Tales from Papua New Guinea

Papua New Guinea was never on my to-visit list. But I turned down the invitation once, I would be a fool to turn down the opportunity again. So, I hopped straight from the finish line of Singapore F1 to the isolated islands of the South Pacific. And the change of culture and nature needed a little getting used to.

Papua New Guinea. The only thing I knew about that place was that it was in the middle of nowhere with boiling volcanoes and like a million tribes or so; some with an uncanny taste for human flesh.


To do a little research, I did what any logical traveler would do; I googled PNG. And the reviews were nothing short of discouraging. In fact they were horrid enough for me to have second, third and forty thoughts. Keywords that appeared frequently on reviews where ‘Violent’, ‘Dangerous’, ‘Wild’, ‘Unfriendly’, and all the negative things you don’t see on normal tourist routes.

In fact Papua New Guinea is not on the regular tourist route. No one goes to PNG unless it is for a good reason. And no one stays there for long unless it is for a good reason. During my stay, people would ask me what I was doing at PNG, and they usually expect a work or exploration related trip. When I said I was just visiting, they would look at me, blink as if searching for that once familiar word and say, ‘Tourist?’ in an astounded way that made me feel like I was from an extinct group of species.

But regardless of all that I heard about the place and regardless of what little I knew about it, I went anyway. And I saw a little part of the wonders and strangeness of PNG. And I am back to tell the tale. Unfortunately my experiences are better lived than read but I shall try my best to summarise.



Port Moresby

Port Moresby is the capital and the largest city of PNG and it was the only place I could visit this time around. I would say that Port Moresby is a city on the wild side with its dusty streets, dodgy establishments, omnipresent graffiti and high security.

I have never walked the streets of Port Moresby and I do not think I will ever be allowed to. During my stay there, the fantastic family I bunked with acted not only as my medal-deserving hosts, but also as tour guides, escorts and bodyguards.


Security issues

Extracted from Wikipedia
In 2004, Port Moresby was ranked the worst capital city in the world to live in the Economist Intelligence Unit's ranking of 130 of the world's capital cities . High levels of rape, robbery and murder and large areas of the city controlled by gangs of thugs, known locally as "rascals" (Tok Pisin raskol), were cited. According to a 2004 article in the Guardian newspaper, unemployment rates are estimated to be between 60 and 90% and murder rates three times that of Moscow and 23 times the rate in London.

Situations may seem dire but the families living there have gotten accustomed to the extra care they take everyday to ensure their safety. Life goes on as normal amidst the high walls and barbwires, loaded guns and growling dogs.



For starters, barb wires wind around every building, every shoplot, and every home. Every wall comes with its line of sharp barbs. They jut out everywhere like how skyscrapers and billboards protrude the KL skyline.



Next are the dogs. My host family has 5 dogs. Two are adorable house pets. The rest I was not allowed to go near. Even then, dogs can also be the cause of crime. My host’s son had his beautiful guard dog kidnapped for the second time around. The first time he paid off RM2000 for the return of his young dog. When I left, he was still waiting for the ransom note.

Then we have the gates and the security guards EVERYWHERE. To enter every art shop, jewellery outlet, diner, tourist spot or hotel, I had to pass through at least two highly guarded security checkpoints. Window shopping? What window shopping?


Also, let’s not forget the in-your-face protection guns can offer. People carry guns in public like handbag pieces. And since I was in a place where guns were used for crime or the deterrent of crime, why not do a little shooting myself? A relative took us out one day and gave us a super crash course on the handgun. Within an hour, we were shooting targets at 50 meters. Once we passed that initiation, we moved on to something more lethal, the shotgun - for a better kick in the shoulder. The smell of gunpowder is an addictive thing. And the shoulder bruise, a worthwhile souvenir.






Away from Land

To get away from the restrictions on land, the family would take their boat out to sea. Nothing like having a little freedom and a break from barbwire view. A day of fishing on the South Pacific is extremely therapeutic. And it is an extremely easy task too. On the right spot, all we had to do was to bait our hook, sink it and haul up the bounty. Fishes are still plentiful in many of the reefs just a short ride away from the port.


Because the boat is fitted with a GPS, my host is able to navigate the waters in search of their marked reefs rich with sharks, Coral Trout and Red Emperor. They harvest the reefs only a couple times a year and never take more than is needed. The only problem is that smaller boats without the navigation equipment would tail us, visually mark our spot and return on another day to fish out the entire reef.

Sometimes, poverty rules over preservation.





My host

My host family is Papua New Guinea native Chinese of the third and fourth generation and they have been there all their lives. It is a huge family and when you’re the native Chinese in Port Moresby, you will somehow be connected to all the other native Chinese in town and the surrounding islands. Let’s just say the PNG family gene is living on a very fine line. And along that fine line is a Sir knighted by the Queen and two ex-prime ministers I was fortunate enough to have lunch with.

During my stay, I’ve met maybe 40 people from different families all related to each other on both sides; and I’ve only touched the tip of the family tree. In such a place, connections are important and the family or the community there coexist well within their own circle.


My host family lives above their foam and mattress factory in a huge beautifully furnished house that is big enough for two families. Together they have 3 lady-helpers for all the housework and as many man-helpers as the day requires.

The house is cleaned daily. Clothes are thrown for wash in the morning, dried and pressed by sundown. Dishes are left in the sink (something I really had to get used to). Needless to say, I was spoilt rotten. And everything that was needed done was done by command. All except the cooking.



Food

The only times I ate out was for lunch at a Japanese restaurant, breakfast at a heavily guarded 5-star hotel and fine dining Italian-style at the Lomano Club but dining out is nothing compared to fresh home-cooked food with the family especially if the food was caught by your own hand.


Freshly caught freshwater Finger Mark



Sak sak is a starchy sweet dessert made from sago - PNG staple



Another traditional Papua New Guinea dish is the Grisim made from sweet potatoes, bananas, yams, taro and pit pit cooked in coconut milk. Starchy starchy.


Pit pit is a funny lemongrass looking plant with a bland brittle centre. My host roasts the pit pit over an open fire to be eaten with salt or Maggie Seasoning sauce. Pit pit can also be cooked with coconut milk.


Roasted bush corn is starchy and chewy. Not the usual sweet juicy kind we have in Malaysia.



Passion fruit or Sugar Fruit as known in PNG.

The locals are proud of their fruits. New Guinea soil is still so rich that anything grown on it has a distinctively sweet taste. Along with their fruits, the natives are also proud of their coffee and their No.1 tea.



The Community

Port Moresby General Hospital

The poor dwell on poverty lines. The rich live their fancy lives. And somewhere in between are people trying to make a connection. The people I met astounded me with their fiery passion for charity. Every week, my host family takes on the task of providing food for the needy and those seeking treatment in the local hospital.

The situation at the local hospital is dire. But I was forewarned before stepping foot in that place. After my walk through the Port Moresby General Hospital, I simple cannot complain about our Malaysian hospitals. The only way I can truly describe it would be for you to imagine a wet market with its muddy floors and stained walls and that stench from a source I will not try to pinpoint. And around every corner, a baby cries.


To seek medical attention in the children’s ward would mean a poor family would need RM50 a night to secure a bed - a small fortune for most islanders. But no bed no doctor. And if a bed is secured, the entire family comes to stay. A ward holds maybe 40 beds but will normally house double that amount if families are counted. So the wards are cramped with little space for privacy.

Malnourished children staring with blank eyes out of sunken sockets. Malaria victims running off their fever. Deformed young babies waiting for doctors to diagnose a simple symptom that their families can never afford to cure.

We pass out hot chicken porridge to outstretched arms and sandwiches for the young. They seem to know my motherly hostess just as well as she knew them. Sometimes they heal and go home, she tells me, sometimes they pass on.

She seems to accept this as part of life and it is in her faith to make things a little better. I admire her fortitude and her giving heart. I admire the doctors who travel across the world to offer a little help. I admire the people still running the food delivery week after week. I admire the volunteers who dare enter the wards for abandoned HIV kids and TB children with the knowledge that the child they help feed today may not be around tomorrow.

Acceptance seems to be a way of life there. But along with acceptance is also a fierce desire to see things a little better one person at a time.




6 mile community centre


On a brighter side, 6 mile community center is a buzz of activity every Saturday morning when the nearby settlement children arrive bare feet and grubby, to be fed their good meal and milk once a week.

The makeshift community hall houses a small classroom where mothers sit with babies on lap waiting for their weekly milk. There is a volunteer doctor to check on the children and a free medicine counter for instant prescriptions.

A long time community worker told me that the children used to be undernourished, scabby, lice-ridden and ill when the church first started the feeding program. Then, I noticed her tone of pride when she pointed out at the bouncy happy children running about with milk mustaches. ‘It is a joy watching them look fatter every week,’ she says.





Sum of my journey


Aside from missing my host family, when I think about PNG, few things come to mind: barb wires, guards and guns. It’s a sad image because the one thing that really put the problems of the PNG into perspective for me was the loss of freedom I had as a traveler there.

I was not allowed anywhere without an escort. I was not allowed to carry anything with me when I went out; no bags, no bling-blings, no SLR, no flashy stuff. I was not allowed to walk the streets. Or enter public areas unfamiliar to the family. I was not allowed to talk to strangers. And these precautions did not just apply to me, it applied to everyone we knew who was born or who lived in Port Moresby.

The loss of my freedom was the hardest thing I had to come to terms with over my stay there. Everywhere I went, I was enclosed by high walls or spiked fences. And unlike my many other travels, I could not meander the streets like a loss puppy or venture down uncharted paths in search of a surprise. I could not sit and chat with the locals or exchange pleasantries with the natives. I could not spend hours at the local markets or have meals by the street side. I could not hitch a ride to the countryside or walk the public beach. This all just wasn’t done in Port Moresby because it just wasn’t safe. Poverty, corruption and the lack of government support still rule this beautiful island state. But those in love with PNG hope that with the help of a better education, things will start to look up.

So, after sharing the lives of the privileged and enjoying the perks as a guest of the better-off, it is good to be home.