We have never been modern

 

And we will never be. Only our avatars can be.

 

I would like to follow Bruno Latour’s famous assertion with a more and less obvious posting from the developing world. Clearly the irony of Latour’s argument, given his ethnographic background, is that modernity is an illusion and neither developed nor developing states will arrive there at any time. So I want to take his Durkheimian premise, the one he inverts and reaffirms---that society is in fact more organic than modern—and play with it in Papua New Guinea.

 

Case in point: June 2008. A very non-modern month for me. It begins in the field, at the foothills of the Arafundi River in East Sepik, where my team of PNG ethnographers and I have established a base camp in Awim Village, ground zero for the central series of Karawari caves that we have been exploring and recording since August 2007, thanks largely to a Guggenheim. Early May we brought in a dear friend, archaeologist Edmundo Edwards and his Easter Island family plus assistants (a total of 7), along with a project benefactor, the Spanish businessman/art collector/opera producer, Antonio Cruz-Mayor, a gentleman who surprised us all with his warm and inquisitive nature---a lovely man whom we’re so happy to have behind us. Edmundo got him interested, largely because of the hand stencils we have found and Edmundo is recording, and their potential relationship to other stencil sites in the greater Oceanic region. Antonio also wanted to visit PNG, and was keen to produce an expedition with Edmundo and his team, and even to sponsor the inclusion of Dr Bassam Ghaleb, from

Canada

, who has a well-known technique for dating these difficult images.

 

Anyway, we have Edmundo, a wonderful bon vivant and polymath---perfect companion for any field work, and his Rapa Nui wife, Mara, plus her brother and son (Jaime and Sebastian), and two assistants who also double as videographers (Roberto and Gonzalo), as well as an artist and writer assistant (another Roberto). Plus the charming Antonio, our supplication lodestone. Plus my team of PNG workers, all great, all working at capacity and more for months so far (Josh, Chris, Livai, Kritoe, Jonah, Robert, Freddy, Sebastian, Edward, Albert, Terry, Jeffrey, Frank, Dominic, Kevin, Stanley, Kennedy), and le plus ultra, David, my pal from LA (come for a break from his glamorous Warner Bros job) . Fortunately we had secured two cases of red and Edmundo brought the Duty Free, so all the language barriers were quickly overcome, and scholarly insights achieved almost every evening. Nevertheless, the expected snafus applied. Logistics for these things are no less than for a film set in

Albania

, although with their own special flavor. No fuel, then no mix for the fuel, then no rice, then, Air Niugini connections, then---this was the best: the week before everyone arrived, when I was to fly to Hagen (which now involves two domestic flights from Madang, not one) and buy two plane loads of supplies for the two-month long sojourn, a landslip took the road out between Lae on the Coast and Mt Hagen, which meant no stores were getting through on the highway at all, and the shops in Hagen were down to their last 1 –kilo bags of rice, all treble-priced. After days of half-repairs, big trucks finally got through and the food was on the shelves barely one day before I got there. Incredible luck, and an incalculable cost savings, I should say. All kinds of stars aligned for everyone to arrive on time, rooms at the

Inn

to be available, the charters to fly and loads to fit in, and bring us all to the caves, where, despite general excitement and goodwill, we were forced up front to revise our most ambitious hypotheses. Still, that’s typical isn’t it?

 

And there’s a lot of mis-communication, not just regarding the caves, but also regarding our patron’s hopes and fears, and his financial agility. He is, of all of us, modern. In a canoe up the Arafundi, talking about the Meakembut people who are expected to come down from the caves, where they have lived is isolation, and meet us—fulfilling Antonio’s first contact dreams---and explaining that he can move all his flights back, should there be a delay, and in response to my saying the charter can only land a certain date, Antonio declares—We can buy a plane, for heaven’s sake---money is no object.

Money not being an object is a common response from well-heeled visitors to many of the infrastructural obstacles in PNG. It is a very modern perspective, to assume everywhere operates according to the level of cash input, and that more money makes the machine run smoother. Of course we all saw the logistical knots in the program—we weren’t blind---but the wealthiest of us could assume a kind of default capitalism, where paying for improvements is the norm. Still a problem? How much more will it cost? Is it because Edmundo and team, like myself, live in the South Pacific, or is it because we are less flush, that none of us think this way (entirely). David was like this in his travels, too. Do we have to leave today---isn’t there a plane tomorrow, when it would suit us better? (Why does the market not respond to my needs?)

 

But being modern is not so much presuming the sensitivity of the market as it is presuming that all markets are one global market. Why are they paid so little? Why can’t we tip them, don’t they deserve it? Are they playing us for fools, or do they always wear so little? How did they know we were coming? Are they genuinely ‘uncontacted’?

 

The most modern moment was the most Ponce de Leon moment, when Senor Cruz-Mayor shook hands with Meakambut clansmen, both thrilled for very different reasons. The former bestowed upon the latter the expected trinkets, or baubles really, and although some of them came from the costume jewelry drawer of his wife and daughter, quite a few came from the jewelry boutique near his Canary Islands home, with Versace tags. Honest to god. Much like David’s moment with the Inyai girls in their Fred Segal t-shirts (which gets Fred a photo and David store discounts I think), this was a win-win of mis-matched proportions, although it is hard to say whether the spectacular necklaces Antonio’s handed out were not symbols of opportunities to come, just the way his recreated conquistador transaction could mean an Explorers Club slide show or just cocktail bragging rights (he had, we learned, traveled long and far up the Amazon hoping for a similar moment, to no avail).

 

But to recap: the machine is expected to morph into a slippery organism in the bush. This is where he social swallows the rational of course, where relationships mean more than materials, and time is not money (because if it were, it would have negative value). So this relative relativism, to borrow again from Latour, is to be expected. Nothing clever about my observations, nothing new.

 

Now take the circus on the road.  Antonio flies out promising to direct deposit the necessary funds for the expedition to continue, as soon as possible. This is estimated to be about a week from point of departure to point of deposit, and then another week for clearance (at most). But such calculations, like laboratory experiments, are never real. Express mail from

Australia

to Madang is the same time frame as snail mail, for example. Why did we ever assume otherwise? First, it take A six days to reach

Spain

, following Air Niugini delays and overbooked hotels, and ticket changes. Then the deposit is to follow a certain swift code into my FMA account in

New York

. It must go to Citibank for Smith Barney and then route its way to an account under my name. 89% of the time this works well, especially for funds within the

US

. But direct deposits are a multilingual community, and some swift codes do not translate to others. Then there is the business protocol. A’s secretary has done all she could. The president of his bank affirms that they have followed instructions and can do no more to trace the funds. My account manager, similarly, can’t get anywhere on this because the Spanish can’t read her English emails. Nor does she have all day to deal with my concerns, and what time she does have only marginally overlaps with our time zone.

 

Meanwhile I take David to the highlands, expecting to arrive back in Madang to find the funds in my bank, after which I will resupply the team and charter a flight back. The loose schedule for this means I could either be back before the rice and noodles are gone (we have so many people hat we need to bring in food lest we eat villages out of their own stores), or, at worst, I could miss the intervening visit by Bassam Ghaleb (whose schedule had him arrive just after A left---and because A couldn’t rendezvous at the same hotel, B’s two nights in Hagen have been billed to me---which I’ve easily paid, knowing I shall be reimbursed).

 

To back up, I should explain that I have spent the best part of a big National geographic grant to kit out these camps and accommodate Edmundo, Antonio, Bassam, and crew, with fuel and foodstuffs and charter flights. The assumption has been that A will receive my bill and reimburse me, so Im not worried. Indeed, Im overjoyed, because he is sponsoring a fundraising effort of his own to bring money back to the caves. But because this project has grown exponentially from our initial scope (twenty caves turned out to be more than 200 caves), we are, as a company, living on thin air. Extra jobs have brought in bits of money but also kept me away from the field for months. My workers are herculean, and are no strangers to adversity, so they wait endlessly to be paid and can fossick for food in the bush. But the guests are high maintenance. And that’s where they money has gone. That, and traveling briefly with David (whose holiday could not be rescheduled and who is going Dutch with me in these expensive lodges).  So I arrive back in Madang absolutely broke. Or I’m broke by the time David takes off, after we’ve thrown him a party and I’ve waved off his offers of assistance.

 

That’s when cheques start bouncing and I go begging for friendly loans, also maniacally rushing a housing loan as if my life and kids depended on I, which they do. Every day another crackly satellite call from the field where Edmundo says he’s rung A and A says they’ve sent the money, whats wrong with my account, etc---and eventually adding that the food’s run out, they’re fine, fine, but no more rice, no veggies in the village, and so forth, as I imagine them sharing a pawpaw for dinner. The entire month of June is spent pulling out my hair like this. Then the phones go off---there’s static on the line and I cant get internet, much less speak to NY anymore, so Im mesmerized by a useless screen all day trying to connect, holding back tears, and growing progressively bitchier as more visitors arrive to eat out last bits of food. Nelly gets terrible malaria and fortunately, very fortunately has enough money for artimeter, and in one reckless weekend when I have been led to believe that the money will land in my account by Monday, I go on a supply-buying spree for the plane Im planning to charter back to the bush, and tents and crates and jars of jam fill the livingroom. More cheques bounce, this time wildly.

 

Right about now we get robbed.  The one night no one sleeps on the floor ofthe main room, someone who apparently knows the places cuts the flywire on the verandah and crawls in from Jacob's stairway, opens a door that no doubt wasn't locked, and takes one of the rucksacks Ive bought for the team on one of my shopping sprres, and fills it with our DVD player and radio. He or she tries to take a clutch of cd books but instead leaves them behind, along wih a rubbish bag of my clothes that had been in the rucksack. Nothing else is missing, and we have a mound of gear sitting in the middle of the room, not to mention clothes, food, meds, and two cases of wine (!) This was no doubt one of Leonard's friends from the street, wishing us no harm (my bedroom door was left ajar) but wishing for our electronics even more. Now we are blessed because Roger is visiting and can buy a piece of plywood to block our exposed verandah. Then the  kids get busy painting it with trees an frogs.

 

The bank is now justifiably worried about the loan Im trying to take, and the chief of Telikom repairs is now on holiday so nothing gets done despite my harassing the staff in town all day. Electricity goes off, and I have to scrounge for money to pay the meter. Then water goes ff because the main pipe on Modlion Dr has burst and it’ll take days to fix. There’s anoher problem: one of the gen sets has broken down in the field, and the computer battery Bassam overnight expressed to Edmundo when he arrived in

Sydney

has been stalled for duty in Lae, of all places, and so the team is doing nothing and living on air in Awim. I imagine all our goodwill slowly seeping out like helium. My car buggers up and I am looking at suicide half-heartedly until I realize all the wine I bought for the team might as well be drunken by myself, singlehandedly, and my mood swings are unleashed upon the household, poor sods. Not to mention Jerry Hansen, of Yasi Youth, blind and fairly dependent, who drops in for a stay from Wewak. The bathroom drain clogs and thankgod Roger has come to visit so he spends the morning opening the s-curve and regaling me on my hospitality skills, but at least the drain gets unplugged. At this point reasons to be thankful include Baby Nancy’s unlimited fount of hugs, and Madonna’s ability to smile through everything, not to mention Joyce and Nelly’s stamina. Plus health (despite a freakishly expanding mole). Plus wine (did I mention that?)

 

So, yes, we have never been modern. So much for the Modern Constitution, as per Latour. In a world where westerners live in the east, and vice versa, where hemispheres bleed and development ‘stages’ are up for grabs, none of us have really (to be truthful) signed onto that Constitution. We’ve just read about it, as Latour reminds us (We Have Never Been Modern, 1993, Harvard Univ Press, pp46-7):

 

A different solution appears as soon as we follow both the official Constitution and what it forbids or allows, as soon as we study in detail the work of production of hybrids…When we discover that we have never been modern in the sense of the Constitution, and this is why I am no debunking the false consciousness of people who would practice the contrary of what they claim. No one has ever been modern. Modernity has never begun. There has never been a modern world.

 

Now Im waiting for the team to arrive by a PMV, on credit, from Hagen, where they have been flown up from the field in two planeloads, also (unbelievably) on credit, and because no one has any minutes left on their mobiles, I am getting SMS when they pass Kundiawa, now Goroka, and so forth. Its State of

Origin,

so the road may be more dangerous than I thought, but they’re taking a risk no one would ever need to consider in a modern world---it would never arise, never be an option---in a world where everyone has their bills paid and insurance covered and automatic deductions to your superannuation. But for us, the money has still not arrived (and a generous emergency family loan deposited last night has yet to clear my account today) and these people cannot miss their international connections later in the week. But Ive made ice and broken out the Johnny Walker, and laid mattresses on the floor, and crowded the kids into one room, and am expecting everyone by the time win-loss hullabaloo really breaks out on the roads. Now Im also worried that we have no cash to pay our driver and we'll have an angry kange on our hands in a post-Blues-Maroons riot.