I began my day a little cross because there had been dogs in
outside my window fighting all night. The dogs here are not domesticated pets
like back in Australia, they are completely ravenous. When they fight they
sound like enormous and enraged bears. Their growling and attacking had
disturbed my sleep at unpredictable but constant intervals throughout the
night. At around 2.30am, the fighting seemed to stop. Suddenly. I wondered if
someone had reached their limit and hit them over the head with the shovel. At
that moment of exhaustion and frustration – I didn’t care if they had. (Some
people eat dogs around here by the way).
I woke tired and frustrated at my lack of sleep. I went to
have a shower to snap out of it. No hot water. This has become fairly standard
in our current temporary accommodation. Most of the time I am happy to have a
shower with only the warmth of whatever sun the pipes had managed to muster.
This was not one of those times.
With a coffee in my system I decided I would walk to work
and enjoy the beautiful morning air that only the tropics can provide.
People are supposed to be at work at 8am. It was now 8.20,
but the boss wanted to go down to the Market so he could stock up on his
beetlenut.
We arrived at work, none of the staff were there. One
dropped in to say she wouldn’t be at work that day. She had to attend a Haus
Krai (kind of like a wake.. on steroids). Rituals around death are a massive
part of PNG culture.
The rest of the staff trickled in at around 9.30. Our
editorial meeting could now begin.
Following the editorial meeting, the reporters were to
embark on collecting their stories for the day. No car. Someone had taken it
out to cover an event outside of town. We waited another hour for the vehicle
to return.
While waiting, conversation turned to the hottest work place
topic of the moment. My supposed “romance” with one of the local Filipino
business owners. This is a romance of the fictional variety, established from
the boredom of my colleagues. My boss has taken to calling him his ‘Tambu’
which roughly translates to son-in-law. (In Melanesian culture, family titles
such as father, mother, daughter are not limited to biological relations. In
the past couple of weeks I have become the sister, the aunty, the daughter of
many, it’s really touching to be a part of).
The banter was monentarily interrupted by a series of police
and response vehicles speeding past. My colleagues assumed there had been a
hold up. We found out later that day it was the petrol station. I was expecting
that someone from the station would need to go down there and cover the story.
I forgot where I was for a minute, it’s unsafe for our journalists to report on
local crime in PNG.
When the vehicle had returned, we went out to one of the
local highschools, which will soon host the annual Cultural Show. The Cultural
Show is an exciting event where the youth of the area don cultural dress from
their respective areas and do traditional performances. Like any good PNG event
there is also feasting. I had met the organiser by chance while out covering
another story. He said he was hoping he would run into me again as he had
decided he would like me to judge the competition for King and Queen. Yes,
apparently you can have cultural King and Queens. It sounds very Miss
Universe-esque - they are asked a series of questions that they must respond to
and they are judged on key criteria. Hot tip to any contestants reading this:
If you answer any question with “world peace” you’re a winner.
On the way back to the station we encountered people on the
side of the road selling grilled food. We decided to pull over and had fried
banana on a plate of banana leaf. It was a pretty delicious lunch that cost
2kina for all of us (approx $1). Over this shared lunch my colleagues were
educating me on more Melanesian culture; where everything is shared, and
everyone looks out for each other. No matter what.
We returned to the station and the rest of the day was spent
much like most other days in the station; chatting. Or, “sharing stories” as my
colleagues call it. We read the newspaper and talk about PNG politics, they
teach me about rugby (It brings them great joy that I’m Australian and they
know more about the game, the players and the teams than I do), we watch
Bougainvillian video clips (autotuned reggae is the most accurate description I
can muster).
I went for my daily walk into town to try and do some
grocery shopping. There are a surprising amount of supermarkets in my two
street town. Four in the main street. But no one shop stocks everything. So I
find myself zigzagging between them to find what I need, and at the best price.
After being here for only a short time, I can’t go anywhere
without seeing someone I know. Or seeing people that I don’t know, but that
know me (“hey, I heard you were going to play on our soccer team, why are you
playing with that other team?”). Or the inevitable chat that you end up having automatically
when you encounter another white person. Because… They are another white
person.
One of the other Aussies with the program, Rob, is working
with a local fishing company. He texts to let me know the boat has just come in
with some beautiful fresh fish. He asks if I’d like him to bring some to my
work on his way home that I can buy on the cheap. $27 a kilo back home, 4Kina a
piece in PNG… straight off the boat and hand delivered.
I got dropped home and had my usual after work snack – a
coconut (annnnnd a couple of knock off oreos from Indonesia).
My roomie, and fellow AYAD, Em, arrived home shortly after.
We debriefed on our days; while I had been bonding with my colleagues over
Bougainvillian rap music, she had been educating people on Domestic Violence
against women in PNG. Hmmm.
At about 7pm I began to prepare dinner, stoked to be cooking
my fresh fish, thinking to myself “how PNG is this”. Half way through cooking
the power went out. Typical. I thought to myself with much less enthusiasm “how
PNG is this”.
Em and I retrieved our matching emergency wind up camo
torches designed for tsunamis and sat on the couch by torch light waiting for
the power to come back on. By the time the power came back on, I had to start
cooking dinner all over again. Three quarters of the way through cooking, the
power went out. Again.
This was my day. It doesn’t describe every day, but today
was an example of the range of things that happen here and make up my daily
life. Living in PNG is the most incredible experience and my heart feels so
full every day. Things don’t always go to plan here. Actually, things rarely go
to plan here. But that is the charm of the place. PNG never fails to remind you
why it has gained its title of the ‘land of the unexpected’. This is why each
day I conform more and more to the well weathered advice of local people and
expats alike, and expect the unexpected.
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