.”

Bangi opened one bottle and drank a mouth full. The taste was terrible but he subdued any signs of yuckiness and offered it to the other boys.

In a short time the boys had lowered the front of their shorts and were at it again, wetting all the lizards in the surroundings. It was quite funny because the boys were literally “operating on fire truck mode”, with their little “water sprinklers” ahead of them.

We are the children of God

PUSATERYANNA TANDAK | The Crocodile Prize

We have been under the hostage and murderers,
We have been the prisoner’s pain, We have been the storms of betrayed,
We’ve watched our World sinking. 

We’ve seen our stream bloody river, We’ve heard the screams of agony,
We’ve seen hardness and stand broken. We’ve seen with our eyes and never say.

But now we’re rising from the ashes. And we are holding out our hands,
And we touch you with our story, See through your eyes and understand.

We know no comfort, we know no shelter. We know no wrong, we know no right.
We’ve neither glory nor metal, Just the terror of the night.

They felt that in Bougainville, in highland regions of PNG and in Solomon Islands.
We will be bitter the battle. Be friends to us and say no more-wars.
They play the games and he will rule them. They play the rules that never ill.
For them, there’s no fidelity. For us the killing is real.

You say it’s just the distance thunder, Look into your hearts and you will see.
These are your Sons, and your Daughters .They are you and they are me.

We have all kinds of peace, Inside ourselves,
We have all kinds of love, When the world goes before,
And they know kinds of love.

We can save your lives.
We are  -  We are the children of God creation.

Pusateryanna Tandak (13) was born on Santo in Vanuatu.  Her father comes from Pina Village near Wabag in Enga Province and her mother comes from Vanuatu.  She is a student in Year Seven at St Michelle Secondary School in Luganville on Santo.  When she finishes her Year 10 studies she hopes to go to Papua New Guinea to finish off her education

Street child! Nakan of Madang town

STANLEY MARK | The Crocodile Prize

LITTLE NAKAN HURRIES ACROSS the busy lane to pick up the empty 500 ml Sprite container thrown into the rusty buai stained rubbish drum.

His skinny left fingers hold firmly a white plastic bag containing a couple of empty containers while his right fingers cling on to his buckle, pulling it up to his skinny waist every second, making sure not to let it fall and expose his undernourished legs.

His sun-burnt forehead and cheeks overflow with sweat, showing he has roamed the avenues of Madang town all day for empty containers. He has no choice. He must collect containers in order to eat and survive.

Seven year old, Nakan Akus comes from Tambunum village in the East Sepik province. He lives with his mother and four brothers and sister at the Wagol settlement, a few blocks from the Lae Building Contractor’s headquarter in Madang.

His father had left them for Lae longpela taim and they have not heard from him. The K50 his father was paid working as a bus crew wasn’t enough for both food and school fees, so Nakan had to leave Kusbau Primary School at Grade 2 in 2006.

However, as the first born in the family, he has the responsibility to take care of them.

It all began on one Monday morning, when two of his pals from the settlement persuaded him to follow them to Madang town. He was bewildered to see them going from one rubbish bin to another picking empty 500 ml Coca Cola, Sprite and Fanta containers.

He didn’t trust his pals when they told him that the containers would make them a great fortune by the end of the day when they smilingly received a bunch of eight K2 notes from a buyer.

Nakan decided that container-collection would help him, his mother, three small sisters and brother to have some food on their table every day.

Nakan says he goes to town at 12 noon and collects empty containers until 4 in the afternoon. He brings his containers to the ice block sellers and sells them for 30 toea each.

Because there are many others like him doing the same thing, he receives only K5 -K7 for what he collects.

He takes his money to the Madang market or Balasigo market and buys a heap of kaukau, two or three bunches of raw kalafua bananas and aibika, a dry coconut and spends the rest on peanuts for his sisters and the bus fare home.

“Prais bilong kaikai long stoa i antap tumas na hat long baim rice, olsem na mi save kisim moni mi kisim long konteina i go long maket. Em bai orait sapos gavaman opis daunim prais,” he frowns with puckered brow. [Prices of store goods are very high and it’s hard for me to afford rice so I take the money I receive from containers to the market. It would be easy if the government office lower the prices]

The old sibuta

HINUVI ONAFIMA | The Crocodile Prize

The old country road
When I asked my old mama
She could not remember
How many times
She had walked through.

Down the road,
I will not forget
The old sibuta*
Where hanging like a bat
I would slumber peacefully in
And with the cold mountain wind
Like other branches
I would sway back and forth.

And the old road
That leads to mama’s door
Every afternoon, from the field,
She would follow home
With the old sibuta
Hanging against her back.

If only I could pause now,
How it was then,
I shall remember…
The old sibuta*

* Sibuta – big hand woven bilum (bag) used for carrying large quantities of food. It is also used to ferry babies

Hinuvi Onafimo (30) was born in Goroka and now lives in Port Moresby.  He is a graphic artist who likes writing in his free time

Nightmare!

RUTH KAMASUNGUA | The Crocodile Prize

THINGS HAPPENED SO FAST and he still could not digest all that had happened. He had walked down to the street near his cousin’s house to buy betel nut. It was sometime past six when he crossed over to the other side of the road and bought two nuts for K2.

After he chewed the meaty fruit he threw the skin at a passing police truck. The truck stopped and a policeman came out of the back of the Land Cruiser with a rifle.

“Did you throw a stone at the police car?”  The officer asked. “No I swear I didn’t.” 

The policeman cursed and swung his rifle at the head of the man. He felt a thud at the back of his head and fell. That was the last he could remember.

When he came back to his senses he was rolling about on the floor of the police truck with his hands cuffed. He couldn’t gain his balance. He was rolling like a ball with the movement of the vehicle as it made its rounds throughout the city.

His head felt like a heavy stone and he could hardly open his eyes for they were swollen and his lips felt as if they had doubled their size. 

He felt jabs of pain coming from his ribs and he could hear cursing and swearing coming from those who were sitting in the car. The smell of alcohol filled the moving vehicle and voices of drunken men talking and laughing.

He tried to open his mouth in vain. Somebody stepped on his head and another kicked him in the guts and he passed out again.  When he came back to consciousness, he could hear the sound of laughing men who used curse words at each other. 

Suddenly the car came to a halt and someone poured what seemed to be a bucket of water on his bruised head and body.  The water was freezing cold and he was completely alert by then. Maybe that was the purpose; these brutes thought that they could wake their victim up with cold water.

He felt ice-cold water penetrating his bruised face like a slicing knife and tried to lift his head in vain. His right eye was completely shut and he tried his best to open his left eye in vain. 

“Throw the pig out now,” someone ordered from the front of the vehicle. “Give me the key to the hand cuffs,” said someone else who sat closer to him. He was rolled roughly around by someone’s heavy boots. He could hear the key clicking open the merciless cuffs which had bound him all night.

Barasi – New Year celebrations, Manam style

LORRAINE BASSE | The Crocodile Prize

SITUATED 25 KILOMETRES AWAY from the township of Madang, along the fringes of the North Coast drive and a 30 minute journey by boat from mainland Bogia, is Manam Island.

Manam, a volcanic island, has fifteen villages and only one language which is Manam Motu. The people of Manam are fun loving, warm-hearted, caring, and hospitable and take pride in their chieftain society. One thing they love to do is to keep their traditions alive and one such tradition is Barasi.

Barasi is a festival about becoming a new person again and is a transitional rebirth from the old self to the new. It falls every year in the months of May, June and July, is a time of plenty and a celebration of a new year and a new beginning.

However, this cultural celebration is slowly dying at each passing year as Manam islanders have been displaced after the 2004 volcanic eruption and are now living at Potsdam, Moumba, Daigul, Asuramba and Mangem care centres located at old coconut plantations in Bogia District.

The festival starts when the elders of the village beat the garamut (slit drum) at about four o’clock in the morning as they see a group of stars (Pleiades or Seven Sisters) rise just over the top of the island to announce its commencement.

The 15 villages on the island are then divided into three areas to cater for the months of May, June and July. After celebrating in one area they move on to the next area until the whole three months are over.

Here, there and everywhere hustling and noises of people can be heard as they rush into the central area. Grandparents who can walk, and parents and children all go down to the gathering area as it is custom that everyone should be present in order to be blessed by the spirits of riches, wealth, long life and whatever good the New Year might bring.

A huge fire is then lit for the elders to welcome the people and to drive away evil spirits. After that the people sing, shout and dance with the children towards the slowly advancing elders. As they get closer, some elders quickly grab a child for whipping as it is part of the cleansing ceremony.

The girls and small boys are whipped with the tanget leaves while the bigger boys are whipped with a betel nut trunk. Sometimes some boys fall unconscious when the elders beat them hard enough to knock some sense into them because of misbehaving and disobedience.

The elders then put special leaves close to their noses so they inhale and become conscious again. This act helps them to behave and obey the people and the elders.

The girls and smaller children go to another group of dancers to be whipped with the tanget leaves while the boys are normally carried by two elders. While this is going on the people sing and dance to this song:

Goposi, posi be taengru o.
Goposi, posi be taengru o.
Moaede natumanga.
Tanepoa natumanga.
E –e – e – o – o – o kau

The finger

DOMINICA ARE | The Crocodile Prize

HER HEART POUNDED LOUDLY against her chest like the bass of a stereo as she dashed down the hill towards Obil. There was no sign of them and it was slowly growing dark.

With tears running down her cheeks, legs aching, sweat pouring profusely from her face and her heart doubled its beating pace she continued to run as fast as her two bony feet could carry her.

“Hurry up with your bamboo containers, it’s getting late!” Alebia screamed at her children. Quickly but tiredly they stuffed their leftover pork meat into their string bilums, grabbed their ‘male muguhs’ (bamboo container) and were off like the wind towards “Noge-habe nule’ to fetch water.

When they were gone, Alebia and her husband, Sinegare, quickly packed their few belongings along with Dagi’s. They left Korai’s beside their hut and waited impatiently for Dagi to come home first, hoping that their plan might work out well.

Talking, laughing and imitating their mother’s facial expression when she loses her temper, they at last reached the cool mountain spring. They were excited too that they would be leaving for Omkolai to settle there permanently with some relatives as a tribal fight was about to erupt in Urmil.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t noticed that Korai’s bamboo container which was big had a hole at the bottom whilst Dagi’s was small and alright. They were oblivious to their parents’ wicked plan.

Dagi was the first to fill his container and thinking that his parents might be thirsty, he decided to go home first.

‘Father and mother will be thirsty, so I’ll go home,’ said Dagi, as he carefully lifted his bamboo container off the ground.

‘Sure,’ replied his sister. ‘Tell them my container is slowly filling so wait a few minutes for me.’ But they never waited. 

As soon as Dagi reached home, Sinegare quickly grabbed the bamboo container and told Dagi to carry his string bilum and follow them without saying anything as it was time and they must leave immediately.

What have we come to?

AXEL RICE | The Crocodile Prize

A World of hunger, a World of hatred, this isn’t what it seemed.
Some live lives that are devastated, while others live lives as they please.
Religiously, theologically, culturally divided, a world of many differences.
Countries, groups and many types of people kept apart by ideological fences.
A colour is just a colour, but there is more to blacks and whites,
life is continuously challenging, from dusk till broad daylight.
Father what is happening, this isn’t what it seemed
Some live lives that are devastated, while others live lives as they please.

World War one, World War Two, World War Three?
Lives are easily stripped from existence, with bombs and M16s.
Some are luxuriant with mansions in Rome,
when many are left with cardboard boxes, they would happily call their home.
Domesticated, left untreated, mothers are as miserable as could be,
no one turn to, no one to seek to, like an abandoned boat in the middle of the sea.
Child it will be okay, it will be fine, soon we will be free,
but for now close your eyes, as I sooth our misery.
Father what is happening, this isn’t what it seemed
Some live lives that are devastated, while others live lives as they please

Wine, bread and the finest meats, the foods they’d dine in a day
While one would crave for just as little as a crumb, I will forever pray.
A million faces, a bustling city, not a 50 toea to spare,
no clothes to wear, no bed for me, no one that even cares.
United as one, divided we stand, what has this planet come to
Racism, poverty, fighting and wars, stormy days and sky blue.
Father what is happening, this isn’t what it seemed
Some live lives that are devastated, while others live lives as they please.

Axel Rice (15) was born in Lae of mixed Australian and Papua New Guinean parentage.  He is a Year 10 student at Coronation College in Lae

Untighten your fist

LORRAINE BASSE | The Crocodile Prize

VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN has become the norm in many parts of Papua New Guinea and is one of the many issues affecting our country today.

There are a number of factors involved with the three most common being domestic matters, bride price payments and the mentality of a male dominated society.

Most men regard women as objects and blame their wives for every little thing they find fault in. For instance bearing a female child when they want a male, work pressure, family obligations, forgetting to clean the house or wash the dishes, children crying, food not cooked to his liking, does not like the way she is dressing, no respect, not enough food in the house and talking to a male stranger to name a few.

This in turn leads to quarrels, arguments, disunity and to domestic violence within and among families creating a tension in the village, community, the society and the country as a whole.

Domestic violence is seen in most parts as a private matter. Therefore, whenever a man hits his wife, most people; neighbours and the authorities concerned pretend that they cannot see what is going on and turn a deaf ear. Only some are brave enough to stand up for the victim.

Since most communities view domestic violence as a private matter, only some of the victims press charges, and prosecutions are rare; most of those affected by it, think it is normal.

Moreover, growing up in a culturally oriented society makes many women think that it is their duty to make their husbands happy and therefore, have no right to refuse sex with their husbands. They obligingly give in to their husbands wishes even though they do not like it.

This in turn leads to many problems and tensions in the family, the community and the society as a whole. These people who are affected by violence sometimes do not know they can get help, are too scared or are too ashamed to come forward.

Another matter viewed as private and a form of violence is rape. Rape in the past was regarded as a war strategy in most parts of Papua New Guinea and was therefore not seen as an issue. There was no concept of rape in marriage either.

Rape or sexual assault is ‘an assault by a person involving sexual intercourse with or without sexual penetration of another person without that person’s consent.’ Men have the mentality that: ‘My wife is my wife and whatever we do in the vicinity of our dwelling is our private business.’

The rapists when reported and apprehended sometimes do not face trial and walk around freely, especially if he or she was someone important in the community; sometimes they break out of jail.

Night time at a village along the Papua coast

MICHAEL DOM | Crocodile Prize

the house is silent
fighting geckos wake the dog
…enters lahara

sleepless rambling dreams
drugged by the tropical night:
flee the verandah!

neighbours offer tea –
no security lamps here
only buai palms

bubus fire is lit:
shadows playing with torches
their voices pass by

 far off sparks flicker
‘twixt dark skies and black waters:
children are laughing

the floorboard nails squeak –
with bellies full of sago
and smoked magani

a bone dry palm frond
crashes to the ground nearby –
another dog barks

warm, ghostly sleek sand
slides softly between bare toes –
somewhere a pig grunts

glowing graveyard path:
beyond the coconut grove
the bursting seabed (there awaits the sea)

smooth liquid embrace
soaking and soothing, at once
fish skim the surface

murky reflections
have robbed me of my laughter:
stars and eyes glisten

seas hold no quarter:
an irresistible draw
to moonless vigils

According to wikiHow a literary haiku should have ‘a 5-7-5 syllable pattern…‘and adhere to the use of season words, a two-part juxtapositional structure, and primarily objective sensory imagery’. Please count the syllables, a friend tells me I’ve mistaken them before, but some rules can be bent and others broken. A critical point is the splitting of the poem into two parts, where, the bold font is the fragment and the black font is the phrase. If this haiku keeps working, then it might turn out to become a renga

Oh, it’s the songs they sing

JEFFREY MANE FEBI | Crocodile Prize

“WE SEE YOU’VE COME with the flower of the mountain; that blossoms a pleasant red and dances in the wind while the stars look on. We see; you’ve adorned yourself with this flower and come with a determined purpose; and our attention you’ve courted.

“But before you tell us the reasons, let us show you where you’ll rest your head. Let us bring you firewood. Let us fetch you water. And let you rest for a while. For the night will be querulous and wearisome.”  So sang the welcoming villagers.

“Oh so you’ve seen! Well, we cannot hide it, can we? The wind had spoken about it long before. And the earth has brought forth the dancer on the mountain. We came here for a purpose! We will tell when we’ve rested. We will tell when we’ve drank! We will tell when we’re fed. But for now we say thank you that this place may welcome us too”, sang the visitors in reply.

It was a pleasant surprise for Oromo, the tired and weary traveller, who stood and watched his fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters; all singing together in unison; chorusing a sound that captured his ignorant spirit.

Not a word he uttered, not even a sigh. Mouth half open, he gazed blankly with his mind's eye and listened attentively, trying to capture the lyrics; those words that were trampling all over his heart.

But it ended so soon; and ushered to a sitting spot, Oromo could not but wonder at those echoing words of the songs. He has missed a lot, he realised. Even the younger ones knew the songs; they knew these songs are usually sung only on such occasions. How could he have not known this kind of singsing existed? Did they do this just for him?

People at home sing for different occasions; but this? Welcoming a visitor with a song, and then the visitor responds in song too, it was totally new to him. He glimpsed the world of his grandfathers that day and it found a place deep in his heart.

He was shamed by the younger ones; those cheeky companions. They knew things he did not know and his heart despite the fatigue, yearned for this precious knowledge and more.

Dancing in a redskin’s Arawa

LEONARD FONG ROKA | Crocodile Prize

AMI’AU LISTENED ATTENTIVELY to the sound of crushing dried leaves and twigs littering the forest floor.  Is this another silly wild dog wandering about she wondered?

‘Bekenenu, is it you there?’ she called out to her husband who she had just left further uphill inspecting their cocoa plot.

No answer came so she ignored the strange sound that was now gone and lowered her body into the hole she had dug tracking the huge yam tuber.

Now, a heavy foot was approaching her, crushing the dried leaves of the galip-nut and cocoa trees that hosted her yam. She ignored it.

But exhausted with strained back, she dragged her head carefully out and spotted through her armpit not a black foot but rather, a muscular red-skinned foot of a New Guinean about to attack her. A rapist!

‘Oiiiiii, Bekenenu! Bekene…nu, ere’rengkong mosika*,’ she screamed hysterically for survival.

They rolled holding onto each other downhill under the consoling shade of the cocoa trees. Ami’au’s muscular body was determined to liberate her from her New Guinean rapist who was struggling to strip her.

As they hit a rotting bole she removed the infiltrators sweat ridden palms and yodelled: ‘Help! Someone help!’

‘Where are you?’ Bekenenu called.

‘Here!’

To Ami’au’s relief, the Redskin darted off as the sound of running feet crushing dried out cocoa leaves littering the ground drew nearer and Bekenenu swiftly approached the scene angrily and ready to attack.

‘Did the infiltrator of Solomon touch you?’

‘No,’ Ami’au sobbed in shock.

Bekenenu tracked the foreigner with his bush knife down Kirokai Creek but withdrew early in fear of been killed by the Redskin strangers in the land.

‘Did you see or talk sense to the Redskins?’ old Taruko asked, with sympathy as Bekenenu returned with sweat freely rolling down his balding face.

‘Ee, send me not into the red ants’ camp for I shall return to Doko’toro as a firefly, uncle,’ Bekenenu sniffed brusquely as he sat on the mat of dried leaves.

Taruko eyed the couple thoughtfully. With the sun burning above their heads, their anger and self- pity was like magnesium burning in the night sky.

The Redskins’ town below was booming with heavy traffic. Taruko’s aged eyes were locked on the great Arawa General Hospital. Slowly, his blinking eyes left the hospital and crept up Siopa Place and then settled at his feet.

How the yara siwi got their body decoration

HENRY SAPE | Crocodile Prize

A LONG, LONG TIME AGO, when the earth was young and the animals of the world were friendly, there lived two brothers named Hali and Weki in the deep jungles of Sambo valley in the Southern Highlands of Papua New Guinea.

The brothers both being young had never travelled out far from their homestead and did not know what lived beyond those mountain ranges under which they lived.

One evening during dinner, Hali the elder brother told his young brother Weki that he had planned to go on a hunting expedition beyond the mountains and that he was to stay back and collect firewood and gather food supplies from their garden.

As planned, Hali collected his bow and arrows and left the next morning at dawn on the long trip. The thick forest was beginning to come alive with the singing of birds and insects welcoming the beautiful morning.

With eagerness to explore, Hali crossed many fast flowing rivers and travelled over many mountain ranges. By the afternoon, he came across a large beautiful valley that laid stretched out for miles as far as his eyes could see. At the far end of the valley, Hali noticed a spiral of smoke ascending into the clear blue afternoon skies and this made Hali determined to discover who lived in that part of the valley.

He descended the mountain hastily but evening was approaching fast. Hali proceeded further and came across a clearing at the bottom of the mountain where there was a huge breadfruit tree with its branches laden with ripe fruit. He murmured that he would spend the night under the tree and set about building a temporary shelter for himself.

After he had completed the shelter, Hali decided to climb the breadfruit tree to knock down some of the ripe fruit for dinner. Soon after he had knocked down the first fruit, all hell broke loose. There was a sudden fiery flash of lighting that split the valley in half from one end to the other with booming thunder that shook the entire valley. There was heavy rain with fierce winds that snapped off branches and uprooted trees.

In the ensuring minutes, the thunderstorm seemed to encircle the breadfruit tree and Hali was almost torn off the branches by the fierce winds.

Then all of a sudden, Hali could see below him in the dim light a huge ugly giant staring up at him with his big fiery eyes. The ugly giant said in a deep thunderous voice, "Who is up there stealing my fruit?" Then the ugly giant in fury grabbed the trunk of the breadfruit tree and shook it vigorously and tried in vain to uproot it.

In frustration, the evil giant murmured some magical words and slapped the trunk of the tree with all his might with the palms of his huge hands. 

In the memory

JEREMIAH TONI | Crocodile Prize

This is me
It was me and it will be me
When I am not here, it will be me; gone

This is the rule, it is inevitable
That all follow on
When their bell tolls

This calling beckons
All living things
All things great
All things small
For we are all mortal
Thou shalt live for once
And be gone the next.

This is us
It was us
When we are not here
It will be us; gone
We’ll all be here
But
Only, in the memory.

Jeremiah Toni (18) comes from Butibam Village in Morobe Province.  He is in Grade 11A

False tears

DOMINICA ARE | Crocodile Prize

THE WHOLE VILLAGE WAS FILLED WITH SORROW when their chief suddenly passed away after a long illness.

Men and women were forbidden to go out gardening or hunting for a whole day. The family had to gather enough food, children were told to keep quiet and not to play around.

There were no arguments, fights or unnecessary noises as this was their custom whenever a chief dies. The whole village went into great silence as a sign of respect to their great chief and warrior, Chief Baulin.

Two weeks of mourning was resolutely observed and the body was finally buried. There was a big feast to end the hauskrai with many pigs and cows slaughtered.

Garden foods came in multitudes. When the feasting was over, the chief’s immediate family thanked everyone for their cooperation at the time of mourning. Everyone went home satisfied with their portion of the food but sympathized at the passing of their chief.

‘Oh, what a tiresome day,’ said Lucy as she sulkily put down her bilum filled with food from the feast. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her hair was scrappy and her body needed a thorough washing and scrubbing.

She made certain that the food was properly stored before going off to a nearby stream to take a shower. She was later joined by her two cousin sisters and they all began to talk about the late chief.

‘He was a great leader indeed,’ said Heli.

‘He always brought about peace whenever there was a problem,’ added Giba.

‘That’s true,’ agreed Lucy. ‘I wonder who’s going to take his place.’

The three are married to three cousin brothers from the same clan and live close to each other. A week after the chief’s burial, an uncle of Lucy’s husband whom she was very close to died. He died in a faraway village which is an eight hours walk right through rough mountains and terrain.

‘Mama, mama,’ Beka cried running home one afternoon. ‘Uncle Mau has died.’

Who told you that?’ asked Lucy angrily, thinking her nine year old daughter might be lying.

When Beka said that one of their relatives came and told her at the market, Lucy without holding her breath started crying. Later in the night, their relatives met in Lucy and Ken’s house to plan for their trip the next day.

Early in the morning, Lucy with some of the deceased’s immediate family and relatives began the long, tiring trip. Everyone was soaked in mud all over their bodies. The men armed with bows and arrows went as well to claim compensation for the loss of Mau.

This was a practice as when a man dies in the village of the wife the relatives will forcefully claim compensation despite what has actually caused the death.

After the long and hectic journey, they managed to arrive. Everyone joined in the mourning but the armed men kept their distance and shouted angrily at the deceased’s in-laws.

They threatened to burn their houses and destroy food gardens if no one came forward to ascertain why Mau had died and compensate them. Eventually, a village leader came forward and explained.

A secret

BRIGETTE WASE | Crocodile Prize

A secret I must keep
Within the depths of my mind I bury it deep
For if a revelation would cause hurt
Tearing a fundamental bond apart

A message not to be read
A voice not to be heard
A discovery not meant to be found
My heart and lips are bound

Looking on with saddened eyes
Young flowers tell me of the lies
That have grown over the years
Diminishing hope, no laughter only tears

The wealth gained has no love
Maybe to share is not enough
The reason there is no peace
To give young flowers to please

A woman's fury is very near
Her scorn is crystal clear
For a silver coin is hard to give
Her dwelling a hovel to live

But a secret I must keep
Within the depths of my mind I bury it deep
The meaning of the closed purse
The truth behind the curse

Brigette Wase(26) was born in Kiunga in the Western Province of mixed Oro and Central Province parentage.  She completed studies at UPNG and works with Papua New Guinea Immigration and Citizenship Services. Her hobbies include reading, mostly fiction and history

Adults

JIMMY APIU | Crocodile Prize

THE SOUTH EASTERLY WIND left Markham’s vast savannah expanse in its wake as it sped a few kilometres and detoured west, sweeping over the roof of a lone night club before heading north.

Under the roof, Et-Kalsa, a contemporary music band was finishing final touches to its rehearsals for the upcoming music festival at Eriku. Standing at the far end of the bar where the light was dim, John, after 15 beers was comatose. His speech was slurred and his eyes saw two of everything.

He was escorted first to the gents to throw up and later dragged outside and bundled into an old Toyota dump truck and left there to recuperate. The band kept fine tuning.

Monpi, with her belly protruding her third was clad in a silk night gown, stitching a merry blouse, looking at her watch every four minutes. The ash tray beside her was slowly filling with cigarette butts and the room was thick with its stench. She decided to call him, again, and punched in the 8 digits but the lady in the mobile phone told her the number she called was switched off.

She cursed the lady under her breath and absent-mindedly took the last of the 25 Winfield filtered cigarettes and lit it, inhaling till her lungs were full before exhaling, crumpling the empty cigarette packet before throwing it at her husband’s picture frame. She puffed some more and smothered the cigarette in the ash tray and took out the ‘Jeffrey Archer’ paper back from her vast collection of the same author near the bedside drawer and continued reading where she had left off.

She completed a chapter and was up to four pages and decided to call it a night, when she heard the knock on the door.

She looked at her Seiko wrist watch. The long hand was sniffing 3 am. Gathering herself she walked to the door and slowly opened it and stared at John, who met her gaze and bowed his head, looking very sorry.

She pointed her finger at him after letting him in, while the other arm caressed her belly as she paced the floor in the small lounge room and glared at John, who reeked of sweat, vomit and alcohol, with both hands in his trousers pocket.

He tried to string a few words together for his lateness but nothing came out, as he swayed unsteadily. The atmosphere was tense.

“Who were you with!?” she demanded, her voice was amplified and full of hatred as it cut the silent night.

“Oh for Christ shakes Monpi, not again.” he moaned. “Just because I am late you assume I was out with someone!? Oh Paleez!” he continued, his voice incoherent.

“Who were you with John Yobukwa'u!?” she repeated, this time louder as she advanced toward him with a clenched fist.

It meant one of two things; either he would get a hiding or a barrage of the filthiest foul language you could ever imagine was about to be launched. Addressing him by his full name was even worse. It meant two lonely months on the bare mat in the lounge room.

John cowered till his back was against the wall and he shut his eyes in despair and slowly bent his knees, lowering his small frame to the floor. He stole a glance at Monpi’s menacing, advancing figure and covered his head with his palms.

A few neighbours flicked their lights on while others silently opened their windows to eavesdrop.

Her anger was something between a mad dog and a child throwing a tantrum because she was not satisfied, except this was an adult with considerable height and 105 kilograms of fat, muscle, and bones she had inherited from her ancestors in the Western Highlands.

John chewed his tongue as if to extort some plan of exit from his head but to no avail as the volley of disgusting and tainted language continued.

“You have not answered me!” she shouted, looking down at him.

“No one, I told you.” He pleaded and sunk lower.

“Don’t give me that crap, John Yobukwa'u, I married you and practically pampered you long enough to know a lie when I hear one, you useless drunk, how dare you lie to me?!” She screamed.

“But that’s the Gospel truth, paleez” he moaned, still trying to look innocent.

“John Yobukwa'u! I have yet to see you drag your hopeless, pathetic carcass to a church, any church, and don’t give me that gospel truth nonsense, you idiot!” she screamed.

The story of the last of the Segera Tutubes

MIRIAM ROKO

IN THE OLDEN DAYS Segera Tutubes, or cannibals used to live on the Island of Tatana here in Port Moresby, the nation’s capital.

They were violent and aggressive and had no knowledge of the difference between doing good or evil. They were warriors who would kill and eat people. Their homes were built between the Kwila trees growing on the mountain tops, hideouts that could accommodate 50 to 100 people or more.

They lived on raw meat, pigs, fish, seashells, human flesh or any other meat they could lay their hands on. Sometimes they would go looking for kaukau, bananas or fruits.

Children were their main target, so children were forbidden to cry. The parents would warn their little ones not to cry.

They loved roaming the villages in the night. There was great fear, as these Segera Tutubes were hairy, strong, violent and aggressive. They were more like apes than humans.

One night a baby was heard crying. The mother tried her best to tame him by breast feeding and the father tried his best to sing him to sleep, but without success. The sound of his crying reached the mountain top bringing the chief of the Segeras and his men into the village.

The crying brought them to the home of the child and, upon the demand of the Segera Tutubes, the parents decided to give the child away and it was taken away to the mountain with great joy and laughter and the kundu drums beat while there was feasting on the baby.

Children were claimed many times when the parents were not careful or when the children were heard crying. The parents could not refuse the Segera Tutube’s demands because they feared being killed themselves.

One day a beautiful young girl was asked by a young man in the village to marry him. Upon her parent’s refusal she started crying and lamenting at the top of her voice for two days.

As soon as the Segera Tutubes heard the sound they came down to the village and claimed the young girl.

She was her parent’s one and only child and, upon realising what was happening, they begged the chief to give them a few days so they could prepare to give her away in a proper manner.

The parents and the village people were sad and in great sorrow.

That night the village chief called an urgent meeting to make plans and decide on how they would give the girl away and how they would put an end to the Segera Tutubes demands, terrible abuse and unnecessary killings.

Their plan was that the girl be dressed in her best traditional attire and her parents encouraged to be strong, as this was to be the last demand of the Segera Tutubes.

The second part of the plan was for the men to go fishing. The village men were great fishermen and experienced in catching plenty of fish, because they had been giving fish and other seafood to try to tame the Segera Tutubes.

The women were required to cook food in coconut cream and make sago pudding (dia or bariva).

Two days later the sad day arrived for the young girl to be given away. She had her last meal with her parents and relatives and the women dressed her with tattoos, armshells, bird of paradise feathers, pigs’ teeth necklaces and a grass skirt.

The men started beating their drums and singing and the girl was given away. That was the saddest day as the parents were in great sorrow and suffering.

That night the men sailed out to catch fish.  All night they caught fish while the young boys and old men did the smoking.  On the second day they returned to the village, with flags raised as a sign of a good and plentiful catch.

The women started cooking and making preparations. When the men arrived they fed them and continued cooking because they were going to feast with the Segera Tutubes.

There were fish of every kind as well as turtles and other seafood. When the food was ready they put the pots on the big, double rigged canoes.

Then the village chief and other leaders invited the chief of the Segera Tutubes to come on the canoes.  When he got on, the rest of the Segera Tutubes, young and old, followed and not a single Segera Tutube was left behind.

When the men started sailing out to sea, the women and the old men and the young people started singing and celebrating in the village.

When they reached the deep blue ocean the men gave the Segera Tutubes’ chief permission to start feasting.

While the Segera Tutubes were preoccupied with feasting the men started to attack them and threw all of them into the sea.  Not knowing how to swim, because they were mountain folk, they all drowned – and that was the end of the Segera Tutubes.

When the men returned to the village they started singing:

Segera, Segera Tutube
Amui kau kau amai laiamu
Segera, Segera Tutube
Segera, Segera Tutube
Amui vamu vamu amai laiamu
Segera, Segera Tutube

Segera, Segera Tutube we bring you your kaukau and meat
Segera, Segera Tutube and that is the end

Miriam Roko (50) was born in Tatana village on Tatana Island near Port Moresby. She is married with three children and one granddaughter. She worked as a clerk, at one time being the sole computer operator at Ela Motors and then going on to other companies. She also has qualifications in business studies. She is involved in church ministries and is a Youth Parent working with young people

Underlying truth: an insight into the roads of Lae

AXEL RICE

LAE IS LOCATED WITHIN THE HEART of Papua New Guinea. An important city, it is seen as the industrial hub of our nation accounting for much commercial activity.

Many thousands of people flock into the various streets and roads that interlace the city along with large numbers of vehicles, including overloaded PMVs powering along the roads.

In addition to traffic the weather here contributes highly to the decay of our roads.

The development of the roads in Lae is a topic of interest, not just in the sense of those roads you see with potholes but more broadly, incorporating the various adverse effects that the under development of Lae’s roads has brought, such as traffic congestion and unauthorized pedestrian behaviour.

To begin, it is essential to have at least some background knowledge of the history of our roads. Lae originated as the Lehe Mission Settlement and was basically developed around an airport (which is now out of order) that was built in 1928.

From this point onwards, the various routes around the city have been progressively developed. Undeniably and embarrassingly, the development of not only our roads, but our infrastructural organization as a whole has been going backwards ever since the dawn of independence.

I have seen nothing more than the reverse effects of development. Nowadays just the simple repair of a street is seen as a project rather than plain old maintenance.

Many cities would be busy worrying about introducing locomotives or skyscrapers or perhaps even projects based around tourism but Lae is busy expending all its blood, sweat and tears on the very roads, which should be basically maintenance and not year-long burdens.

The decayed sections of our roads, which are the majority, are nothing more than a burden to the flow of people in and around the city. At peak hours main intersections are clogged with cars flying in each and every direction with the objective of nothing more than horning their way through the crowds.

Transportation around this industrially active city is crucial if it is to succeed into the near future.

The dictionary states that a road is the main channel way for automobiles. The people of Lae City haven’t quite gotten the message. Also to blame is their approach to road development.

Improper signage and an inadequate amount of road markings make the road a disorganised freeway for both cars and pedestrians, which is something no country or city should encourage. It would also help if the mentality of Papua New Guineans was steered into the correct direction to make wise decisions.

On most days, due to the lacking of ‘foundational road works’, dust is an uncontrollable form of disturbance to most households and residence, not to mention its hazardous effects put upon the health of our citizens.

Change is the law

EMMANUEL GUMABA

My Father said
All men must
Cultivate the land

But they say
Wake up at dawn
And stop the first cab to work

My Father said
All men must
Make Sago

But they say
Provide wheat and
Bread for breakfast

My Father said
All men find game
But few are called
For those that sleep in hausman

But they say
Education the discipline to success
For their game

My Father said
Money is evil
And family is important

But they say
Money is good
And budget is tight

Oh, my dear Father
Your times were good times
For mine is their time
Because change is the law
And the new must oust the old

Emmanuel Gumaba (26) comes from Oro Province.  He is a Business Development Officer with the National Superannuation Fund of Papua New Guinea

Commitments, commitments, commitments….

NATASHA FABILA

“IF YOU CHOSE ME you wouldn’t have borrowed that money, if you chose me you wouldn’t have sent that money… I hate you, you always leave me hanging…”

His words kept playing over and over in my mind. I felt hurt, so very hurt, and at the same time so sad.

See, for the last five years, I was always borrowing money for him. Not from the bank or taking from my savings but from the worst kind – money lenders in the street.

At first, it was for things we needed to get us by through to the next fortnight. But as time wore on, he got promoted and I got a couple of promotions too, so our earning power improved.

I thought things would change for us; that we would stop borrowing, but we didn’t. Instead, it got worse. From borrowing amounts of K100 to K200 it went to borrowing amounts of K500 and above.

The reasons for borrowing also changed, we no longer borrowed for our daily essentials, we were borrowing just so he could maintain a social life. I had no capacity to repay these loans, especially with the interest that these informal money lenders charged.

We were both earning relatively good salaries, and had the capacity to last a fortnight but instead, our fridge was always empty. I was constantly thinking about where I would find the money to get our next meal, to buy easipay for the house.

It was ridiculous but I was in constant stress. However, he saw none of this. I tried so many times to tell him; I would say, “We can’t go on like this. First we borrowed to buy food and now it’s to maintain your social life.”

But he would just smile and say to me, “It’s OK, the repayment will come from my pay next fortnight.” And every time he said that, I knew that it would be me that would be stressing over yet another loan repayment come the time next fortnight.

At the next fortnight, it would be as I predicted. He’d tell me that we couldn’t afford to repay the loan in full so he’d tell me to pay just the interest component on the loans until the following fortnight.

So I did that for some, on the others I didn’t pay anything at all. And these are the ones that accumulated such huge interest each fortnight that we defaulted on the repayment.

Five years, this went on.  Five years.  And it took a lot out of me to put on a front that things were good and that we were stable financially. But I could not hold on much longer. My punctuality and attendance at work started to decline; I would turn up late to work or just not turn up at all.

This was only because these loan sharks would turn up to my office and wait either at the gate of my workplace, or sit in the reception waiting for me to turn up. On the days I did attend work, they’d greet me first thing in the morning, demanding that their money be repaid in full.

Father of The Man

GE ABOLO

At the end of this short story there are some useful explanatory notes

THE LAND, THE SEA AND THE SKY are swathed in deep orange. The sun is on its final leg of descent as the boy finds him sitting on the beach - legs crossed, arms folded in front, staring blankly at the  masterwork. He sits down quietly next to him.

They stay like this for long moments; watching the spectacle, not speaking.

Eventually.

“I should have gone with her,” he whispers.

The boy turns to him, then turns back to look over the sea.

“I should never have let go off her hand,”

Silence.

“I think they’re dancing and singing now; just there, on the water’s edge,” the boy pipes up.

“Who?”

“The angels. They are dancing - right there where the sea meets the sky.”  The boy picks up a small driftwood branch close by and points it at the descending glorious sun.

“Hmmff.”  He scoffs then falls silent, ignoring the boy.

The child continues, unperturbed by the condescending reaction from his companion. “They like beautiful lights, like sunset light, because their bodies are made only of lights.”

They both fall silent, each on his own train of thought.

Minutes go by. Out on the reef’s end, the surf is breaking softly, signalling the changing tide. The scorched reef - a good three quarters of a football field - is caught in the kaleidoscopic lights, bringing momentarily to life its corals and rocks and whatever else that are now exposed. The white-sandy beach is bathed pink as it continues unbroken down the south coast of the island. The minutes go by.

He comes to and shakes his head. “I should never have let go of her hand, should not have, never have…..But everything was happening all at once, so very fast.

 “Three big ones hit us, one upon another too quickly. Suddenly, we were going down into the water – people, cargo, everything! It was very, very rough. She was saying a prayer as I reached for her hand and still saying the prayer when we jumped,” he pauses for breath.

The boy stares at him, daring not to move a muscle, lest he change his mind and stopped talking again.

“The rain was pouring down heavily and the wind …. kept on crashing one huge wave onto another.  She was still in my hand as we surfaced, but not for long; another big wave swallowed us, and when we surfaced again, I realised she wasn’t with me.

A pause.

Add one more day

JIMMY APIU

This I say not here
Nor can it touch my soul
For I am who I am
From this day on declare
So say they who despise
Life’s journey whose fathers told
Only one reckless deed
Into the pit of no return
Strip the blindfold
Father’s son
Let the mind think
Mother’s daughter
Sure as dawn, sure as ever
This precious life
Add one more day

The last year of John Garia’s childhood

T G WILLIE

IT WAS THE MID 1960s in the old colonial Territory of Papua New Guinea and the English language was held in reverential awe.

Much of the coastal Papua region had been colonised. There were many primary schools scattered along the coastal villages. Children whose villages did not have a school usually went to live and board with relatives where there was a school.

Manumanu was one such village without a school, so some of the Manumanu children were in villages such as Hisiu to the west, and, Porebada and Hanuabada to the east.

John-Garia, a 13-year old lad at the time, came from a big, affluent family in Hanuabada. Hanuabada – a Port Moresby icon - was a modern village rebuilt after World War II. It had two primary schools: a government school and a Catholic mission school.

Young John-Garia attended the mission school run the Our Lady of the Sacred Heart order. The teaching staff included nuns, Australian volunteers and highly qualified national teachers.

The level of education was high. At 13 and in Grade 5, young John Garia spoke fluent English. He was a bright and promising student.

The end of the 1965 school year had come around. At the school’s speech day in early November, John Garia received first place awards for mathematics, religious instruction and English.

His father was very happy with his results and the family had rewarded him with a Christmas holiday trip to visit relatives at Manumanu, the last Motu speaking village some 100 kilometres west along the coast.

To every schoolboy, a visit to another village was a big deal as it meant going to see a new place and meeting new people. John Garia was going away for six weeks, and his excitement and expectations were enormous.

His father had arranged with a distant relative, Rabu from Manumanu villag, to come to Hanuabada and pick up a double hull canoe used for fishing. This gift enhanced and strengthened family ties, who would live in his father’s debt until a gift of a similar value was returned sometime in the future.

The relatives from Manumanu arrived in Hanuabada in early November to collect the canoe and sail it down the coast with help of the south-east trade-wind, laurabada. John Garia had met uncle Rabu on numerous occasions and was familiar with him.

For the return trip to Port Moresby in January, his father had reserved passage for him on the MV Kibi, part of a fleet of five diesel engine powered wooden boats owned by Steamships Trading Company.

These boats carried cargo and passengers along the Papuan coastline and were affectionately known as K-Boats as their names stated with the letter “K”; the others in the fleet being MV Kuku, MV Kone, MV Kaia, and MV Koke.

On the day of their departure, uncle Rabu and four other relatives loaded the canoe, made ready the sails and they were off sailing into the wind by mid-day. By the evening, the group arrived at Porebada, a Motuan village some 30 km down the west coast.

O’Neill

SOLANGE MARISA HAIVETA METTA

Oh! Kneel at the feet of this son
Of shrouded mountain rages
And deep, misty valleys

Make a pathway for this son
Yodel to mountaintops of faraway tribes
Tell them, He cometh!

O’Kneel at the feet of this man!
Whose blood mixes with white clay
Whose mama is resilient as the earth she was borne to toil

From obscurity to the stages of the world
He places his feet without fear
On his shoulder a thousand tribes he bears
In his palms, seven million souls rest their dreams

Will He endure the turbulent political tides?
Will He fasten the cords of corrupted foes?

Will He be the light in the corridors of the Tambaran?
Will He be the face of sweeping changes?

O’Kneel at the feet of this obscure boy!
Bring plumes to his head
Spread lies in his path
For he cometh! O’Neill!

The blight on us that is the Zero Tavern

DOREEN PHILIP

THE ZERO TAVERN HAS BECOME a breeding ground for prostitution, diseases and social problems in Markham District.

“Mipla sta lo Zero na kam ya” [‘we’ve been at Zero’] are the words from the drunkards returning from ‘nightshifts’ at Ngarubaruamp, which has become a hot spot for drivers travelling along the Okuk Highway.

The place is just a few minutes drive from Mutzing, near the district headquarters of Kaiapit in the Markham District.

Situated right next to the local village of Sangan lies the Zero Tavern. The place where people of all shape and sizes come to drink and find that big word ‘sex’.

It comes to life only at night. Young girls and mothers are found in tight jeans with eyes searching for money givers. Wait a minute and you will see them approaching and then off they head for the car.

These immoral activities have been going on for years now and have caused too many problems.

Many Highlanders have settled near the tavern, living in shelters which are not fit to be called houses because they looked abandoned and destroyed. Elderly women who can still make good kaukau gardens and look after pigs live in these so-called houses.

There are cases where the people steal from each other and you see them lining up in front of the Mutzing police station arguing and calling out all sorts of obscene words.

I have witnessed a case where an elderly woman from the Western Highlands was accused of stealing K500 from a man was belted her right in front of the police station, tearing her skirt and exposing the buttocks.

In another incident, the wife of man from Sampubangin, a local village, fought another woman claiming she had an affair with her husband.

Those are just some of the shows put on by the people from the Zero Traven. You see these when you come out of your house trying to catch the rising sun or strolling to the market perhaps to grab a handful of Madang buai and loose cigarettes.

It is a big concern, as students from the Markham Valley secondary school are also seen in front of the tavern enjoying themselves. Teachers have raised concerns because some students have been expelled from school.

After having a good time at Zero Tavern, the drinkers march up and down the station swearing and shouting and disturbing the peace.

My dad works there with the Department of Agriculture and Livestock, so I have been witness to all these nuisance.

The tavern is attracting a lot of people and causing an increase in prostitution and the number of sexually transmitted diseases. Young girls are engaging in sex for money causing problems for married couples and the community as a whole.

Meanwhile domestic violence is a daily activity. According to Wanti Wain, a local welfare officer, the number of women going to the office to seek advice is increasing.

In addition, there are no proper toilets built near the site and this gives rise to diarrhoea and cholera. Rubbish is found everywhere and the cooked food sold is poor and causes health problems.

The number of Highlanders settling here is increasing and the overcrowding might create conflicts between the Markhams and the Highlanders.

It is about time the responsible authorities and the Health Department stepped in and did something for the good of the local people and those living and working in the district. Migration has to be controlled and there has to be a friendly relationship between people of different cultures and traditions.

HIV AIDS is now everyone’s business and people should work together to fight against it. Domestic violence is a crime against women and needs to be addressed. Moreover, we all need respect and a friendly peaceful environment to live in.

The man who binged with Mary Jane

JIMMY APIU

Young and blissful
Oh so playful
Someone’s brother
Son, dear lover
Only this once
Then I renounce
Fly the height
High as a kite
Serenade to Mary Jane
Marry me, oh Mary Jane
Ride the sane with Mary Jane
Oh what madness
Into Darkness

AKIN TO HIS BACKDROP, which looked dull and gloomy, the lone figure reminded me of Bingmalu, a clerk come beggar I met some months back in Lae.

His face was contorted, perhaps from the hardship the city dished out to him; no one could tell, as his feeble hand stretched forth its open palm over the pathway which the town populace used each day.

Someone found it irresistible to parody the placard behind him with ‘Sick man, Seek mani [money]’.

His faded tee-shirt, displaying Australian rock band Cold Chisel, was placed neatly before him, as he bent his knees together with the soles of his feet cushioning his bottom.

A few passers-by felt it their duty to donate so they tossed coins with occasional notes onto the tee-shirt, while others were dispelled by his coughing and wheezing.

My observations were disturbed by the sound of voices, which pitched at every opportunity. I directed my gaze to its source and, lo and behold, five young girls, dressed in smart school attire were gesticulating in their own version of a Lady Gaga number with vigour.

As they passed the beggar, a petite one among them made remarks which were immediately punctuated by various exclamations of ‘True?’, ‘Oh my God!’, ‘Oh no!’ and ‘Oh please!’

I never considered myself a sensitive person, but after eavesdropping on their shocking expletives I scurried across the bitumen road to a snitchy little buai reseller from Tari, who was at the peak of his sales.

I bought two and, as I attacked the buai, offered him one so as to notch up friendship. Spitting a load of crimson red, I threw in a shaggy dog story, immediately transforming his ill-humoured expression.

I felt I was accepted in his little environment and sat myself close by, engaging in friendly banter with him, he reminded me of an information kiosk.

The conversation led to Money, Politics, and Women until I touched on Drugs, then he nudged my side to follow his glance to the beggar.

“See Tumun over there?’’ he asked.

I nodded.

“That’s your classic example of a smart kid gone insane” he said.

“How?’’ I asked.

“Marijuana.” he answered casually, pulling his stool closer to me. “I didn’t know marijuana could make one insane and look so bewildered.”

“You mean?” I was perplexed.

“Yeah,’’ he replied.

“We went to the same school together till I dropped out and he continued to year 12 and University, where he never let up and flunked semester 2.’’ He paused to serve a customer.

Whimsy politics: people, make your vote count!

JAMES GIVENS

IT IS SAID OF Papua New Guinea that it is an island of gold, floating on oil and powered by gas. Yes, we are abundantly rich in natural resources, yet the majority of the population lives in poverty. Where is the fairness?

Through the ballot box we gave our consent to dubious morons in high places who have nothing but hot air to cover the traces of their corrupt practices.

That was not our intention. These duly elected representatives turned deaf mute and deliberately pushed the boat into the uncharted waters of corruption. Billions of kina deviated. Funds siphoned off to these unproductive punks who are too lazy to earn an honest living. Getting paid for doing nothing is a crime as serious as armed robbery.

Where did go we wrong? Was it because we are illiterate or have we been ill-informed? Perhaps we should go back to the basics to unravel the mess.

We may live amongst crowned aristocrats but let us not choose to lose the common touch. It is the people who build a nation. Stretched across the length and breadth of the nation, our people seek a redemption package. The cry for a change is prevalent.

We know that every nook and cranny needs overhaul. Civilisation and progress are dependent on change. A total makeover will have a therapeutic effect and corresponding benefits.

As the national election 2012 draws nigh, the stakes are high. Let us assume the election is a massive recruitment exercise organised by a reputable company, in this case the employer is of course you and me, the eligible voters.

Our ballot choice has the ability to make or break. A valid vote gives a mandate to a certain individual who can be an asset or a liability. An asset will be the light that leads us to prosperity. A liability, caused by an erroneous vote, leaves us in the whirlpool of whimsy politics.

In preparation for the prospect ahead, the Electoral Commission and the National Research Institute should seriously consider introducing a selection criteria blueprint and make it available as a voters’ guide to choosing ideal candidates with strong emphasis on what makes a visionary leader.

At least we would have a genuine mechanism designed to eliminate white elephants and window dressing.

Once the citizens are educated and informed, every voter will have the upper hand and be able to choose candidates on merit. This would minimise the risk of wasting a valid vote on devious crooks.

Advice to my son

PETER KEPA

This is a dedication to my children who accept things from my hands

Son
You see
I see in you
The beauty of manhood
Take the pathways
I would
Take

When
Your days
Are green with age
You will have won the crown
That many would wear
Take heed
Clean

Live
Clean life
Set your pathways
To the promised land
Everyone
Happy

See
Young one
I lived my life
Take out the good in me
You will live on
To the
Next

Death
May come
Sooner than time
A sure good step for ever
For the good ones
Pay back
Great

Peter Kepa (54) comes from Nera Gaima in Kerowagi District in Simbu Province. He is married with six children. He is a writer and compiler of curriculum material for the Simbu English Teachers Association at the Provincial Education Office in Kundiawa

The challenges of sea and air travel in PNG

SEIK PITOI

THE NEWS IN FEBRUARY about the sinking of the Rabaul Queen shocked the entire nation. Over two hundred lives were lost at sea. At this present time, a commission of enquiry has been held and the CEO of the shipping company, Peter Sharp, has said he is quitting industry.

In this short article, I would like to talk about my experience on the sister ship of the ill-fated Rabaul Queen - the Solomon Queen.

I am not from a maritime province; hence do not need to travel regularly by ship. I have heard stories about sea travel from many friends from island provinces, many of them quite daunting.

Last year, while completing my pre-ordination studies at my denominational seminary in Rabaul, an opportunity to experience sea travel arose.

The seminary has a program every couple of years to send students and lecturers to other island provinces for a week of studies and interaction with local United Church congregations on certain themes.

The theme for last year related to the care of the environment. I considered the topic quite important in the light of the LNG project and mining boom which, if not monitored well, can bring destruction to the environment and deprive our future generations from enjoying the benefits of their land and sea.

Teams were duly set up by faculty and I found myself in the group going to Kimbe in the neighboring West New Britain Province. I also learnt that we were to travel aboard the Solomon Queen.

There was a sense of excitement in me as I looked forward to my first boat trip, and a quiet relief that we’d be sailing just down the coast to the port at Bialla, rather than crossing the ocean to Buka, Kavieng or even to Lae!

On Tuesday morning 21 June 2011, I was part of a group of 15 students and lecturers dropped off at the Rabaul wharf. I strolled around to the side of the wharf and took a peek at the ship we would be travelling on. The Solomon Queen looked quite impressive, lying majestically at berth. I couldn’t wait to get on board.

Boarding time was 2pm, and we joined a large number of people in a shed-like building. This was where we would sit and wait until check in time, and then we’d move to the departure lounge.

As there were no chairs, we all had to sit on the concrete floor in sweltering heat. The boarding time of 2pm came and went. Then, at 4pm, the call was made to start checking in. Like cattle being herded for the abattoir, we made our way one by one painstakingly through the check point and into the departure lounge. By 5pm, we were boarding the ship.

My beautiful country Papua New Guinea

NOAH WAKAI

DAWN RISES OVER THE HORIZON of my sleeping country, the land of beauty.  The birds of different colours and voices chant out their beautiful melodies in the tree tops to the vibrant sky and spilling onto the mountains and rivers; the fish of different sizes and shapes splash and dive in the sea, praising the lord for the new day.

The first rays of the sun spills over the mountains of the highlands and in the sleeping villages comes the sound of the beating of the kundu drums from the haus man.  On the peaceful coast comes the beating of the garamuts from the haus tambarans.

There is going to be a feast, come everyone, come all of you around the world, come and witness one of the greatest feasts your eyes have ever seen, come witness the people of my beloved country show their pride, their strength, their wealth and their cultures.  It will be one of the most beautiful scenes your eyes have ever seen, we will win your heart and your soul will be lost forever in the country of no return.

O my country your beauty will forever remain in my heart, the land of many languages, different cultures and one people united under heaven.  My beautiful country Papua New Guinea the good lord has richly blessed you; there is no other place on earth that I would rather be than to call you my home. 

O my country the land of the unexpected, the land of thanksgiving, the land of honey and milk, the land of freedom, the land of peace, the land where I was born and the land I will die in.

My beautiful country the land of sunshine and rain, my beloved home Papua New Guinea, the land where I lost my heart …

Noah Wakai (17) was born in Lae of parents from Kerowagi in Simbu Province.  He is in Year 10 at Kundiawa Lutheran High School.  He enjoys reading and writing poetry, where he can express his feelings about beautiful Papua New Guinea

Walk of a lifetime

IAN DABASORI HETRI

Perception sees what reason blurs
Unceasing urgency, with an unimagined brow
Threading along the white sandy coastline of Huon Gulf
Long-lunging waves crashing in raging force

Scorching sunlight spills over the glutted sea salted leaves
Hills waver and disappear in the distance
Grains of ignited sand crack under the feet
And rumbling tummy cries in agonizing hunger

I walked on, with might of a salvaged warrior
Every step a struggle, interrogating my courage
I long to fly like the seagulls, hovering above the windy South Sea
I want to lie down and sleep forever
Like the lazy flowing Markham River

My bones are weary, drugged with numbness
My skin feels like burnt elastic sitting on fine rust nails
Stretching along the body curves that aches
Torturing spasms of weariness and thirst threatens life
My legs are giving in, answering dying prayers of my body

My heart is sinking like my feet on the sand
Pictures of decaying corpse indecorously drawn on the crumbled sand dunes
Maybe I am the next
My vision is blurry with mystical images my mind hates to decipher
Grunts and moans scribbled over the lips, but I refuse to give up

Tired, hungry and lonely, on the verge of defeat
But my mine is set. I will get there, even if I died trying
I did trying

Ian Dabasori Hetri (26) is a freelance writer from the Waria valley, sandwiched between Oro and Morobe Provinces.  He has an honours degree in agricultural science and is a candidate for a Master of Philosophy in Agriculture. But he says “forget about those papers – it is all about writing I’m passionate about”

Mobiles: the new communication drum of PNG

LISA PUNAU

I ATTENDED THE 2012 MEDIA FREEDOM DAY here at Divine Word University, where a small drama was put on by the first year students in the Communication Arts Department showing traditional ways of communicating (garamut, conch shell, kundu) and modern ways of communicating (newspapers, television, radio, mobile phones).

What interests me about this is that the introduction of modern ways of communicating has overridden the traditional ways, especially the use of mobile phones.

Most people see mobiles as something very positive in that they have taken communication to a whole new level.

However mobile phones also have negative impacts.  This may be financial, in their studies and as a cause of social problems for the students.

Mobile phones have become a distraction for students especially in their studies. Not long ago, mobile phones were limited to working people, but since the introduction of Digicel and other mobile companies, that has changed.

Today, not only the working class have mobile phones but even students.  It is now a common sight to see students walking around with mobile phones or fiddling around with their phones during class times, messaging and miscalling each other in class, some are even busy talking on the phone or texting when they are supposed to be doing their studies.

Most students end up sleeping in or are late attending classes the next day or handing in assignments. This may have an impact on academic performance in school. Thus I see that mobile phones do cause students to be distracted most times from doing their school work.

Another thing is the easy access to social media using mobile phones and the use of Facebook.

The number of Facebook users has skyrocketed because everyone wants to be on Facebook. And for students on Facebook they may spend more time on the website rather than on their school work, thus leading to possible lack of quality in research or assignments.

Facebook also causes social problems where comments and posts may cause inconveniences and the person whom the post is being addressed to may be verbally abused. People join Facebook for reasons such as they want to be like their friends, look for partners of the opposite sex, freedom of expression on any subject of interest.

Pukpuk tears

STEVEN ILAVE SNR

I went to a haus krai gathering towards the end of 2011 and was disgusted to see and hear a politician use the occasion of mourning for early campaigning. Pukpuk tears is an angry reaction against current sitting politicians who abuse our social, economic and political institutions for their own selfish ends at election time.

Election nears
At the haus krai, he suddenly appears
Preying on a mothers moment of sorrow and fears
Unable to cover his real motives with his pukpuk tears
I don’t mean to be rude;
But I see right thru you, pollie dude
You’re pathetic and crude;
Crying to me at this time all in the nude

Election nears
At the haus lotu, God he suddenly reveres
Hoping that the Almighty his resurrection prayer hears
Gloriously attired he stands next to the clergy amidst his wantok’s cheers
I don’t mean to be rude;
But I see right thru you pollie dude
You’re pathetic and crude;
Standing before Him at this time all in the nude

Election nears
At the haus moni, the public purse he continues to plunder – him and his peers
Their prized possession - the tenth land cruiser that he smartly steers
The dark tinted windows unable to conceal the “full glory” of their exposed rears
I don’t mean to be rude;
But I see right thru you pollie dude
You’re pathetic and crude;
Cruising by at this time, all in the nude

Election nears
And at the haus tambaran, the dust settles & the air clears
To show that greed rules supreme as nobody to the rule of law adheres
Same ole, same ole power-hungry faces on either side of the haus - seen it all for years
Hey, I don’t mean to be rude;
But I see right thru you pollie dude
You’re freak’n pathetic and crude;
Crawling by at this time, all in the nude!

The tradition of the pig killing ceremony

CHRIS PETER

DURING THE TIME OF OUR ANCESTORS, pig killing ceremonies were well known throughout Papua New Guinea, especially in the Highlands. 

The pig killing ceremony is usually held during bride price ceremonies, election periods and on special occasions related to traditional beliefs, but the pigs killed on these occasions are not as many as the true pig killing ceremonies of before.

In the Highlands there were two signs of a forthcoming pig killing ceremony.  The first is the cutting of trees and the assembling of firewood on hilltops. The other is the blowing of bamboo flutes. 

Cutting trees and assembling firewood was a signal to inform the leaders of every tribe to prepare for the ceremony.  The bamboo flutes were a signal for the women to dress in traditional bilas and come with bilums of food, and with pigs.  Men normally carried bundles of sugarcane and bananas into the central part of the village.

On their way, the men blew their bamboo flutes in different styles and the women sang and danced. 

The melodies from the bamboo flutes and the songs which were sung in the tribal dialect brought the different tribes together to exchange their food.

After two days or so, all the men from each tribe went to the nearby forest to cut trees and pitpit.  Women went to the grasslands and collected kunai.

With this material they built three houses: a hausman for all the tribal leaders and their followers, a hausmeri for the women and children; and finally a house used for all the pigs brought by the different tribes.

When the houses were complete, the pigs were killed. Some were given to the masalai or spirits so there would be no disturbance from them. 

When the people wanted to begin the main pig killing ceremony, they waited for fine weather.  Then they started to slaughter the pigs. 

When the pigs had been slaughtered the internal body parts - like the stomach, liver and heart - were taken by the women to a nearby creek to be washed and prepared for the mumu. 

The main pig carcasses were prepared by men from different tribes.  Then the raw pork was gathered with vegetables and greens, like ferns, and put into the mumu pit for cooking.

When the pork was cooked and ready, the big men of each tribe gathered and started the occasion with speeches.

They praised some of their neighbouring tribes and shamed or discouraged other tribes for not meeting expectations.  In the end they called for their friends and families to come together and share the meal. 

The pork was shared among individuals or groups according to status or by how special each person was to the owner of the meat.