PNG ATTITUDE

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.