KEITH JACKSON'S PNG ATTITUDE

Of rats, false teeth and Euclidean geometry

BY TERRY SHELLEY

GOROKA – I want to report for PNG Attitude on a couple of incidents that happened here during the year so that the B4s may know all is not doom and gloom.

One of the night shift workers came to me one morning stating he had liklik worry.

When I asked what the problem was he explained he had taken his false teeth out to eat his Navy Biscuit and, when went to pick them up, he saw a rat racing off with them.

Unfortunately he was unable to catch the rat before it disappeared down a hole.

He requested if he could have the teeth replaced as they were his front ones. Goroka Hospital came to the rescue at K20 per tooth.

On another occasion I requested my welder to measure the circumference of a screening barrel.

He replied: "Maski, em hat tumas.”

I was just about to give him a good old serve when he pulled out a tape measure and measured the diameter. Then he punched the number into his Nokia Mobile.

He then said: “Em ia, em mak bilong em."

I was astounded and asked him: "Yu savi long pi r²?”To which he replied "Nogat mi savi long 3.146," or whatever the number is.

Who said there was no progress in PNG?

How we broke bush and opened up the Chimbu

“My mother was horrified when I was seven years old and told her my plans to become a nurse in the mountainous jungles of our northern neighbour,” says Margaret Schellenberger.

“But the day I stepped off that plane in New Guinea and felt the humid jungle air around me, I knew I was home.

“I was sent to Chimbu, to Kundiawa, from 1960 to 1966. It was really primitive. I got off the plane and there was this great sea of naked bodies and it was what I expected, as if I’d already dreamt it all.

“I opened up lots of areas so I was often the first white woman they saw. There was still some cannibalism when I went to Chimbu. They were using bows and arrows and they wore feathers and not much else.

“We had a hospital with a special ward for women to breastfeed pigs. Pigs were worth more than children.

“There were other cultural differences. They would thank you by rubbing hands up and down your legs. Living in native villages never fazed me. It was just life.

“When I first moved into the nurses’ quarters, the walls were literally made of paper and our hot water system was a metal drum with a fire underneath it, but I loved every moment of it.

“When people came to the hospital, we would give them three boards to sit on and planks of wood to form their beds. Friends would sleep under them if they needed to.

“They used to bring their own wood pillows and all their heads would hang out towards the corridor so you would sweep through their feathers as you walked by, especially beautiful bird of paradise feathers.”

Her husband Frank lived in PNG from 1950-66.

“I loved being able to get out into the jungle and explore by myself with a group of native boys. I was adventuring, going to places most people had never been before.

“It was great as a young bloke being able to buy weapons over the counter but it was a very dangerous place. Once in Port Moresby, I saw a drunk guy shoot up all the bottles on the shelf behind the bar.”

“We both came across witchdoctors. A medicine man would put on his dukduk, a long timber thing, on his head, and a funny grass skirt, and he’d prescribe that, if a child swallowed a piece of wood, it would cure tummy pains.

“The witchdoctor used to make this yellowish powder, which pregnant women would take. He’d tell them to climb a tree and jump off a branch three times but it would work without doing that last part.

“In 1957, the United Nations stepped in and ordered a certain level of education and health be achieved in a specific time. But you can’t take someone out of primitive life with no background and turn them in one generation into educated people to our standards.

“When I was with the department of land, mines and surveys, we had a native we trained to be a surveyor. He went home to his island for three months and he forgot everything he had learned in five years. He immediately went back to the primitive way of life.”

“At this age, you all start writing your life history and to me the New Guinea years are the most interesting part of my history,” Margaret says. “We want the kids to understand who we are and why we are the way we are. I loved being out in the jungle.”

Margaret and Frank are now writing a book about their lives in New Guinea, imaginatively entitled New Guinea Adventure. It seems likely to be catalogued in the Fiction section of your local bookshop.

Photo: PNG pioneers Frank and Margaret Schellenberger

Spotter: John Fowke (“Words fail me,” says John, “demeaning, mindless expat memoir”). From the weighty pages of those fine journals of record, the Sunshine Coast Daily and the Whitsunday Times

On upping the ante in POM: a cautionary tale

For Port Moresby television executive Peter Jackson it was a normal day. He’d just picked up his wife after work and they’d gone to Boroko Food World and paid their electricity bill.

“We left and drove to the roundabout,” said Jackson. “A yellow sports car drove up very fast and erratically, like he was some sort of race car driver.

“He was extremely close on our rear end to the point where I thought he was going to crash into us. I tapped the brakes twice to get him off our backside but he accelerated and cut in front of us, causing me to swerve and I nearly crashed.

“I became angry at his behaviour and followed him along Kennedy Road. He pulled over to go into his compound. I braked heavily coming to a halt, the front of my car bumping the back of his car.

“I got out of the car and told the driver that he needed to learn how to drive,” Jackson said.

The tutorial turned into an argument which developed into some pushing. Then the compound security guard turned up along with a crowd of onlookers.

“I felt it was now time to leave as I felt outnumbered, and told the driver to back off and learn how to drive,” said Jackson, who is now pushing his luck.

“He told me I wasn’t going anywhere and he put his hand on my chest to stop me.

“At that point I retrieved a bat out of my car and told him to back off and that I was leaving. I then put the bat back in the car but he stood in front of the car and said I was going to stay.

“As I moved away, I saw him reach and grab a gun from under his shirt. It was then that we heard bullets strike the car.

“I grabbed my partner and pushed her down. I lay over her as the driver continued to fire bullets into the car.”

National Capital District police operations commander Andy Bawa has instructed his officers to bring in for questioning the son of a prominent Chinese businessman.

Spotted by Martin Hadlow. ‘EMTV executive attacked’ by Todagia Kelola, PNG Post Courier, 11 November

Two Anzac stories for a famous day

Paul Oates

The first shot in World War 1 was possibly fired in Australia. My wife Sue's great-grandfather, Brigadier Sandford, was in command of the Fort at Queenscliff and ordered that first shot be fired. Apparently a German freighter Pfalz was trying to sneak out of Melbourne before war was declared.

However by the time the ship got to within range of the coastal battery, Sandford assumed that war may have been declared on the other side of the world, but due to time delays, had not yet been announced in Australia. After clearing a request with the government to open fire, Sandford ordered a shot to be fired over the bows of the ship.

After a brief struggle with the pilot, the captain of the Pfalz was convinced that the next shot would be fired into his ship (as it would have been), and turned around and headed back into Melbourne where it was impounded.

The second story is about what one wit has called The Bulletin. Sue's grandfather, Major Sandford, son of the brigadier, served at Gallipoli and brought home a rolled up newspaper that had stopped a Turkish bullet while it was being delivered to the front. It was addressed to a gunner who never actually got his newspaper but survived to return to Australia after the war.

Census patrol: Pikinini no nap kamap gut

The ABC website has a feature entitled The Making of Modern Australia that provides an opportunity to share stories about life in Australia from 1945 onwards. The stories will become part of a lasting record of Australia's history as told by the people who lived it.

Each story on the site is also appraised by the producers of an upcoming ABC-TV documentary series, The Making of Australia, for possible inclusion in the series.

Paul Oates, a regular contributor to PNG ATTITUDE, yesterday had a story, The annual village census patrol, accepted for publication on The Making of Modern Australia website. You can read the full article here. Meanwhile, here's an extract …

During a census patrol in a village in the Aseki Patrol Post area, a family of Kukukuku lined up in front of me. Going through the family names, I called out the name of a young boy, who had been marked in the book by a previous officer as having been born over three years ago. The mother quickly pointed with her chin to the baby in her bilum. Thinking that the child may have died and another given the same name, I said “Nogat, em olsem dispela” (“No, like this”), and marked with my hand, half way up my thigh above the knee, indicating the general height of a three year old. Again, after calling the child’s name the woman’s chin jerked in direction of the bilum on her back.

Mystified, I approached the woman who was standing next to her husband. Both people did not seem especially smart and I wondered what was going on. The policeman standing next to me had already prompted a response from the sullen looking father with a terse “Kaikai we?” (where do you eat?), indicating he should open his mouth and reply to a question asked of him.

Asking the woman to open her bilum I peered into it and was horrified to see an emaciated form of a curled up, crinkled, wizened monkey that was apparently a three year old child. I glared daggers at father who cringed away and explained via the village Tultul, “Mama inogat susu na emi no save kamap gut” (His mother’s milk dried up and he didn’t grow up very well).

I turned to the Luluai and instructed him in no uncertain terms to take the mother and child immediately to the Aseki Health Centre for treatment. When I arrived back at the station at the end of the patrol, I checked and the mother and child had already been flown to the District capital Lae and were now at the Angau Base Hospital. The child, who was severely malnourished and dehydrated, was eventually saved and I heard later, survived to grow up.

Later that night around the camp fire, I confided to my policeman (in Tokpisin) that, “When I saw the child’s condition I was so angry, I damn near hit the father!”

He replied in the same language “You’d have had to stand in line, Sir.”

Post-It Note – In a comment that will leave its stamp on punmeister Prof Martin Hadlow, Paul adds: “We were driving past the letterbox at the front gate yesterday when Sue said she’d checked for mail and got a fright to discover a large frog in the letterbox. ‘Well of course,’ I said, ‘It would have to be large as it's obviously a male frog.’

A complete command of the local lingo

Paul Oates

I see that MacAir in Queensland has recently rolled over, which reminds me of a story. A young pilot, Robin, had been Qantas trainee of the year but they downsized Qantas and Robin had to wait until his name came up. So he took a temporary job with MacAir in PNG.

Robin was pretty much into correct elocution and became good pals with Peter, the local council Kiap at Kabwum, originally a Pom. Robin and Peter decided to meet up in Britain when on leaven and tour the country. First day they landed at a quaint little English pub on a lovely sunny afternoon. Imagine it. Climbing roses on white washed walls; horse brass and hunting scenes.

Walking through the front door, Robin, feeling au fait with the local customs, said to Peter, "I'll order, if you like". Approaching the bartender, he declaimed in his best, toffee nosed accent, "Ay'll have two paints of Watneys best bitter, puh-leeze!"

A wizened old bloke at the end of the bar unwrapped himself from his beer, leapt to his feet and with tears in his eyes said, "G'day, Aussie, 'ow are ya' mate?"

Wonem kain man hia?

Robin Hides’ note [see Recent Comments] about an unfortunate typo (since corrected) reminds me of a story. Paula Brown and Harold Brookfield did a lot of fieldwork on land use in the Simbu during the mid sixties. Paula had a boyish figure and affected a pith helmet, calf length walking boots and jodhpurs. All set off by a pair of severe, steel-rimmed spectacles.

If you’re male and have been in the bush in that part of the world, you might have experienced the lapuns’ testicle squeeze as a form of comradely greeting between men. After my initial encounter, I was always prepared and took an obligatory backward step.

As the story goes, near Elimbari out of Chuave, Paula and Harold and their line walked into a village and were greeted by the luluai. Harold got the squeeze, and so did Paula. Finding no testicular development, the luluai gave a sharp squeal, cried out in tok ples and the whole village fled over the nearest ridge The story soon got around about the “liklik wetman ino gat bol”.

Baby Kevin and hermaphrodite goats

Ilya Gridneff

In March this year, Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd visited a small village in the Eastern Highlands of Papua New Guinea where he was mobbed, showered with gifts and treated like a rock star. That was strange enough but when I heard that to prove the extent of their devotion, the very next baby to be born into the village was named Kevin Rudd in his honour, I knew I had to go there to seek out this child. Here’s an excerpt from the diary I kept of my time there….

I am in Goroka, deep in the mountains of Papua New Guinea’s Eastern Highlands. I’m here to find a small baby named after the new Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd. The village I need to visit has no electricity or running water and is accessible only with a 4WD, but is supposed to be only two hours drive away. I’m in the car with Zachery, a local journalist who is fixing things for me (at the same rate that he’s screwing them up) and two cops called Miskem and Big Simbu, who’ve been brought along as protection.

The unsealed roads, the mud, the ascents, the descents, the river crossings and a stolen bridge, force many delays, but they’re not the only problems. Zachery tells me he wants to take me on a detour to get a better story, which I learn — whilst turning into a livestock farm — is a hermaphrodite goat they lovingly call ‘50-50’.

You can read the full fascinating article by Ilya Gridneff, an AAP correspondent in PNG, here.

A convivial evening with the Bergmanns

Paul Oates

On patrol out of Kabwum in late 1971, or was it early 1972, I visited the Bergmanns at Ulap. We had just walked through a cloudburst and the patrol were drowned rats. It was like swimming upright. Rev Bergmann said the station received nearly 10 inches in 4½ hours that day.

The Bergmanns gave me dry clothes to wear, while my khakis dried, and put me up for the night. During the evening, Rev Bergmann excused himself and conducted a reception test of a shortwave broadcast from Germany, saying he was required to report on reception strength. He was very official during this listening test and appeared to almost sit to attention. He took readings and notes that he said he had to send back to Germany.

Mrs Bergmann showed me where I was going wrong with my bread making. My bread improved significantly after that. Rev Bergmann gave me home made beer before dinner and home made wine during dinner. He produced the beer and wine using his wife's bread making yeast. From memory dinner was a very nice meat stew.

Not long before I left next morning, Rev Bergmann allowed me to admire his home made Rosella liqueur. He held the bottle up to the sunlight and it was a lovely purple red in colour and tasted exceptionally nice. I can still remember the wonderful taste on the back of my tongue.

An intense conversation with CD Rowley

Bob Jenkins

The references to CD Rowley in The Blatchford Collection cause me to relate a small anecdote.

While at ASOPA, Val Murphy and I, being itinerant Sandgropers, decided to venture home by train following the end of our first year in 1961. It was never a wild ride across the desert. Such were the state of our finances that we were only able to have one stubby each at mealtime on the train, and I had borrowed five pounds from my sister in Melbourne in order to have any funds at all.

For reasons lost in time Valmore and I were a week late getting back to ASOPA. We had entirely missed 'The Camp!' at Lake lodge. It was then that we got up close and personal with CD Rowley. We were both called into his office and read the riot act. I recall we were called irresponsible, juvenile and any number of other adjectives. We were lectured on how much good money had been wasted on educating us for the previous 12 months, when others could have been chosen who would have been more appreciative.

The session ended with us being sternly asked what we would have to say if he then informed us that our cadetships were to be cancelled. He then dismissed us and left us to stew for a time. I guess we must have both appeared suitably chastened, or perhaps we muttered some lame excuse about the train from the West being overbooked due to the Christmas rush. Whatever, the dreaded axe obviously never fell and I don't ever recall any other conversation with CD during our remaining time at ASOPA.

Down to sea in fairly heavy boats

Rod Hard

I read with sadness of the passing of Bert Edwards. We spent valuable time together when I was at Ela Beach School and he was at Korobosea School. (I think Bob Davis may have followed him into Korobosea). I have special memories of Bert as he provided the first opportunity I had to sail. He had bought a Heavyweight Sharpie for a song and we spent the next two months returning it to its former glory. Weekend after weekend sanding, polishing, sanding, polishing. None of these lightweight modern fibreglass boats for us!

When finished, Bert was ready to put our potential to the test. I had never been on a boat and no idea what to do, but Bert was not dismayed. Our first venture was in a Moresby Regatta. Bert did not believe in sea trials. It was straight into the fray with the same derring-do as Mulga Bill of Eaglehawk - and with the same amount of success.

Bert immediately installed me as forward hand/trapeze and, although it was a three-man boat, we were a crew of two. Not that it made any difference. We capsized about 100 metres after the start and spent the next hour or so in that position whilst the other competitors completed the race.

When we eventually came ashore it was at Hanuabada, having drifted some way from the Yacht Club; sunburnt and with feet rather tender from tiptoeing across sea anemones and the like.

We actually competed in four regattas that season and were the most consistent crew – last, last, last, second last (another team had a major gear breakage). Bert was one of the most unflappable men I have met. Nothing was too much trouble and nothing seemed to upset him.

How about one for the road, Simmo

This wonderful yarn emanates from the rough and tumble days of the Edie Creek goldfields in the late 1920s. It was buried in the letters section of the August 1968 Pacific Islands Monthly and richly deserves resurrection. Pre-war, most miners walked from Salamaua to the diggings at Edie Creek and periodically would walk back for a spot of R & R in town.

Sep Underwood, the letter writer, recalled a character known only as Simmo, who died of blackwater fever, which killed many miners. As Simmo was a regular at the Salamaua pub, it was decided to start his funeral procession from there, the hearse being a hand-cart pushed by two ‘boys’. A couple of the mourners, who'd started the wake early and weren’t capable of walking, were assisted aboard the cart to ride with the corpse.

Simmo’s grave was marked by a simple wooden cross made from a wooden condensed milk box. Whether by design or accident, the bar of the cross bore the words ‘Stow away from boilers’. The grave was dug on the beach just above the high water mark and Simmo was laid to rest. But not for long.

A week after he was buried, waves from a violent storm washed out Simmo's grave and broke up the coffin. When the storm subsided all that could be seen of Simmo was one of his hands protruding stiffly from the sand. The chief mourner, unsure of the etiquette, proceeded to put an empty glass in the hand and fill it with Simmo’s favourite tipple.