Nineteen years and counting in Papua New Guinea

Blame, and the winding path to restorative justice

 

Our company has recently conducted a review of one Christian charity's 'Restorative Justice' programme across Papua New Guinea. Very successful really, its actually an awareness program for remote communities---telling them their rights, their options, the possible solutions to their social and legal grievances. Everyone benefits by it. Happily, our evaluation is all positive, and beyond inserting a definition of Restorative Justice as it is supposed to be known in PNG, we sort of elide the fact that they're using the wrong name for this excellent programme.

You see, we don’t seek retributive justice here in PNG, the eye for an eye Biblical variety or the punitive civil court version either. We seek what we call Restorative Justice. That’s a term that is both legal and anthropological, and refers to a settlement for an issue or grievance that doesn’t punish the presumed culprit, and often doesn’t seek an exact culprit at all, but one that satisfies the greatest number of people and ‘restores’ peace. In theory. Living this s a nightmare of compromise for someone like myself, the westerner as grandmother/boss/NGO director.

Retributive impulses are so ingrained in me I have come to employ particular ‘glasman’ and ‘glasmeri’ (seers, who can divine a truth) with special powers of accusation. Not the old man who tells me an unknown child stole my change purse at the beach and tipped out my credit cards and license into the water. That calms my nerves for a moment but offers me absolutely no satisfaction. That is---it deflects from my immediate family and close friends, many of whom are renowned thieves and spring to mind instantly after any such incident, in preference for a more generalized resolution of doing absolutely nothing.

These are the glasmen and women who need to be paid up front ad who are so terrified of being blamed for pointing out a culprit that they always find the least actionable solution. Let peace prevail: I suspect they have so little pity for my white Missus problem that they cant take on my frustration. These are the Arbiters of Restorative Justice who never really provide satisfaction. They deflect blame, and in so doing, never resolve anything, but leave the door open for further divinations, more tweaking of the compromise ending. In the words of Mary Lou Retton, they just can't stick the dismount.

 

Im reminds me of the thousands of wives who appeal to the Village Court Officers and Village Court Magistrates across the highlands in PNG for some vindication after they’ve been raped or bashed by their husband or another male relative. As this Magistrate often happens to be another relative, none of them related to a woman married in to this suffocating patriarchal powerlessness, the settlement often comes in the form of compensation: one man hands another sorry money, a pig, some shells, maybe garden food, and they all get over it. The scene in Fitzcarraldo comes to mind when Herzog approaches a local actor who has been  submerged in mud beneath a retreating paddleboat they’ve been hoisting up a mountain, and he says to the remarkably bouyant chap sitting up in mud now: “Well get up, brush yourself off and have a little lunch.” That’s about as much satisfaction women can expect from restorative justice in the highlands here in PNG. It’s the classic Get Over It Chump situation. Buck up girl. There's no retributive justice here.

So when my little black coin purse/wallet gets stolen at the beach, or maybe at home later, or maybe in the night while Im sleeping, I can expect two things: that I will never have personal satisfaction or vindication in this, and I will never see the money again.  A semblance of optimism is kindled by the chance that someone has taken the money and thrown everything else into a bush somewhere, just near enough to be recovered. It is PNG after all, and no one knows how to use my VISAs (nothing seems to be amiss in the account online), so I'm in no rush to cancel everything.

This is where the glasman/meri comes in.

I had a friend in Port Moresby once who lost an expensive necklace gifted to her by her European father. A glasman was called and he ruminated and came back with the exact rubbish tip where it might be found on the other side of town. And there it was. This happens all the time.

 

Someone recommends a certain glasman to me this time because he was the one who knew where our stolen generator had gone last year, which reassures me, until I realize we never did get that generator back in any event. Never mind, he is from a more supernaturally charged part of the country than the first glasman, who wanted K50 for nothing (prompting a friend to charge after him for a refund). This time he takes the nylon beach bag from whence it disappeared for the night, like a talisman. And he needs bus fare, that’s all.

The next morning he’s here to say it was my daughter in law---a notorious thief. Of course, I say, that makes sense---unless you want to explain how she got to the beach or inside our house when she was miles away at the time. He walks out the back of the house and explains in more hushed tones that it is my grandson who took it, and hid it to give her later. This is interesting only insofar as it reveals how broadly the script of my family problems has spread---as this is definitely something that has happened before to feed my tambu’s card gambling habit.  These stories have impressive circulation; our glasman is someone's Uncle from the islands who lives far from town. But I nod, relieved, and offer more bus fare. 

A minute later my housegirl S comes back from walking him to the bus stop. She had the story within the story: how my grandson stole it for the granddaughter, a preteen with a long rap sheet for theft, now living with her mother in the settlement. This scenario, though, is marginally more believable.

Indeed, S is quite persuasive in arguing that this has to be the explanation. P would have given it to his sister at school, and that explains why its nowhere in the house. Its even possible that the bighearted little brother pities his exiled sister who lives in a rough hut behind the market, off the sale of betelnuts his mother manages to retain after playing cards. This works well for S too, whose son was originally fingered by the first glasman, prompting her to run to school and retrieve him only to have the glasman say, not him after all, it must’ve been another kid. So much better the needle points to one of my own kids.

Now, a caveat about S is that she has earned her position as trusted offside after years of strife and subtle sleuthing around the nefarious daughter in law, and will come to me with any issue, however small it might seem, lest I cross her for not divulging later on (which is what everyone else in my family does: they keep their truths close to their chest, never utter insinuations and only wait to say 'I knew as much but didn't want to tell you!') In some vestigial sense of western mores, I value her for the very rare quality in PNG of being able to take the blame.

The other family member who has learned about taking blame is P. I did it! he will admit, awaiting the scales of grandma's justice that always forgive a confession and remind everyone in earshot that knowing the truth is the only thing that ever really matters to me. We tell him the story we’ve concocted: I left to walk the dog after we returned from the beach, my office door was closed but not locked, the bag was within view, and he seized the opportunity to get money for his sister now living in the market, away from grandma's 3 square meals a day. P stood inches from m face as he dissolved into tears. No, he never saw the bag, he said, he didn’t take it. But he said this weakly, as his body shuddered and his head fell and we could almost feel the guilt emanating from him. The level of protest was so dismal, so unconvinced and unconvincing, it made all the more certain, and when he walked off and locked the bedroom door to wail for a long half hour, deep soulful sobs of pain like nothing else.

For fifteen minutes I sit stunned that this treasured boy could have done this. That he has so much guile. He’s my buddy, and Id never heard such painful sounds before in my life. Absolute heaving grief. I had to tell myself he was crying because Id told him we probably couldn’t take our holiday this year, with credit cards gone, and so he wouldn’t be able to ride his bike on a dirt road in Vermont, as hed been planning for months now. Thinking this steeled me somewhat, but not for long. I relented and told him through the locked door that all is well, we will move forward, I love him and forgive him. Then I walked outside and spoke to him through louvered windows, reassuring him as his cried became gulps and sniffles, that I will always love him whatever happens and we can restore our holiday somehow, I promise.

Eventually he emerged, and we hugged. This is the little boy I stole back from my daughter in law when he was 18 mos old and she was in the thrall of a gambling addiction that starved him to a bag of bones---who could only recover with small spoons of peanut butter. This is the boy who jumps up to make me tea when I ask, and the only one of my tribe who knows the importance of saying I'm sorry; it was me.

 

Only much later did I casually ask where he thinks his sister might have hidden the wallet or thrown it away. What? He asks---absolutely guileless. But I was telling the truth, he looks at me with shock and says, I never did see the wallet. I don’t know where it is!

So let me walk you through this with me. This man who barely knows us, but somehow has the backstory about who robs whom in my household, has a vision that my beloved grandson is the current thief, and that he gave this stolen item (admirably?) to his older sister (like feeding a junkie)---in a narrative that satisfies for being familiar, and yet unexpected. Because in our household everything nefarious tends to lead back to one in-law of mine, for whom we have had to take restraining order out. That is the story arc for everything in my family drama, it always finds a way back to her. Indeed, it works for P. As quickly as he sees a PMV cut off a truck on the road and mutters 'Highlander!', he will raise his eyebrows knowingly when he hears his mother's name called. What now? we seem to always ask, unconsciously perpetuating the sexist stereotypes that make domestic violence go round in PNG.

So insidious is this assumption that we can never really know, but we can always suspect---that there will never be true justice, just messages from a supernatural order that points its finger, that kids often inherit the mantle of 'bad' or 'good' as if by blood---as if they are fated to do right or wrong. Possessed, unable to control their own impulses (an argument that often serves young men well), they lose commitment to their own volition. Can't help themselves, they just did it. It's this sensibility that pervades a lot of the gang fraternitas here, and predisposes them all to mystically transformative religious experiences---being born again, finding the lord, etc---whereby they mimic the initiation processes of moving from boy to man, sinner to saint, outcast to radically conventional. None of this involves personal volition in the western sense, but has to do with having forces work upon you.

So it makes sense to P that the glasman has either seen something in him he himself did not know, or observed behavior somehow wiped from P's own memory. He believe the accusation. He has no other experience of justice at this level but this opportunistic form of Restorative Justice, wherein one kid throws up their hand for the lot. Don't make my younger brother serve time, one hardened criminal told the court in Mt Hagen years ago: I'll go back to jail in his place (for kidnap and rape).

P pretty much buys the idea of himself as a thief, and this is shocking enough for him to cry with apparent  remorse ---with a sorrow commensurate to being a black hearted raskol himself. Or so it seems to S and me, as we shrink outside the door to P's heaving cries. It pains us too, but having seen no self-defense, no sense of affront or umbrage taken, I am at least convinced that these are tears of shame and they need to be shed after all.  He may even be just sorry to be caught (the evil grandma inside me says---after all, he's been told we'll have to forfeit our holiday in the US for this).

But when I press him later, when he comes to my office carrying the kitten and looking for a rubber band, I ask him again. And he can only admit what he knows—and that’s nothing. By the afternoon he has an ice cream cone and is restored to confidence in my undying love.

Where there is no free will, there is never retributive justice. And nothing restores the way I felt before I lost my credit cards and drivers license, believe. This much I know: leave me to my naïve beliefs about little boys. 

Leonie's Baluan

 “Manus children live in a world of their own, a world from which adults are wilfully excluded, a world based upon different premises from those of adult life.” ---Margaret Mead 1953[1930], Growing Up in New Guinea. New York: Mentor Books, p55.

 

My pal Leonie is back in her village on Baluan Island, in Manus Province, a cluster of islands far north of the mainland. She’s there to make a documentary about the local slit-gong, or garamut, drums. Can I come for moral support? Yes. In a minute. From Goroka, an Air Niugini flight takes me south to the capital, then connects to bring me up across the mountain spine of the country, across to the Bismark Sea to a small island cluster just beneath Micronesia. The airport is in Los Negros, a forty minute drive to the capital of Lorengau. There are no PMVs to town when I arrive, but thankfully the hire car woman takes pity on me and takes me to town where I check in at the one hotel and walk over to the market. This is where I look for someone from Baluan who might give me a banana boat lift to their distant island. It’s a brilliant Saturday market, brimming with island foods: pineapples, mangoes, pawpaw, guavas, bananas, star fruit, pomelos, sago, taro, yams, betelnuts; fresh fish, prawns, and octopi. A live tree possum trundled in vine and banana leaves at my foot catches my eye, the most anthropomorphic of animals here in PNG, and my heart sinks--he’s looking straight at me, pleading for mercy, and I feel like a slave trader or smuggler avoiding cries of Free me!!  I could cry. But this food for many, and best sold live I imagine.

Eventually I find Nora, a friendly extrovert from Baluan who claims to be Leonie’s cousin (not that everyone on a small island isn’t everyone’s cousin) and can give me a lift to Baluan tomorrow. Nora and her husband, a big blue-black Bougainvillean named Gibson, their baby girl, plus her sister’s family with its three kids, and I, pile into Gibson’s big banana boat around a huge mound of cargo covered in a blue tarp. Gibson jumps in the lagoon for a dip before wet set off, his bald head flinging ropes of water alongside a swimming dog. Already at 8 AM it’s beginning to get hot. By midday it should be searing. It will be more than two hours across the sea to Baluan, one of the far flung of Manus’ outer islands. In the middle of the journey, over an hour from town surrounded by pitchy black seas, the skies cloud over and a light rain begins. The swells rattle us back and forth, bow to stern, and send us cresting high waves and slapping down with frightening force. Everyone covers themselves in caps and rain gear, the oldest kid, a little girl, sliding under the tarp mound, sheltered by the boat’s curved lip. One of them crawls under to make a bed on duffel bags, and the baby, a doe-eyed beauty of maybe 12 months, is cradled under her father’s head. None of them cries, not even a whimper, because they must be used to this. Like the highlands kids who uncomplainingly ride flatbeds over rocky cliffside trails, these kids are born to big seas. We roll and take in water, and the rain grows stronger making it hard to see. I’m terrified, searching for shark fins in the frothy waters and thinking about a Styrofoam esky as life preserver. But eventually the seas calm, Gibson sets a firmer course and we slice right through them as, miraculously, the sun comes out again.  

We pull up at the rocky shoreline and Nora kindly walks me inland, uphill, along a path through stilted homes, to a grassy clearing. A small timber house with a cement patio and wide roof sits in a clearing not at all unlike a weekend house on the coast of Australia somewhere. Surrounded by croton and hibiscus bushes, and fruit trees, and yet dwarfed by the dense rainforest that climbs a steep mountain just behind, this is the loveliest oasis I could have imagined. You might almost expect a waiter bearing gin and tonics. Even better, there’s Leonie on the veranda strumming a guitar with her cousin Freddie. They see me, smile, and continue.

I pressed a knife to her breast

She cried Oh my love don’t murder me

I’m not prepared for eternity

Down by the banks of the Ohio   

Baluan is a tropical idyll, not too small, and perfectly lush. It has five villages along a coral footpath that girdles the whole island. Food is everywhere: fish in the sea, fruit and nuts on the trees, rich gardens on the hills inland. Old people have only to reach out their windows for a big grapefruit-like pomelo to eat. And as if life couldn’t be better, there are hot springs pulsing from grottoes all around the shoreline, the luxury gift of a volcano called Malsu at the very center of the island. They even have public baths to enjoy them. You go down to men’s or women’s springs at dusk and dawn, where you sit behind bamboo blinds and try not to disturb the silty bottom going down. I learn this the first night, as Leonie laughs and tells me I now have to wait for the dirt to settle again. But I’m so white that I glow in the dark behind a flimsy bamboo partition.

“Sit down! You’re too white!” and I flop into the mud.

 

Growing Up

Leonie and I amble around filming everything that matters. People are home for the Christmas holidays, and one civil servant from Moresby stages a big feast, called a polpolot, to distribute money from the sale of a garamut drum. This is crucial for Leonie’s film. First, there’s a long serious Council of Chiefs meeting on the upper veranda of his home, which includes enough Pidgin with the local language for me to understand. Baluan has several lapans, or sub-chiefs, under one paramount chief. But their authority must be earned, I am told, and cannot be taken for granted. Leonie’s cousin Selan is a lapan, and there’s endless discussion over what he’s doing wrong, what he should do, what they used to do, and so forth. Inherited status has a competitive edge. Any strong individual could challenge his authority, if not the title.

We attend an all-island basketball championship party in Selan’s ground one evening, where teenage boys spend endless minutes between songs tweaking the speaker system and cassette player. It’s a big coconut-broom swept clearing bordered by crotons with frangipani and hibiscus decorations strung from ropes running around the edges. Young Beryl, Leonie’s neice, sits on a bench watching red ants carry a husk of chewed betelnut. In the hazy fluorescent pool over the dirt, all the little boys like her brother’s son Kanawi dance in pairs, while the women shuffle around in regulation modesty outfits, big t-shirts and laplaps. Older people sit in the darkness outside the hum of the light, chewing betelnut. There’s that song by the Sagothorns called “Kolwin,” then “Pindo Pando” by Reks Band: just the local pop cassettes someone happens to have, infused by static humming. Then the sound dims, and all the older boys flock to the table to check the system. They disconnect wires from the machines and talk about nothing, making everyone wait forever while the techies take over. The electric cicadas rise to fill the void and I think we might as well be dancing to them.

Leonie’s two beautiful little nieces follow her everywhere. Beryl and Stephanie, about ten and six years old, obviously worship their glamorous aunt, which is understandable because Leonie is tres chic and wears bangles on her long thin arms, expresses herself with long lacquered nails in cyclical hula-like motions, and is gobsmackingly beautiful. She once told me she’d never worn a meri blouse. These girls fetch her betelnut, run messages and deliver gifts of fish from their mother, which Leonie returns with rice and noodles. She feeds the girls, and permits them to flip through her glossy magazines at will. But the girls are easily distracted, especially Beryl, who cranes her neck for the next best thing. Off she goes now. Their flawless brown skin sparkling from a dip in the sea, their hands peeling a pomelo or a pakpak fruit, and their brilliant smiles and big clear black eyes untroubled by calendars, clocks or responsibilities, these lovelies embody the mythical idea that childhood is bliss in Manus. It is definitely a freedom they will never have again.

Leonie and I sit at her verandah stoking the Coleman lamp. Beside us sits her tall, slightly goofy and gentle Uncle Pare, in a globe of big hair. He seldom talks but always smiles. Pare is the adopted son of Paliau, Baluan’s most beloved son. Right after W.W.II, Paliau rocked the Australian administration by demanding local self-government and schools for Manus. His efforts and the teachings he espoused were called a cargo cult, one of many that erupted across the country after the War, in a pattern that emerged after the First World War. These were religio-political movements that reacted against the church and the Australian administration, sometimes involving neo-traditional ritual and wild goings on--as the administration reports had it--like orgies and human sacrifice. In essence, they were local attempts to get the good life villagers saw these foreigners enjoying—hence, they were cults for obtaining cargo. Sick of hearing different things from different white people—after the priests told them to behave this way, and the kiaps told them something else---many communities became fed up with the growing inequity between the white people and themselves. All the homiletic speech in the world couldn’t explain why containers of manufactured goods kept arriving on their shores exclusively for these visitors, not for the hosts. These people also spoke in metaphors, so that when pastors said Thy Kingdom Come, they surely understood the illusions to harvest and reward. But what magic was also secretly being employed to reap this kind of harvest? Many Melanesians believed that a secret ritual or code was being withheld from them---which is, indeed the case, as the means of production for this new cash economy were still beyond their reach, and some would say remain so today).

 Some cargo cults emulated the white man’s most quotidian behaviors, like typewriting, marching drills, listening to the radio, and running up the flag. People would carve typewriters, shotguns and radios from balsa wood and dress to resemble their overlords, forsaking customary routines as counter-productive in the new age. These rituals worked for the newcomers, they might work for us. Some set up altars, conducted rituals and rewrote the catechism for their eager and similarly frustrated followers. The Europeans reacted much the way public health officials react to homeless schizophrenics in town. They called this madness. The way the villagers conflated European concepts and feigned submission was nothing but scoundrel passive-aggression, and both the church and the colonial administration sought to ferret out the sedition beneath.

When American GI’s arrived on Manus’ main island, some of them astonishingly Black American to boot, Manusians were finally convinced that their churches and state had been lying all along. None of the instant wealth and superficial equality within the corps made sense to the restraint and passivity they had been taught for two generations or more. Across the country, not just in Manus, cult rituals redoubled, many of which sought the return of Americans, their real brothers, for final redemption after the War. Biblical stories of Ham and prodigal sons which had been folded into origin myths about brothers of different fortune, now became prophesies fulfilled. The War had revealed the truth and the people of Papua and New Guinea were not unlike other postwar colonial populations who refused to submit to false promises any longer. After the War, Paliau’s movement was replicated in neo-Independence efforts across the country, under an illusion that they could cast off their past—or rework tradition with modern routines-- and be reborn global citizens.

 

Cargo cults hailed the rise of ambitious new leaders, men (and sometimes women) who had visions, who cultivated followings that for the first time stretched horizontally across the region, well beyond the clan, parish and tribal boundaries of before. Some were more self-serving than others, like charismatics everywhere. But Paliau was certainly amongst the most intelligent. As foreigners grew less mystifying over the years, and as the vox pop changed, his brand of salvation adapted to the Manusians’ evolving aspirations. From being stridently anti-tradition, it softened to a more culturally proud and syncretic movement. It required little change, however, to shift from demonized cargo cult to a proto- independence self-help movement, which in turn grew into a political party and church that lobbied to bring local government councils and schools to Manus. Paliau’s movement is a Revenge parable for Manus, as Australians transmogrified from horror to indulgence, particularly after the public support Margaret showed Paliau after the War. He was eventually revered as a culture hero by the entire country. The educational jump-start he gave Manus produced a generation of elite civil servants just after Independence, which some in Port Moresby referred to as the Manus Mafia. Paliau is certainly one reason why Leonie can be a cosmopolite in the 1990s. She went to film school in Gororka, then Paris, and was courted by all manner of Europeans before she married a British volunteer and had his child. In another well-rounded parable, she eventually left Douglas for the thrall of a handsome educated Manus man and a romance customary undertones. Hers is a story as thrilling as Paliau’s. Today the Baluan people have made Paliau memorial of cellophane-wrapped flower bouquets on the old man’s cement grave, right next to Leonie’s house.

When Margaret Mead came back to Pere on Manus mainland in 1953, she met Paliau for the first time and experienced the transformational effects his work had had even by then on the Manus people. “They speak, she writes,

    with rapt looks on their faces, of ‘1946’with the devotion of a true revolutionary.  In 1946, the     new order began. Where did it come from? It came  p like an  arthquake, from nowhere.  Who     started it? No one, we ourselves initiated it. We decided to have a new way of life, to  throw away     every evil custom of the past and set  up our own form of life.[1]

On the far side of the grave is Paliau’s church, the Haus Hamamas—the Happiness House. Every Sunday the Win Nasin members gather in their whitest clothes to observe Paliau’s three rules: Report what you’ve done; Give Information on community events; and Ask questions about each other’s business. No secrets, is the message, everyone must communicate. Then they sing Win Nasin songs under a cross inscribed with the words: Unity, Peace, Rights, Freedom, Self. The old men wear clean laplaps and white t-shirts that say LIKE A FIRE THE 1946 PALIAU MOVEMENT, clutching woven baskets under their arms, their mouths stained betelnut red and, more often than not, a frangipani tucked behind the ear. Or they wear long ladies’ skirts from secondhand shops in Lorengau, and hug small patent leather bags, wearing big glassy drop earrings instead of the tortoise shells rings in their earlobes. And every morning these elegant and self-posessed men stride across the green in front of Leonie’s house to salute the flag over Paliau’s grave, with reverence. They are like a troupe of aging female impersonators, deadpan and war-weary.

The church sits in Mouk territory, the narrow strip of marshy ground that’s been ceded for generations to a migrant community called Titans, or Mouks. Paliau was a Mouk, and this is an important distinction. The Mouks are said to have fled their imploding Island long ago and migrated to the coasts Manus, where they exist as vaguely second class or Roma people, but renowned for their fishing skills. Their tiny stilt houses sit over the water at the end of log walkways, out beyond the pigsties and  mangroves that dot the shore.

 As Baluan’s fishing people, the Mouk trade their catch for the garden produce of their landowning hosts, who still garden the steep shoulders of the Malsu volcano. Their authority is gilded by the mysterious survival of stone cairns and walls throughout these garden hills, left behind by ancestors no one really remembers. The Titans are smaller darker people to the light-skinned ‘true’ Baluans who boast that they originate from Micronesia (which may in fact be true—Yapese people migrated here). But the Titanic national pride in their celebrated son, Paliau, has elevated the Mouks in the modern age.

Papua New Guinea writer Jaive Smare writes about Baluan on his blog ‘My Amazing Paradise’ (www.mayamazingparadise.com). “I asked the Baluans about the Mapo” he begins.

     They said the Mapo were a group of dwarf like people who lived on the island and built these     rock walls. Their ancestors apparently remember the Mapo as people who  lived in the island’s     jungles and watched the activities of the Baluans. They only  ame out when the Baluan villagers     had retired for the night. The story is that the  Mapo were hard workers. When the Baluans     cleared land for gardening or started  planting but did not finish, the next day  when they     returned, they found that to their surprise the mysterious Mapo had completed  all the work for     them. The Mapo did  everything excessively and where very hard working. According to the     Baluans, this  was not just strength of the Mapo but also a weakness. When  it came to harvesting     crops, if the Baluans harvested some bananas from their gardens, the  next day when  the arrived     at their gardens, all their bananas where harvested, even the  green ones.  They said the Mapo     over-harvested the gardens and the land. They were helpful  but  also destructive. So what     happened to the Mapo? Where they chased off the island or   did they mysteriously leave one     day? Different Baluans will tell you different stories.  But something happened.

 

 Life

 Leonie’s brother, Roy, is handsome and curly-haired with big long eye lashes. Like Leonie, he is landed Baluan, athough the distinction is more political than true after several generations of intermarriage. His wife, Heni, is Mouk, mother to Beryl, Stephanie and their brother Kanawi. Their one room stilted house sits about 50 feet offshore just down the hill from Leonie’s house, across the prickly coral island footpath. But to reach it, you must walk the long slippery garamut log from the shore, which is as much a challenge to me as one of those vine-covered logs thrown across the great Baliem valley in West Papua, which schoolchildren scamper across all day and I have only shimmed across with my teeth clenched against the deep gorge and river below.

Roy’s house is worth the effort; it’s a breezy room with a small verandah facing the sea out back where the banana boat is tied. Roy is a doting father, and his three kids are busy conducting the business of childhood in Manus. Roy sits placidly on a stool as the kids jump from the verandah to their small canoe, paddle to the log in front and repeat the routine with determination. As Margaret Mead observed over fifty years before:

     The [Manus] father treats his young children with very slight regard for differences in sex. Girls     or boys, they sleep in their father’s arms, ride on his back, beg for his pipe, and purloin betel nut     from his shoulder bag. When they are three or four, he makes then small canoes, again regardless     of sex. Neither boys nor girls wear any clothing except tiny bracelets, anklets, necklaces of dogs’     teeth, and beaded belts.[2]

 

Of the Mouk stilt houses, she writes:

    The house floors are made of strips of wood, short and smooth and evenly placed, so that there     are frequent gaps. Little children have to exercise nearly as much care as if they lived in trees     above the water…Even the pigs have become water animals. During the day they are kept fenced     up in small pens on piles, but at night they are let out and wallow and swim peacefully about in     the low water.

 

Heni is malarial and lying down as we sit around inside gossiping. Stephanie finally comes to sit with us, winded. Heni’s brother is washing his baby in a tin bowl on the verandah now, and Beryl comes up the log to the front door and asks for betelnut, which her father throws.  Then she runs through the house to tickle baby in back, pinching  her nose like a doll as she jumps into the sea. The baby cries, Roy stands up to tell Beryl to cut it out, and then Stephanie stands up to bolt out back and join her sister. They swim to the banana boat squealing and kicking, as if they’d never in their life had so much fun in this warm green water. These are the kind of kids who make me clucky.

It’s New Year’s eve and Leonie has the senseless idea of having a drinking party, with beer and precious rum. All her cousins, sisters and brothers and their kids squeeze with us onto the cement verandah, plastic cups in hand. Little Beryl and a cousin are cracking the rinds of pakpaks together; the one that breaks first loses, and the other gets to eat both lychee-like fruits. Meanwhile, little Kanawi makes flinty fireworks with an old sparkplug tied to a match to the end of a stick and hurled to the ground hard--BANG! –loud as a pop gun. The cassette player plays PNG music, Madang bands, and people sing along much of the time. The sky is purple, the coconuts are silhouetted, and we sit in a postcard of tropical dreams. I don’t remember mosquitoes, only the music and good company. At midnight one of Leonie’s brothers, Ray, walks off to strike the gong of an empty fuel tank hanging outside the Haus Hamamas. Happy 1998. The whole island can hear the peel. Then he comes back and becomes so hopelessly drunk, stumbling all over the verandah as we try to dance and calling out “Happy New Year! Happy New Year!,” so that the kids laugh uncontrollably, and Pare tries to sit him in a wicker chair. But Ray starts swinging at Pare so hard he swings himself out of the chair. Then Beryl takes Kanawi’s spark and slams it to the ground just beneath Ray’s arse, so he jumps so far he nearly falls on his head, Beryl throwing her head back in the biggest laugh of all. Ray’s fallen into a croton bush, and he tries to rise and take a swing at the air but passes out instead.

Then the fights start. One uncle picks a fight with his wife for standing in the darkness outside the party and not coming in close when he calls her. He pulls her shirt up to her chin and pushes her to the ground. She gets up and marches into Leonie’s house crying. Beryl finds a dog-eared women’s magazine under a table and flashes a close-up photo of a orangutan at her little sister, who bursts out crying, causing her mother to swipe Beryl, who also starts crying. Heni’s laughing though, and the three of them go inside and curl up on a pallet on the floor. The rest of us stay up dancing and telling stories for what seems like forever, until stragglers from another party, young boys, emerge as shadows in the darkening black beyond the verandah. They hesitate only briefly then break the illusory glass of the fluorescent lights and stand amongst us, demanding alcohol. Someone hands them cups, and Leonie and I make our way inside. They have the cassette player going long after Leonie and I have shut the door. “Tell them to go away,” I say.

“I can’t,” she says, “They’ll think I’m selfish.” So they stay on and finish the rum, a gift from Leonie’s ex-husband.

The next morning, Beryl is sitting on a wicker chair on the verandah when I go outside. But she spies her older brother Kanawi emerging from the bush behind with a couple of boys, and their shirts are full of ripe pakpak stolen from the gardens. Embarrassed to see him with kids who scrounge under other people’s trees, she yells, “Kanawi!” and he turns, smiles, and runs off with the pack. “Bikhet Mouk!” she calls out. I don’t know why I’m so enthralled with these kids, but I think they’re extraordinarily clever and  independent. They are Huck Finns, the Berstal Boys, of the tropics.

Writing home in 1928, Margaret Mead talked about these kid, who would become the basis of her 1930 book, Growing Up in New Guinea.

     It’s paradise for children. They have no work except to run errands and that involves paddling     about in the water. At low tide in the early morning they course about shooting fish with tiny      bows and arrows, dragging the water for minnows with a long piece of bark used  in imitation of a     net, or practicing just  issing each others’ feet  with a piece of  coral hurled through the                 water.[3]

 

Leonie and I are fishing with the kids in the afternoon, around the far side of the island, on a small rocky island surrounded by a wide light green skirt of coral. The water is very warm as we all stand in it to throw out lines. Dolphins surface not far away. Hornets hum from a nest in the mangrove tree behind us. Beryl, Stephanie, Kanawi, and a sweet droopy-eyes little boy named Kila whose spine must be fused because he can’t turn his neck, all strip their shorts off to dive for troicha and nautilus shells. Leonie catches one silvery seaperch after another, while I get nothing. The kids help by smashing snails found in the rock crevices which serve as bait. They make neat piles of it on the rocks, just to be obliging. Leonie throws her fish into a little pool between two rocks, and little Stephanie squats down to stroke them. She picks each one up and bites their eyes out, like jujubes, crunching down on their noses murderously. Some are left alive, though, and she takes one, a wrasse in beautiful pale blues, pinks and greens, and at the declination along the ridge of its belly she pokes her finger right through. Gooey intestines slide out, like sausages in a long sack, and expertly, she squeezes the goop out to salvage the transparent sack, leaving the fish in death thralls on a dry rock. “Stop it!” Beryl suddenly screams. “Stop it! Stop it!” she demands, coming up behind.  But Stephanie continues her dissections on a second fish. Beryl knocks the first fish back to the pool and slaps the second one from her sister’s hand.

“Asap!” she screams, using a term for second-sister. Switching from Baluan to Mouk language, her mother’s tongue, she yells (and Leonie translates): ‘Those fish are alive! You stupid girl you can’t gut the stomach of a fish where you caught it, you know that. Those fish are alive! Stop it!’ Her sister, I learn, has broken a fishing taboo.  Stephanie twists on her bare feet to look serenely over to her Aunt Leonie, clearly a master at infuriating her older sister. Leonie shrugs and calls out “Catch this,” unhooking another fish, which Beryl receives slithering into her palms. She is still aggrieved, and whines, “Stephanie is taking the guts out from the fish when she should wait!”

“Wait for what?”

“To do it somewhere else!” she says, astonished that Leonie doesn’t know why. “You can’t use the stomach of the fish for bait if you just caught it, you have to move somewhere else.” 

“You little Mouk!”  Leonie laughs. Turning to me, she says, “Must be a Mouk thing. A superstition, you know.”

But I don’t know: this kind of childhood is so far from my own, set against a volcanic island and beautiful people. Because it’s school holidays, our days are more langorous than usual, but still the self-assurance and complex society of these kids makes me wonder what I did with friends at this age. I have Our Gang memories of long afternoons, but these Baluan youngsters are a much more resourceful community than I ever knew. What I had growing up was feigned Independence---all walkie-talkies, Schwinn bikes and Good Humor trucks nothwithstanding. These kids eat anywhere, sleep anywhere, and only get a scolding if they deign to interrupt intense adult concentration. Even then, no one sulks, and nothing is taken personally.

     No child under thirteen or fourteen had any possessions except his canoe and bow and arrow,     furnished by adults. …The child does not complain…I shall never forget the picture of     eight-    year-old Nauna mending a broken penny balloon which I had given him. He would     gather the edges of the whole into a little bunch and painstakingly, laboriously, wind it about with     raffia-like grass. The hole made temporarily fast, he would inflate the balloon, which a moment     later would collapse and have to be mended again. He spent three hours at this labor of love,     never losing his temper, soberly tying up the rotten flimsy material with his sturdy grass     string.[4]

 

Death

Two nights later, Leonie, Beryl and myself are all asleep on foam pallets on the floor of Leonie’s house. The silence is solid, but for a honking toad now and then. The cicadas are faint and near the shore now, having left us hours ago. Just before sleep, at the moment when it feels you’ve now been spun off into space, we hear the sound of a drum. The tattoo of a garamut slit gong, the very subject of Leonie’s film. We have been filming the carvings and tuning of these slit gong drums for over a week now. People pay them for us, improvisationally, and also pedantically, because they are important vehicles of trade, ceremony, trade and communication.  This is the first time I’ve heard one unsolicited, at a distance. Leonie sits up straightbacked, listening closely. “It’s Sakumai. I have to go.”

Beryl stirs, and we both watch Leonie dash out to the darkness. Off toward Selan’s compound, beyond the black bush. The drum goes on for maybe ten minutes, and it’s the most solemn sound I’ve ever heard. Twenty minutes later Leonie’s back, her eyes filled with tears. Uncle Kuam is dead. Everyone’s gathering at the widow’s house and Leonie must go back to be with them. You go, I say. I’ll wake and bring the camera later. It’s no later than 4 AM. When I arrive, the old women are washing the body. The house glows by kerosene lamp, alive with the family’s moaning. Someone is wailing loudest and highest, and several old women begin to sing a slow lament in the old Baluan language. These are the  traditional mourning songs and they fill the interior to reverberate outside.  It’s a big house, built out from the original one room and verandah on tall palings, into four rooms of plywood and sheet metal, with a walkway between rooms and a blue tarp extending the thatch roof over part of the kitchen. From the sloping path outside I see stacks of tin bowls, pots and coffee mugs set to dry on a board at the kitchen window, and inside, a blackened kettle on the fire. Benson and Hedges ads are tacked to the walls with pretty mixed race girls in sunglasses. People sit crowded against the walls when I walk inside. Leonie’s there. Old women have taken off their meri blouses and are slumped on the floor wringing tea towels against their soft deflated breasts, their mouths revealing blackened teeth as they sing dirges and wail out, again and again.

Kuam lies on a carved and painted wedding bed, on legs about a foot from the floor, cushioned by a foam pallet, and covered to his chin in flowered laplaps. Bald, big-nosed, his skin is a purplish red, livid. Someone explains to me that he just sat up in bed and had a stroke (she uses the English word) in the middle of the night. I’m a complete stranger in the midst of this very private moment, but she rubs my arm and tells me to stay; she’s the widow’s sister. When I walk outside, the yard is already full of visitors. People sitting on logs and rocks and plastic chairs between the mango and rain trees. They’re all chewing buai, some rocking babies, some of them crying. More men arrive, their heads bowed, carrying axes. They set to chopping down a stand of eight betelnut trees to one side of the house, all the trees planted by the dead man himself. It’s sunrise now. Leonie’s sister Dinah explains that it’s their right to take the [alms as members of the man’s sister’s line, the same line that will receive payments at the big mortuary feast, the filo, to come. After the funeral they’ll also come raid the widow’s house of everything belonging to their Uncle. All the skinny palms come down easily, boughs full of ripe nut clusters which the men and some of their wives pull from the tangled fronds as they hit the ground. Little boys run along the trunks, wobbling and jumping off at the ends. The nut clusters are now hung at the corners of the house, inside the haus win and on the verandah, so all the visitors can have a chew. Hands disappear into baskets for stubby mustard seeds and jars of lime powder, as betelnuts are palmed around in twos and threes. I take one and split it with Beryl’s little sister Stephanie, who hands me someone’s lime and a bit of mustard seed. It’s good betelnut, not too bitter, hardly needs lime to cut the sting. It is a time when I cannot take notes, but I find a way to remember so many details.

From inside the house the widow sobs.An older man translates for me.

      Oh my sweetheart, oh my darling,

      You’ve left me now my darling, oh my darling,

      Oh my sweetheart, why did you leave us,

      Why did you leave me?

The old man and woman from the top of the volcano sit in a haus win groan and keening songs in the older Baluan language. They may be the last people to know the songs, and so they bring them to the funeral. The dead man’s brothers file past on their way to the house. There’s Ngat Selan, whose long white hair and beard, his fair skin, glasses, and brimmed hat, made him look like an Orthodox Jew come to sit shiva. His son Richard is a little touched in the head, and walks around hang-dog with an oft-lascivious smile. Very Boo Riley. Leonie and I visited this Uncle at his house, where he showed us some of the carvings that have made him renowned on Baluan, and he talked about how sorry he was Richard couldn’t learn to take over from him. Uncle Kapo follows next, with his small eyes and a big nose just like his brother Kuam’s. Then Uncle Nou, chief Sakumai’s father, more nervous and talkative than the rest, saying, “Morning, morning” to all of us. One brother can’t be moved from his house on the water, where he lives with his wife and his crossed-eyed granddaughter. Still another is in the capital.

Now one of their cousins emerges from the house, her face contorted, reaching for her baby in another woman’s arms before she hurries down the path and home. The wife of the dead man’ son stumbles out with her arm around Leonie, and they moved to sit on the verandah. Women now arrives in a long line, bringing food in tin bowls carried above their heads, covered with tea towels. Rice, sweet potato, taro, papaya,  coconut cooked rice dumplings wrapped in tiny leaf bundles. 

By mid morning ten men have gone off to dig a grave behind the village playing field. By mid afternoon they’ve abandoned it as too rocky, and are sweating under the flinty sounds of shovels at a second spot. Eventually this too is abandoned. At the house, more men are measuring, sawing and hammering a coffin from sheets of plywood. Word comes back from the dead man’s eldest son, George, in Port Moresby not to bury their father today, but to wait. He and his sister are arranging to fly in tomorrow or the next day. This means the body must go to the hospital morgue in Lorengau, on the big island. It can’t be left in the heat of the island.

All the people inside and outside Kuam’s house have nothing to do but debate this decision already made for them, because debate is the real sport on Baluan, bigger than  billiards played on homemade tables (with beautifully carved and sanded black palm pool cues). The time it’ll take the kids to get here is unreasonable, some say. And the seas are so rough they might even have to wait to bring the body to the morgue. Then George and his sister Louisa would arrive to find their father’s half-rotten corpse, mangled by bouncing on the high seas, god forbid. Besides, all the flights to and from Manus and the capital are overbooked, it’s the holidays. But a Mouk who works for Air Niugini in Moresby might find space on a cargo flight, which would mean the children and the dead man’s brother, Ngi, could all come. The body would still have to be two or three days in the morgue. Several banana boats are organized for family to take it in its coffin to Lorengau. Not today--there are whitecaps on the horizon. Probably tomorrow. Baluan is so very far from anywhere, so very hard to get to. Speedboats and shortwave radio are its strongest links to the rest of the world. It’s the sort of place where Coke bottles wash ashore from around the globe, as one did recently, idly launched seventeen years before by a young California couple from their picnic at the beach. Leonie’s father found it, had Dinah read the note, and went to pains to write a letter back from so far afield and so many years away. Then the couple wrote back, sending Leonie’s father a photo of a smiling middle aged couple surrounded by red headed children.

 

Malsu

 Leonie and walked up the volcano at the center of the island once, to meet the family that’s always lived there. The wiry handsome patriarch--the man who sings a lament at Kuam’s house---leads us to the blood stones, last signs of Baluan cannibalism, fragments of a human abattoir, where victims were butchered before being stewed in large clay pots. The real Hollywood backstory. Children, the old man tells us, were always the juiciest meat. In fact, they were often swiped from visiting trading vessels. Once a Baluan boy was stolen by nearby Pom Islanders who brought him to their lapan. He was terrified to see they were readying for a feast, but soon realized they were actually preparing for his installation, as the old lapan had no son of his own and impulsively decided to adopt the boy. Rather than eat him.

We stand at the edge of the extinct volcano, looking over into its cold uninhabited but feathery center. It’s a conical pit that reaches down below the sea floor and seems to be covered with a soft shag carpet of young palms. The old man says he’s recently been to America, on a Bahai church junket, and he met an American couple who told him there were people in Israel building an ark for the millennium. Oh, I say. No, I’m afraid I don’t know these people, I have to admit, and I probably don’t have a seat on the ark. When I ask about his kids--all thirteen--he explains with great pride which son is a doctor, which one’s a lawyer, which daughter is a teacher, where they live, and so forth.  It doesn’t surprise me that a man atop a volcano in a far flung South Sea island has fervent belief that an ark for the end days is under construction, in America. That his son is a surgeon at Goroka Base Hospital, his daughter works for the Education Department in Port Moresby, and his nephew is Minister of Culture, I did not expect. I have entered 100 years of solitude, waiting to be written by the Malsu grandchildren.

 

The New Way

 The next time I see this lovely old man and his wife is at an ‘awareness’ meeting down the coral path from Leonie’s house. In a low thatch building with benches down the long walls and a long table and chairs in the center, tens of people have gathered to hear a Baluan man, a civil servant back from Moresby for the holidays, give a talk about the problems of government today. The issue of corruption, that thing called globalization, and foreign aid. It seems to me in keeping with the Paliau ethos that someone should host and everyone politely attend such an event. The man himself, a big bear of a fellow named Sionin, has introduced himself to me already and heartily invited me to come.

I sit diagonally across from an elderly man named Sipo, an important figure in the Catholic Church I’m told. He has long open earlobes and a blue cap that falls forward to the top of his aviator sunglasses. His sulu is a long jersey wraparound skirt, and he rests one hand on a walking cane while the other clutches a betelnut basket to his chest. Everything Sionin says makes him nod with approval. An old woman next to him chews such a big wad of betelnut that she has to keep poking a finger to keep it inside. The Malsu volcano man and wife are near the far end of the bench, listening intently. On a white board against the far wall Sionin’s written:

 

PEACE AND ITS RELATED CONCEPTS

OVERVIEW--FOCUS QUESTIONS

What is peace freedom, unity and its opposites of war, conflict?

How can we overcome conflicts and achieve/realise Peace?

Why racial and other forms of prejudice and discrimination?

      attitude/perception    governments/countries religion   ethnocentrism--ethnicity

      egocentrism--egocentric   sexual (men vs women)   domestic violence child abuse!

FREEDOM--Are you free? From what? Sources of freedom MAN HIMSELF/OURSELF (MAN is the measure of all things)---Government by the people for the people--Kennedy

      constitution   justice system   human rights organisations  legislation

eg Village Courts United Nations

GOD--SPIRITUAL

That all the prophets from God including Mohammed Krishna Buddha and Jesus came to deliver “peace” message from God! (if we believe in the unity of religion and mankind).

     ‘People,’ he bellows in Pidgin, ‘we must think twice about these concepts, Freedom and Justice. The Hindus of India, for example, cut off the arms of little babies to beg for money in the streets of Bombay. Is this something you can tolerate? Because someone before mentioned the word tolerance. Can we tolerate that? The Muslims in the Middle East are performing acts of terrorism. They force women to cover themselves head to toe when they go outside, and I’ll tell you, as someone who has visited Muslim countries like Malaysia and Indonesia, these people have very different ideas about freedom than we do. Is that something we can tolerate? Because as I say this, you know there are already mosques and temples to these religions in PNG today--I’ve seen them!

‘Now all this leads us to....’ and here he lifts a piece of paper with the bold words “CORRUPTION” on top and the cartoon of a fat man with a cigar below. ‘Corruption,’ he intones, then pauses. ‘Many of you have heard this word more and more on the radio and in political talk. We are becoming a nation of corruption.’ He sets down his stack of papers. ‘Let me ask you, this Prime Minister Sir Julius Chan, some say he’s a billionaire. Why? Because he takes kickbacks. Why are all our politicians driving Pajeros and flying to Brisbane when the grassroots people like ourselves are left to pay higher school fees, and we can’t even afford rice and tinned fish? I’ll tell you why. Because it’s corruption.’

I remember a visit to my father and stepmother in their Florida retirement idyll, where they enjoy all the mod cons and lime green accents, and are in no sense back to nature, but here they have arrived after decades of dim cubicles and windowless offices working to afford this kind of simplicity, or this kind of view, with a dock. Their local club is filled with madras and Lilly Pulitzer,  and has none of these wraparound midis or drop earrings; but they strive just as anxiously as this set of seniors who were born in paradise and dream of a landline phone. In Florida it’s a new car, the next set of clubs. But both places carry on without enjoying the view.

No one responds to Sionin. Some of the older ones look to be waiting for a punch line. Sionin picks up his papers now and flips to the next one, the drawing of a beggar on one side, and a fat politician on the other.  ‘Now I read somewhere that a UN study puts us seventeenth on a list of developing countries for our quality of life. Seventeenth! Poor! We’re poorer than seventeen other developing countries! And yet we’re a nation of huge natural wealth--gold mines, oil, timber, coffee, copra. One of the wealthiest countries in the world filled with some of the poorest people. Why is it our Manus politicians haven’t brought any sort of development to Baluan? Do you see development here? Are you living like white men? No! We’re still living like bus kanaka. And our politicians--where are they? Did you see Pokawin or Marsipal at the canoe races? Did they come to your volleyball tournament? Why does one of our lapans have to chase after them like a nobody to get money for your village? You tell me.’

 

Grief

 The morning after death, a procession descends the path from Kuam’s house to two banana boats at the shore. The couple from Malsu, the old Uncles, and Leonie holding one Uncle’s arm, all look exhausted from keening and weeping thirty six hours or more. Then all the women in Kuam’s brothers’ line come. Everyone moving slowly. At the back six men, all dressed in white shirts and trousers, members of Win Nasin, come bearing the coffin on their shoulders like a small plane gliding to the airfield. People cry as the coffin bores through the crowd. Finally, the widow descends. She’s held by two women at her elbows, her head wrapped in black cloth. A few women in the crowd break into a lament, and another begins wailing (again) and pressing a tea towel to her forehead as she stares  at the sky through tears. The coffin halts by the boat, then drops by small grunts: tipping, slipping in the many palms and dipping toward the center of the boat. “Heavy,” someone says. After it’s settled, the widow, the son, Leonie and several others step in and sit down. They set off immediately across the sea for the morgue in Lorengau. Minutes later, a second boat pushes off with other mourners, secondary characters, myself included. Thus begins the next ordeal. 

We congregate at the long haus win outside Leonie’s cousin Margaret’s house in the Lorengau settlements. These are astonishingly clean and well spaced blocks for settlements, all along the beach. Anywhere else in the world they might be pricey holiday bungalows, but here they’re simple stilt houses with upturned boats and broken-down PMVs in the yards. We’re down the road from the big house where Kuam’s closer relatives and the widow are having a marathon of wailing and keening and smoking and chewing betelnut. One big crowded house of unhappiness.

Recently widowed, Margaret has her hair cut short and wears only black, but she’s warm, hospitable and keeps the kettle on for endless teas and coffees. I guess she’s not yet forty, maybe she was a young bride. In the village, a dead man’s family can come in and raid the widow’s house of anything they like, but here in town Margaret has so many things you don’t have in the village, like a toilet, two old boats on blocks, metal tables and  heavy wooden beds---a lot more cargo to be carted away by the in-laws. What may have seemed token in the village is real haulage here. For that reason, she’s turned a bookshelf to one wall and pulled a table across the door to her bedroom, blocking off her last valuables in case the in-laws drop by. Leonie tells me they’ve already ‘repossessed’ 40 hp motor, kerosene stove,  tea kettle, and even an orange tree from the front yard. Organized theft which would be ameliorated in the village but leaves a crater of debasement in town, as if to push the widow into a deeper precipice of sorrow.  Margaret’s brother Tiptip has brought a 25 kilo bag of rice, to help feed the visitors. 

At dusk, she lights mosquito coils in the haus win. People keep arriving and she wants them to know they can sleep on the wooden benches if they want. It’s after dusk when Kuam’s brother Ngi, having just flown in from the mainland capital, comes to pay respects to Margaret. She stands as he enters the doorway and reaches for his hand. They’re both crying, but silently. Ngi is dressed in a brown sulu with a camera bag strung across his chest. He looks very much like his dead brother. Behind him a tall younger man enters whom Margaret hasn’t seen and then when she does, startled, she moves aside for an embrace. He is Ngi’s son, Albert. Margaret and he are cross-cousins, closer than brother and sister in Baluan society; they are joking cousins, which makes them free to be silly and even provocative to each other as kids, and silent supporters as they grow to adulthood. They sit together on the bench under the light of a kerosene lamp, holding hands. The others in the haus win are an old neighbor woman, Margaret’s teenage son Edward, Leonie, Tiptip, a couple teenage nieces, and myself.  “The girls?” Margaret asks Albert.

Albert shakes his head, hiccuping a sob. “They’ll be all right. They went to hospital first and then we sent them Madang, to visit Elizabeth. They’ll be all right.”

“I could have stopped it!” the old man exclaims, shaking his fist. His face is compressed with anger and he flexes his bare feet up and down as they hang from the bench.

“Don’t think,” Margaret says. “You aren’t to blame. It’s the raskals who are.”

Throughout the evening they speak in both Baluan language and Pidgin, so I gather the gist of this slowly.

“Now they won’t have a proper marriage,” Albert says.  

“They’ll never forget,” the old man spits. “And it killed their grandfather. Killed him with worry....” His voice softens. “Dead from stroke.”

“He was a worrying man,” Margaret says.

“And I should die too!” Ngi cries again, head bowed.

The old neighbor woman removes the kettle from where it hangs over the fire and for the hundredth time today pours out coffees, with dry milk and heaps of sugar. She hands them to the newcomers. These men live in the capital with Albert’s daughter, and the daughter of Kuam’s son George, a girl of thirteen who’s at school there.

“George is not well,” Albert says, shaking his head. “He’s the most upset.”

The old man slides off the bench and paces the floor. “I was there,” he begins in Pidgin. “I had just come from a veteran’s meeting and for the first time in ten years I’d been given some beers and I was drunk. I came back to the house and fell asleep underneath. I couldn’t even get upstairs, and I passed out. They must have climbed the security fence and the cut through the razor wire and come down in a second. They got inside, tied up Albert and his wife in their bedroom and then went in and defiled the girls. Both of them. They took the TV, a cassette player, food, that’s it. And then they took off. And all the time I slept!” He shakes his fist. “But the police caught them down in Badili at daybreak. They got all three.” He stares at the dirt and his eyes well with tears.

      Later we walk to the big house of mourning where a meeting is going on upstairs. It’s a house only half-built, there are people all over the verandah and in the whitewashed  rooms upstairs. All the people of Kuam’s line are there sitting against the walls in one room lit by the warm glow of a kero lamp on the floor. Underneath the house everything’s darkness, except out back, behind the house, where seven or eight women sit in a small haus win around a table lit by candles and laden with tin plates of donuts, sago and coconut balls, pineapple slices, dry biscuits and rice balls cooked in coconut milk.  We climb the outside stairs to the second floor. On the verandah two little kids lie sleeping face down, and two teenage girls sit with their legs dangling through the palings, talking quietly. In the lamplit room one of Kuam’s nephews is making a speech about how much he’s contributed to the mourning, reminding everyone that he was the one who called the family in Moresby, he rang the morgue, he hired the ambulance from the landing, and found petrol for the boats. Everyone looks utterly exhausted. Another nephew now lists his contributions, his services in kind. He adds that the relatives on Baluan all wanted to  bury their uncle right away because of the heat, and they traditionally have the right to make this decision, but in this case they’ve assented to the wishes of the children and gone to these extraordinary lengths to preserve the body for them. “That’s all,” he says, “I’m finished.”

Suddenly a woman who’s been very agitated in one corner bursts out crying and pulling on her hair as she hugs her knees. She turns to the wall and wails that none of these people have the right to organize this funeral, that she alone has the right as the man’s niece on his sister’s line, and she has not been consulted at all, and they should just go and bury him without her if they want it that way, and she knew they would undermine her authority all along, even though she’s been prepared to help the children in every way. Sobs and moans as she declaims them. Twenty or more people around the room wait, looking blank. It’s almost pro forma how they react. Is she really bereft or just making primogeniture claim? No one responds. But when her fit subsides and she’s  switched to low gear, Kuam’s son George begins. He’s just come from the capital today, he points out, and wants to express his gratitude to his cousins for putting aside their obligations on this occasion and heeding the desires of their Uncle’s children, so that he and his sister, plus his cousin Albert and Uncle Ngi, could all arrive to say their last good-byes. He speaks with his eyes fixed on the empty center, as if careful not to stir strong sentiments. And yet he also looks tired and sad. Beside him sits his sister Louisa, her hair combed straight back tightly, with pretty bangles on her wrists and a gold chain around her neck. Now she speaks. She wants to acknowledge that she has been told her Uncles Sege and Sionin have made a large contribution to the cost of this funeral and in that way have made it possible for everyone to come say good-bye to her father.

I hear shuffling in the dark hallway beyond the room. There’s the widow, still hooded, slumped against a wall beside a young boy. Both of them sit listening in semi-darkness. They seem to be ghosts, as if no one but myself can see them. In this event the widow is an extra, he has no lines, and waits with the stagehand. Then he stands and walks away into compete darkness, leaving this old woman alone and noiseless. When George finishes, Leonie and her cousin Tiptip rise to leave the room, and I follow. It’s late now, past midnight. As we walk back the houses in the yards have either gone black or glow only dimly. On the beach to our right, two men sit under a mangrove tree drinking beers. I can understand the idea of time standing still, the relativity of it all. How, in a terrible calamity or loss, everything moves very slowly, days pushing on through the night hours without punctuation. The physical exhaustion makes you more sleepless still, and your body grows heavy as your thoughts numb.  Mourning, lamentation, in all its tedium.    

The next day we go to Papindo Trading and buy a bolt of white cotton, a large piece of red cotton, a can of aerosol deodorant, and two full bolts of flowered cotton. Margaret carries her hand-powered sewing machine out to the haus win where she and Leonie cut and sew a large red cross for the white cloth that will drape the coffin.

At night I have an unexpected dream of Helen, the crazy woman of Lou Island who was born before the War. They say that, as a young girl, Helen and her mother and baby brother were captured by the Japanese in Rabaul, East New Britain, where they were lined up on the beach with other prisoners and shot. But Helen and her mother fell just before the count of three. They lay with the dead bodies until night, when they slid off to the water. Swimming away, they were shot again by guards, who killed the baby. Helen and her mother got away, though, and came back across the Bismarck Sea to Lou Island, which lies just across a strait from Baluan. Helen was never right after that, even as a young woman. She never wore clothes, not even a grass skirt or a cotton wrap. No underpants. Sometimes now she wears a t-shirt and nothing else, a shocking old hag who walks about queerly. Once a tourist was trying to come ashore to Lou by powerboat when Helen appeared on the beach, naked. He pulled back and excused himself for disturbing the old woman her at her wash, but everyone on the shore just laughed and told him not to worry. Now the image of Helen’s nakedness keeps reappearing to me in all its clumsy detail. I want to know what her body looks like for some reason, and yet it’s always out of focus Sometimes I sense everyone on the shore is laughing at me, but I’m wearing clothes. Still everyone laughs, they keep on laughing. It’s me, the outsider, I’m arrived, embarrassed. Please tell me why? I want to know. That’s where the dream ends.

 

Burial

 

It’s barely dawn when we set out for Baluan again. We enter a long channel banked by mangroves that’s the passage between the main island and the smaller Los Negros island, connected overhead by a two lane bridge. There’s a truck on the grassy shoulder above, and people are handing cargo down from the truck to Gibson’s big boat, where the coffin is secured under a yellow tarp. The three boats from Lorengau pull up to wait for Gibson, and soon we all leave in procession for the long trip to Baluan. The sea is calm, but not dead calm. We pass the small volcanic islands where people come to picnic, and proceed out to the vast sea. Only Lou and Pom islands now tear a distant gray band between the sky and the water. Everywhere flying fish leap from our wake, fanning out tiny gills to soar across the glassy surface, improbable fairy acrobats like an entourage for this procession. An old man named Namalap pulls out a half-smoked bush cigar and strikes one match after another to light up. He cups his hands, turns his back and hunkers down between the mound of cargo and the side of the boat, but the wind finds him anyway. One of the young men up front takes it, bends over between his knees, sucks it alite, and hands it back to Namalap, who curls up in a depression on the tarp to enjoy his smoke. Just over half way, when Lou Island draws close enough to reveal Baluan behind it, the sea changes. Larger waves ripple loosely across the surface, then begin to cross cut each other. Choppy crests surround the boat and slowly rise and fall over bigger and bigger swells. Sometimes Roy, standing drenched in the stern, will steer into the waves to plow across them, and sometimes they come back to smash the boat sideways, rolling it almost halfway over. Water slaps up both sides of the boat, drenching everyone as we rock back and forth. We slip into a trough and are thrown sideways with great thudding force, then rise and dip with a smaller swell, only to crash into a bigger wave on the other side, water spilling in on all sides now. Gradually the spray turns to rain, and I look out to where the other boats have been swallowed by white clouds sitting on the surface of the water. I wonder if the corpse has been jerked around. The engine chokes and stops, and one of the young men scrambles to the back to help Roy lift the motor, change hoses, and pump fuel from one tank to another, as the boat rocks wildly and everyone tries a firmer grip on the sides. Slap bang, I think of the corpse against the wooden box. Leonie turns to me and her face looks mauve, like the sadness has become nausea and she might heave at any minute now. But she doesn’t.

Kuam is buried that afternoon. He is dropped into the fourth attempt at a grave, the one spot clear or coral, right before his house. A Win Nasin choir stands by the open hole and sings eight songs about Manus and Papua New Guinean Unity. One young girl sings the first line of the song on her own, as the caller, and the group responds en masse. As they sing some of them start to cry. The choir master gives a sermon with a Bible in his hand. When it ends, they shift the coffin down by long strips of red fabric into a six foot hole. Sionin stands on a boulder with his videocamera and Albert, from Moresby, stands near the grave and takes pictures with an instamatic. One of Kuam’s sons takes laplaps and a hard-hat belonging to his father and bends down to place them on the red cross of the coffin. He rises to shovel the first mound of soil, the whole gathering bursts out crying. Kuam’s brother Ngi comes up to the edge of the grave and wails, his face contorted, calling out to the brother who looked exactly like him. It’s all too sad to bear; my own nose tingles and my eyes are tearing now. Soon all the soil has been shifted into the hole. People stamp on the grave, they place wreaths of plastic flowers and strands of gladiolus on top. Afterwards, we all go home to sleep. Only the kids are left awake—Beryl, Stephanie and Kanawi all running down the rocky path throwing stones at the water.

 

Security

 

Many years later, Leonie’s brother Ray became a member of my household in Madang, and Uncle Ray to all my kids and grandchildren. A big gentle character, Ray has never been working on all cylinders, which makes him easy to con or manipulate and why, when I saw him in the market in Madang that day, I had to invite him home. That quality also made him rule-bound and honest; he could obsess over small transgressions and play the bad cop to the little kids, a quality I valued. Ray became a security guard and worked nights, which was convenient to us as he could be home all day to watch the house. We had an early audio book of Eragon, the fabulist young adult novel about dragons and princesses that is so beautifully realized because, I have since learned, it was written by a young man himself, someone home schooled in the marvels of the original Hobbit, C.S. Lewis, Frank L. Baum and Grimm fairytales. This was before Harry Potter. Ray lay in bed and listened to it right through, and listened again and again. Leonard was seven I think and they took turns living with Eragon. It may have been with him on an earpiece the night Ray’s workmates decided to rob the big company they were guarding. In the end, they ran off and left Ray holding the bag. Rattled, but resilient, he survived the court case and went to prison for a year. Prison in Madang at the time was neither awful nor benign, it involved overcrowded cells in a fairly beaucolic part of town. Similarly, the diet was little more than brown rice and tinned fish every day, more than many villagers would ask for, but monotonous to anyone for whom food is the very structure of their day. We would bring novels and pots of chicken on the weekend that the guards sometimes confiscated. Our friend the convicted rapist ex-Governor of Madang was also serving a sentence in the prison, and his circle of homeboys made the place seem like a low security stint for a mob boss, but it may have made everyone’s life easier for the time being. Ray lost over thirty pounds that year in prison,  and all the old Madang people from the old Yali movement embraced him as the prodigal son, child of Paliau, when he came back. They fattened him up nicely. It seems to me that Ray has never left the wondrous but intelligent place of Baluan childhood. He would have been the determined but not bossy one, maybe last in line but perfectly able to fend for himself.

(Contemporary photos by Jaive Smare)

---

[1] Mead 1956 New Lives for Old, London: Victor Gollanz Ltd, p 290

 [2] Mead, Margaret, 1953[1930]. Growing Up in New Guinea. New York: Mentor Books, pp.26-7.

 [3] Ibid p.:23-24

 [4] Op cit Mead 1953.

 

 

Kusbau Lower Primary Graduation: another timeless ritual

We were told to be there at 8 AM. Hundreds of us parents and family with the Prep, Grade 1 and Grade 2 graduates. We'd scoured the secondhand shops and Chinese dry goods for the hard shoes, socks, long trousers, black skirts, white or blue shirts and neckties prescribed by the teachers; the kids were scrubbed, dressed and ready to receive their certificates and awards.

 

But of course no one was there at 8 AM. No school staff or assistants, just small clusters of family snickering and saying 'PNG taim' as they realized it would be hours before the start. Slowly, methodically, the tables arrived, were covered, tinselled and crepe papered, and then fille with individually wrapped prizes for hundreds of lucky kids. But there were no announcements, no apologies, as mother settled in to market cucumber slices, ice blocks and slabs of tapioca.

 

There was a fashion parade of relatives at hand.

Rumours circulated around 11.30 that the ceremony would begin.

Paparazzi everywhere.

Stocking up on ice blocks.

 

In the infinite wisdom of the teaching staff the older kids were awarded ceritifcates first, to be sure that most of the younger ones had thoroughly melted down by their turn.

Some good shaves all around.

Some of us kept out cool for a full five hours. PNG time, say it again.

Kusbau

Kusbau haute couture: jersey with chiffon, socks with heeled sandals.

Punking it pink

 
By 1.30 PM Pauly had walked away with a 2nd prize in Language, the little genius.

Zionism, Prosperity and Redecorating Parliament House

With all this recent hysteria about redecorating the Parliament House, about something called Christian Zionism, and the need to destroy graven images, I thought I'd re-post an article I wrote  back in 2007. That's when prosperity gospel and all the televangelism erupting on our airwaves started to worry me. It was published in the DWU Rresearch Journal called Contemporary PNG Studies, which doesnt have much of an audience. So here it is again, alittle further down.

For many people, the Parliament House debate has been about the right of any one or even a committee of MPs to alter the appearance of this hsitoric building, the people's house. And then the other issue is about whether or not a pre-Christian imagery is 'ungodly' or even an inappropriate symbol for contemporary PNG.

But for me, Im actually interested in this 'Christian Zionism' that seems to have gripped Members of Parliament. What does it mean? What does it espouse? So I asked Fr Phil Gibbs, who is also an anthropologist, and he sent me some notes he'd drafted (guardedly allowing me to post them here).

This is how he describes it:

He also explained that in August of 2007 something called New Covenant Day occurred in Papua New Guinea. That was when, it appears "Prime Minister at the time Michael Somare signed a document called 'A New Covenant' on 26 August, 2007. Others who signed are Emmanuel Fave, Rev Michael Maelieau, and Rev. Robert Sanasi."

The “New Covenant” is a contract between the God of Israel, Father, Son and the Holy Spirit and the People of Papua New Guinea.It is an important component of Christian Zionism. And, acvcording to Fr Gibbs, "Christian Zionism is a form of Dispensationalism, believing that a precondition to the final battle of Amageddon is that 12,000 members of each of the twelve Hebrew tribes must return from the diaspora to Zion.  Some Christian Zionists believe that the 'in-gathering' of Jews in Israel is a prerequisite for the Second Coming of Jesus. Based on texts such as in Genesis 12:3, they hold that God promised to bless the man or nation that blesses the Chosen people (Israel). Christian Zionism promotes the belief that the founding of the State of Israel in 1948 and the capture of Jerusalem in 1967 were the miraculous fulfillment of God’s promises made to Abraham. The belief that Jews remain God’s chosen people leads Christian Zionists to fund the return of Jews to Palestine, including the establishment of settlements in occupied territories that should one day be ceded to Palestine – thus creating nearly impossible conditions for a two-state solution to the Middle East Peace Process.  They insist, those who oppose the imperialist project of the advocates of 'Greater Israel' (extending from Egypt to Iraq) or the Zionist occupation of Palestine are 'God's enemies', deserving to be crushed by every available means, including war."

But there's more to this than just a belief in the State of Israel. Again, Fr. Gibbs explains:

"Unfortunately the message associated with National Covenant Day seems to promote a form of prosperity gospel.  If we sign and keep the Covenant with the God of Israel (or is it the State of Israel?) God will shower us with wealth and security. And if you don’t then God might curse you....Prosperity preachers rely on the Old Testament and passages such as Deuteronomy 28:1ff “If you obeyed the voice of the Lord your God … all these blessings shall come upone you. Christians today need to study the New Testament and also to look at social situations with a critical eye.  Too easily Christianity was made to uphold capitalism of the “new right”. These new right religious movements are being used to legitimate the philosophies behind the neo-liberal policies of the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund."

And this is where I offer you my own article on the subject, from 2007.

God’s brideprice: laissez faire religion, and the fear of being left behind in Papua New Guinea1

Nancy Sullivan

    

    But when a Man's Fancy gets astride on his Reason, when Imagination is at Cuffs with the Senses, and common     Understanding,as well as common Sense, is Kickt out of Doors; the first Proselytehe makes, is Himself, and when     that is once compass'd, the Difficultyis not so great in bringing over others; a strong Delusion alwaysoperating     from without, as vigorously as from within.

—Jonathan Swift, A Tale of a Tub

 Everywhere you turn in Papua New Guinea (PNG) these days there are conflicting messages about money. It is not so much earned anymore, as it is prayed for, bestowed upon and ‘planted’ in Savings and Loan Societies, microcredit societies, U-Vistract, Money Rain, televangelical missions, and

even the private account of the widow of a Cote d’Ivoire Minister. A letter from the ‘Central Bank of Madrid’ tells me I have won 385,510 Euros in a Coca-Cola Promotion, which I can redeem by sending back a form with my bank details. A friend who works in fundraising for DWU has been selected and invited to a women’s conference that will be entirely free of charge once she pays for a hotel room in Switzerland.

 Then there are the church appeals. Sundays EMTV is filled with televangelical ministries insisting that money is no longer the root of all evil. The filthy lucre of yesterday is now a tool for the Lord’s mission on earth. Similarly, a New Tribes couple includes me in their regular email appeals for help purchasing vehicles, tools, computers, and household appliances for their remote highlands Mission (‘please make these financial needs a matter of prayer with us’). The meek may inherit the earth, but viral and media marketers are getting it now.

 What would Jesus buy?

 Times have changed. Some Christian web pages tell us that Jesus wasn’t poor; that his disciples never scorned wealth or comfort after all (so we need not either). External abundance can reflect spiritual abundance. ‘Health and Wealth Faith’ Pastor J. Avanzini, for one, believes that many Christians remain

poor because they’ve been taught to accept the traditional belief that Jesus was poor. It is as a result of such ‘negative conditioning’ that all their efforts to ‘worship prosperity’ fail to reap material rewards. Avanzini cites John 19:23-24 as proof that the garment that Jesus wore at His crucifixion was a ‘custom made designer garment’, the kind that kings and rich merchants wore, reminding us that the soldiers who crucified Him cast lots over the garment afterwards. (Avanzini 1996:8-9) 2

 One strain of evangelical thought now tells us the heightened pursuit of money is a sign of the end times, and that Satan is behind everything from bar codes to microchips, ATMs and cell phones. This suggests that money is still mammon, and new money-making technologies are to be avoided. Weren’t the Madrid bombs triggered by mobile phones?3  Some even say the IMF, World Bank and WTO are all Satan’s operators, and much of the dysfunctional development that is mushrooming around PNG – the empty buildings and ugly refineries sponsored by foreign aid organizations – is also evidence of the last days, and the advent of a one world government. But here’s the rub: This does not mean we should refuse money, especially if we can return wealth to the church. There is a logic to new evangelical thought that makes the eager pursuit of wealth both demonic, as a natural byproduct of end time transformations, and the root of our very salvation, perhaps even the ticket to be on board the chosen conveyance when we face the Rapture. If we hunger, work, pray and visualize for money and abundance, and then harness it as a tool for one of these ministries, we are to be welcomed to heaven rather than left behind during the final end time.

 This is an urgent message because there is a real threat that some of us will not make the cut for the Rapture. Much of the activity of new ministries seems to focus on how we might join the chosen few who get ‘beamed up.’ In the words of one Christian web page blogger, ‘[A]fter the Rapture takes place, everyone left behind will know someone who was mysteriously taken away. It could be a neighbor, a distant cousin, or a person's entire immediate family.’(Strandberg n.d) 4

 The many new evangelical ministries clustered under a Prosperity Gospel rubric take heart in biblical passages like Deuteronomy 8:18, which says, ‘God gives you the power to get wealth to establish his covenant.’ Because God wills the financial prosperity of every Christian, when and if an avowed

believer lives in poverty, he or she is simply not fulfilling God’s will. ‘You must realize that it is God’s will for you to prosper,’ says hugely popular American Pastor Kenneth Copeland (Copeland 1974:51). And what should we do with our wealth? Feed the ministries.

 A familiar face on EMTV, televangelist Joyce Meyer heads a $100 million a year ministry,  which makes her amongst the most ‘rewarded’ of God’s spokespersons. Some call these proponents part of a ‘name it and claim it'’ movement, because, as Meyer and others maintain, those who give generously to these ministries can have anything and everything they want. The most published and televised members of this movement would be E.W. Kenyon, Kenneth Hagen, Joyce Meyer, Benny Hinn, Robert Tilton, Paul Crouch, Joel Osteen, Marilyn Hickey and Pat Robertson, who, on his globally popular TV show, The 700 Club, calls Prosperity Doctrine the ‘Law of Reciprocity.’ And they command enormous and powerful followings. Former leader of the National Association of Evangelicals (before being ‘outed’ by a gay prostitute who also dealt him drugs) and personal advisor to George Bush, Ted Haggart and other ‘megachurch’ pastors are all part of, if not central to, this movement. 5

These churches espouse a form of Biblical literalism of some of the most poetic of scriptural passages, most notably the Book of Revelations – which is taken as just that: revelations, or prophesies. Literalism involves an almost obsessive reading and re-reading of Revelations that reduces all hermeneutics to crystal ball visions of upcoming events. Many of these American ministries are packaged for diverse markets of today’s new media: they publish children’s books, self-help pamphlets, marital advice, and even novels. Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins, for example, have a series of ‘Left Behind’ novels that do a good job of fleshing out what we can expect from the Apocalypse. These need not even be read as allegorical. The series’ hero, and leader of the Tribulation Force Commandoes, is a Robert Redford look-alike and airline pilot-turned holy warrior named Rayford Steele who speaks in long-winded and preachy monologues about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalyse, the Wrath of the Lamb earthquake, and a treaty to be forged between Israel and the UN (Lyons 2005:np) 6

Apart from literalism, and, for some, predestination, the evangelical/charismatic churches embrace a number of ‘modern’ concepts,which appear to be informed by popular psychology. First and foremost is theconcept of Positive Confession, or The Theology of the Spoken Word (what televangelist Kenneth Hagin calls Rhematology), which is no more or less than positive thinking. The spoken word is a defence and a spiritual tool at the same time. Thus Pastor Kenneth Hagin claims not to have suffered even a headache for the past 45 years. Bad thoughts are bad for you. Think wealth and you will become wealthy. Is this related to verbal protocols in small scale societies (sensu Brennis and Myers 1984 who write about the effects of ‘hard words’ in the Pacific)? Or is it a dangerous stoicism?

 Then there are the Third Wave people, who experience miracles, have visions, speak in tongues, prophesize, predict the future, and read people’s minds. (Oddly, a common miracle seems to be filling and/or replacing bad teeth.7) They appear to be mediums for the Book of Revelations. Dan Jorgensen recounts a Charismatic mission in Telefomin where the believers acquired the power of ‘discernment’, ‘often understood as the ability to identify satanic forces at work in the spiritual realm. In [one man’s] case, this took the form of visions, - ‘like watching television’—that revealed the identity of sorcerers to him.’ (Jorgensen 2005:454).

 Those in Papua New Guinea who receive these words by downlink or mail order may not realize how confusing these churches have become even for the American public (whence most of them originate). While Ted Haggart may have President Bush’s ear, the general pitch for these Bible Belt and southwestern state megachurches is that they are beleaguered, misunderstood, fighting the good fight like so many Davids against Goliath. As one reporter observes:

 After living in the Bible Belt for more than thirty years, I've learned several things about our fundamentalist         Christian brethren: First, theirs is an embattled faith, which requires an ever evolving list of enemies to keep its         focus. It includes Satan worshipers one year, ‘secular humanists’ the next. Panic over backward masking on         phonograph records yields to fears that supermarket bar codes harbor the Mark of the Beast. Some years back,         Procter & Gamble was forced to deny widespread rumors that a moon-and-stars logo on boxes of soapsuds         symbolized corporate diabolism. More recently, purging school libraries of Harry Potter's witchcraft has         emerged as a cause. As if the real world weren't scary enough, chimerical threats must be found. It often         appears that no form of occultism is too arcane or preposterous to provoke alarm. (Lyons Op cit )

 Some apocalyptic visions are scarier than horror movies, and would give children nightmares. But other truths are soft-pedaled to appeal to a wide middle class public in the States—and they can be purchased or mail ordered as books, CDs, audiocassttes and DVDs.

 A New York Times reporter visiting one booming megachurch outside Phoenix recently found the typical scene: a drive-through latte stand, Krispy Kreme doughnuts at every service, and sermons about ‘how to discipline your children, how to reach your professional goals, how to invest your money, how to reduce your debt.’ On Sundays children played with church-distributed Xboxes, and many congregants had signed up for a twice-weekly aerobics class called Firm Believers. (McKibben 2005:np) At the softest side of the marketing spectrum is the insinuation that most of us are already saintly. You may drive a big car and spent too much eating out, but if you save the last piece of pie for your spouse, and save to give the kids better schools, it is now time for you to stop sacrificing, to relax and indulge in a better life. Televangelist Joel Osteen says, ‘I believe God wants us to prosper.’ Osteen exhorts readers [of his 2004 book, Your Best Life Now (Warner Faith Books)] to shun negativity and develop ‘a prosperous mindset’ as a way of drawing God’s favour. He tells the story of a passenger on a cruise ship who fed himself on cheese and crackers before realizing that sumptuous meals were included. ‘Friend, I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of those cheese and crackers!’ Mr Olsteen writes. ‘It’s time to step up to God’s dining table.’ Or, as he also puts it: ‘God wants you to be a winner, not a whiner.’ (Blumenthal 2006)8

 

 Naturally, it is important to contextualize these ministries, to see how they respond to the socioeconomic environment that harbors them. The prosperity pastors want Americans who drive SUVs to know that cutting back is not the best spiritual strategy (and by logical extension, not the best political one either). By investing in these expansive megachurches which have already transformed great swaths of the American southwest into theme parks and shopping malls, they can insulate themselves against the Antichrist and banish negative thinking altogether.

How does this product apply to PNG? It’s been selling off the shelves, as they say. In a country where the bulk of print media comes from the local Christian Book Store, and where one television station now brims with televangelism, all it takes is one carny with a megaphone to change the ideological map of an entire District.

 Laissez faire and unfair

More to the point, if we say the whinging unfortunates of this world are not trying to better themselves, but in fact are expressing disloyalty to God (they’re not on the programme and have only themselves to blame), is this not a new Social Darwinism? It reminds me of a wealthy American friend who (despite working very hard all her life) explained that she would never be impoverished because she ‘worships abundance.’ ‘Does that mean,’ I wanted to ask but didn’t, ‘all the untouchables of India who spend their days hammering stones into gravel actually worship poverty?’ What I really want to ask is whether Positive Confession is a political position.9

 Money wasn’t always mammon. It’s had a long and troubled relationship with Christianity. Early capitalism, in the 16th Century, actually promoted ascetic tendencies and what Max Weber famously called the Protestant ethic (1976 [1944]). Weber explains how Protestantism favoured the rational pursuit of economic gain and thus gave worldly activities a spiritual significance. A Protestant who lived spiritually, and capitalistically, was rewarded by accumulating money and could therefore follow a secular vocation with as much zeal as possible. But there was a hitch. The more austere Protestant sects forbade any method of actually using money gained through secular means. By the nineteenth century this ethic had led to a working ethic of capital accumulation, with the most successful Christian industrialists hoarding unprecedented amounts of wealth, and exhibiting record-breaking stinginess. It is not for no reason the late 19th Century titans of industry were called robber barons.

 Laissez faire conquered the old noblesse oblige. Evangelical Anglicans in early nineteenth century Britain campaigned for the Poor Law Amendment of 1834, which forbade cash donations to poor people and established the workhouse as their refuge instead. This righteousness also drove the great Irish famine of 1845-50, when evangelical Whigs argued against any artificial interventions in the market. The Irish had only themselves to blame, it was said, for depending on potatoes. Social Darwinism proved extremely effective as over one million Irish then perished.

To early evangelicals, the free market was the perfect social regulator: it rewarded good Christian behaviour and punished the unrepentant. It was logical, it was natural, and it should not be restrained. The original sin with which we are all born could be tempered by the stress of an economic life, where the labour, the sacrifice, and even the ‘faith’ of investing were all means of atonement for this sin. As one historian has remarked,

These were the people Dickens detested. The extreme among them urged mortification of the flesh and would         scold anyone who took pleasure in food, drink or good company. Moreover, they regarded poverty as part of         the divine program….[P]oor people were poor for a reason, and helping them out of poverty would endanger         their mortal souls. (Bigelow 2005:35)

 What’s ironic about all this Protestant righteousness is its constant dialectic with the Catholic Church. Cathars in 12th Century France were persecuted because their asceticism made the Catholics look bad. And six hundred years later Jonathan Swift railed against the hard-hearted excesses of the Catholic Church in Tale of the Tub. It wasn’t so long ago that anti-Papists still sickened to imagine the net worth of the Pope.

 But evangelicals were the first to seize on the modern entrepreneur as a moral icon, as, for example in the famously spendthrift American industrialists (e.g. the Rockefellers, Fords, Vanderbilts, Carnegies, and Astors). But the wildly unregulated markets that created these heroes also brought on the crash of1929, the Great Depression that followed, and the need for a Keynesian economics that called for market regulations. The history of economic thought in the twentieth century is a bit like the history of Christianity in the sixteenth century. Until John Maynard Keynes published The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money in 1936, economics—at least in the English Speaking world—was completely dominated by free-market orthodoxy.

 Classical economics, wrote Keynes in 1936, ‘conquered England as completely as the Holy Inquisition conquered Spain.’ And classical economics said that the answer to almost all problems  was to let the forces of supply and demand do their job. After the Great Depression, though, when classical economic could not longer provide humane answers, Keynes played the role of Martin Luther in making heresy respectable.

 But then Keynesian economics was unsurprisingly followed by a counterreformation.Many economists were influential in bringing back classical economics, in rolling back Keynesian heresy, but none have been more famous than Milton Friedman. If Keynes was Luther, Friedman was Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuits. If Keynes told us money doesn’t matter, Friedman responded by saying it did, very much. (Krugman 2007:29) Friedman called for free market solutions to all social problems –education, health care, the drug trade, rent control, pollution (he is the father of pollution credits and permits). By any measure, the world in 2007 has moved a long way back in Friedman’s direction, as we have seen the most spectacular increase in economic inequality since the 1970’s. Was Friedman too sanguine about the generosity of the invisible hand? He did slip too easily into claiming that markets always work, and that only markets work. He brought individual rationalism to the field of macroeconomics.

 New Lifers, writes Pastor Ted Haggart, ‘like the benefits, risks, and maybe above all, the excitement of a free-market society.’ He believes it is time ‘to harness the forces of free-market capitalism in our ministry’ (Sharlet 2005:47). Free-market economics is a ‘truth’ Ted says he learned in his first job inprofessional Christendom, as a Bible smuggler in Eastern Europe.

 Globalization is the vehicle now for spreading his brand of Christianity. Unfortunately, he says, there are cultural and theological stumbling blocks.

 [T]he nations dominated by Catholicism look back. They don’t tend to create our greatest entrepreneurs,         inventors, research and development. Typically, Catholic nations aren’t shooting people into space.         Protestantism, though, always looks to the future. …In America, the descendants of the Protestants, the         Puritan descendants, we want to create a better future, and our speakers say that sort of thing. But with the         influx of people from Mexico, they don’t tend to be the ones that go to universities and become our         research- and-development people. And so in that way I see a little clash of civilization. (Ibid: 48) 10

 In a free market world, not only can everyone seek the same wealth and happiness, but everyone can now share the same Gospel written in the same language, and purchase the same reading guides and audiocassettes and bumper stickers (e.g. ‘In Case Of Rapture This Car Will Be Unmanned’). It almost seems as though the need for ‘difference’ has become …un-Christian. President of the [American] National Religious Broadcasters, Frank Wright, says: ‘Today, the calls for diversity and multiculturalism are nothing more than thinly veiled attacks on anyone willing, desirous, or compelled to proclaim Christian truths,’ he says. ‘Today, calls for tolerance are often a subterfuge, because they will tolerate just about anything except Christian truth. Today, we live in a time when the message entrusted to you is more important than ever before to reach a world desperate to know Christ. Does it strike you,’ he asks, ‘that we are the first generation in the history of the world that might see every nation, tongue, and tribe reached with the Gospel!’ (Blumenthal Op cit)

 Free markets equal free people. It’s an idea that pervades new development theory as well, and so the implicit associations between the two give it a progressive cast. Development economist Amartya Sen tells us rationality is freedom, and so development is freedom (Sen 2000, 2004); and Peruvian economist Hernando de Soto tells us the developing world is being impoverished by customary land tenure, and freeing land on an open market will liberate the world’s poor (De Soto 2000; cf. Easterly 2002). Both Sen and de Soto have been influential in World Bank, IMF and UN policy formation, and it is de Soto’s ideas that validate the World Bank’s structural adjustment attempt to register customary land in PNG, leading to riots and untold strife.

 Caveat emptor

 Global conversion has been greatly simplified by many new communications media. On the eve of the new millennium a whole raft of quick-money projects erupted across PNG, the most popular of which were Money Rain, U-Vistract, Papalain, Windfall, and Hosava. Hosava was said to be an alternative stock  exchange, Windfall was a grassroots ‘Investment and Management Company’, while most others have been based on the pyramid model which allows only the first investors to see healthy profits, after which any and all returns simply evaporate. Papalain, in Lae, was a compensation scheme targeting former employees of a forestry company; The War Carriers Association promised Australian compensation for unpaid Papua New Guinea soldiers during WWII; and the PNG Redress Association, which hit the Sepik and Madang area full force, promised Japanese Government compensation for prisoners and soldiers of the War.

 Not surprisingly, most of these schemes travelled through church networks. Papalain spread through Lutheran and Pentecostal churches; SDA churchgoers invested in the Lifetime Benefit Scheme (a pyramid—where the metallic stripe on a special credit card was supposed to enable people to draw money from a bank); and the Christian Life Centre in Port Moresby campaigned for Money Rain, which, in the words of one CLC Pastor, was ‘God’s answer to the poverty Christians were facing.’ (Cox Ibid:10-11).

 Economic anthropologist John Charles Cox has recently pointed out that there are two factors at work here. All of these schemes rely on the early success of prominent individuals, who attach their names to them. Mostly civil servants and politicians, these people have access to large amounts of cash and, in some cases, made excellent profits before returning the capital to the public coffers. Getting in early, they banked the profits as their own and could argue no harm had been done. This target population nicely overlaps with the audience for new Christian Crusades because Pentecostalism, Cox notes, is largely an urban phenomenon in PNG (to which anyone living next to public ovals in Port Moresby can attest). Those who can afford to invest in Money Rain can also buy the Christian merchandise hawked at these big tented events, and so it’s natural the two products be marketed together. It doesn’t hurt to have the public official endorsing your scheme say he or she has been Born Again, either. (Ibid:11)

 The Clerk of Parliament, who is said to have been a key contact for Money Rain with Moresby elite, invested K300,000 of public funds into the project. The PNG Secretary of Finance is alleged to have illegally transferred large amounts of money from public funds into buying land for the establishment of the new Assemblies of God Jubilee University. When 2300 people in Port Moresby were baptised during the Seventh Day Adventist crusade of Mark Finley in 2001, they were supported by a national government grant of K100,000 so that certain provinces could buy satellite equipment and receive the EMTV broadcast of the event (National 31 May 2001, 6). Minister for Lands, John Pundari, took the opportunity to welcome the crusade and declare that PNG would be richly blessed by God’s abundant grace (Post-Courier 5 July 2001, 5). A week later, Brother Andrew Simpson, now of Divine  Word University, wrote a letter to the Post-Courier describing how the ‘crusade opened with the special commendation from the Prime Minister [and soon] turned into ‘Catholic bashing’ by the presenters’ (Post-Courier 18 July 2001, 10). (Ibid).

Without doubt, however, the most successful cross-marketing campaign came at the eve of the millennium when Prime Minister Bill Skate and Treasurer Iairo Lasaro jumped aboard the Benny Hinn crusade when the famous televangelist arrived in Port Moresby. 11 Skate contributed K180,000 to the Benny Hinn Ministries and then throw the hirsute televangelist a state reception (National 19 January 1999: 1, National 15 April 1999: 3). In turn, Hinn declared, ‘The Prime Minister of this country is none other than Jesus Christ (and) I am his ambassador’ (National 3 May 1999:3, Post-Courier 8 March 1999: 4). (Gibb 2005:9-10) 12

Economic rationalism

 The anthropology of Melanesia has no shortage of cargo cults (Burridge 1960, Lattas 1998, Lawrence 1964, Gesch 1985, Strathern 1979). The analytic method has generally been to ‘rationalize’ or ‘normalize’ these sometimes bizarre behaviors in terms of the local culture and the expectations of their participants (e.g. Sullivan 2005). Nancy McDowell (2000:373) reminds us that anthropologists have long been trying to build contrast rather than similarity in their discussions of such phenomena, if only because the bas relief of difference is easier to see. In fact, she says, we need to compare these movements without ignoring their similarities to western social change, especially with regard to the distinction between ‘rational’ and ‘irrational’ responses to events. Anthropologists do spend a considerable amount of time‘demonstrating that these irrational behaviours and beliefs are really parts of cultural logic foreign to us. Although we cannot quite admit that these things are rational, at least we can defuse the irrational label’ (Ibid:377). But in a world where churches lobby Wal-Mart to switch their bar codes and peddleeverything from yoga tapes to prayer candles (see fn. 4), ‘defusing’ becomes no little ironic.

 More recent studies of nationalism and identity in PNG talk about something called the bureaucratization of  consciousness in PNG (See Fife 1995, Stewart and Strathern 2000b), and employ the idea of bureaucratic mimesis as a creative act (Lattas 2006, cf. Taussig 1993). Foster, Gewertz and Errington, amongst others, have seen the internalization of certain late-modern Judaeo- Christian values as signs of increasing individualism, consumerism, nationalism and ‘rationality’ (Gewertz and Errington 1996, 1999; Foster 2002, 1993). Then there are the explorations of ‘bureacratization’ in PNG thought and popular culture (Fife 1995; Foster 2002; Cass 2000; Errington and Gewertz 1995, 1996; Hirsch 1990; Robbins 1997; MacDowell 2000).

 Messages and public exhortations that might have been written by Ayn Rand are now found everywhere from bus stops to TV in PNG: ‘Take control of your life!’ ‘Dance to your own beat!’ ‘Indulge your senses!’ ‘Earn interest on your money!’ Whereas fifty years ago none of these would have made ‘sense’ to Papua New Guineans, now they have referents in modern urban life. Today the ‘esoteric’ beliefs of pentecostal and charismatic evangelicals enter the PNG marketplace of ideas through such public media, and they arrive in the tropes of ‘rational’ neoclassical economics.

 There are still chain letters and pyramid schemes circulating (see Kulick and Stroud 1990; cf. Taussig 1993), and compensation claims for WWII service which move through rural PNG flamed by the fuel of desire. Reporters (Vulum 2006, Callick 2007) have recently thrown the kleig lights on some of the more outrageous scam artists moving through Pacific Island States capitalizing on the gullibility of newcomers to a cash economy. Some have been African Princesses, others agents of Eastern European regimes, but all of them understand the art of raised expectations in an imperfectly globalized age. But it is in keeping with the ‘fetishism’ of Biblical text that the language of pie charts and Venn diagrams has become integral to the new evangelical campaigns. 13

 A number of excellent ethnographies of PNG now write about the intersection of new rational and vangelical beliefs (e.g. Lattas 1998, Kulick 1992, Bashkow 2006, Robbins 2004a, Eves 1996). Joel Robbins tells a complex story of self-loathing and evangelism for the Urapmin of Sandaun Province (2004a); and Andrew Lattas’ work in West New Britain (1998) also talks about the feelings of neglect and low self-worth that new evangelical converts say defined their lives beforehand (see also Stewart and Strathern 2000a, 200; Schieffelin 1981). Both Jorgensen and Robbins talk about the ‘world destroying’ and ‘world-creating’ goals of evangelical Christianity (Jorgensen 2005; Robbins 2004a, 2004b), which requires converts to disavow their past and their prior identity in order to accept the new. For people familiar with the radical psychological disjuncture of initiation, the concept of being born again is not difficult, nor is it new. But being born anew historically, and revoking all that has come before, is an idea that only arrived with the first mainstream church missionaries. And it is upon that familiar sense of colonial inferiority that these new churches generate the challenge to villagers to gamble their past on a promise of the Rapture.

 Neoclassical economics looks at markets as essentially rational, treating macroeconomic institutions as rational beings. Friedman’s disdain for government regulation was its own call for faith in the free will of the individual and in capitalism. Homo economicus in Friedman’s world is driven by rational calculations about maximizing utility. But the difference in PNG is that these gambles of faith don’t just build upon given social relations, they shatter traditional bonds and insinuate that a believer’s real family is their community in Christ (See Gewertz and Errington 1996). And they make this choice look modern, and rational.

 Gifts and commodities

 Massive accumulation of wealth is certainly not the objective of this new free  market Christianity. If the cornerstone of Calvinism is saving, that of Prosperity Theology is spending. ‘Yahweh has prospered individuals by making them millionaires and even billionaires in order that the money be used to meet the needs of His people,’ Pastor Smith Wigglesworth tells us (n.d.:2) in various publications available in Madang’s Christian Bookstore. Long and thoughtful discussions of this mandate to give back are all over the web pages and blogs of ‘abundance’ and ‘prosperity’ Christians. One such blog explains Pat Robertson’s ‘Law of Reciprocity’:

The Lord didn't promise us wealth so that we could spoil and pamper ourselves with obscene amounts of         luxuries and toys. He promised that we would be rich in every way so that we could be generous on every         occasion. There's a cause and effect relationship at work here. Being made rich is for the purpose of being         generous. This is the Divine Law of Reciprocity. The Lord is generous with us and we repay Him by being         generous with others. This prompts Him to be more generous with us, allowing us to be more generous with         others, and so on. In failing to be generous, we violate the Law of Reciprocity and impede the flow of         resources. And remember, tithing is not being generous. It's meeting the minimum. (Anon 2, n.d.)

 Anthropologist Simon Coleman (2004) describes how the prosperity faith has found its way to a small town in Sweden, where the traditional ethos of living frugally has been upended by this new command to make and  generously. Referring to Marcel Mauss’ classic treatise on reciprocity, The Gift (1967[1925]), Coleman distinguishes between traditional forms of reciprocity in small scale societies, which has known returns, and upon which one can gauge risk, and the kinds of giving this new theology demands, which is free, lavish, and undirected---representing a much greater risk. A prerequisite of risk taking is that one understands the boundaries of a community, the limits of the risk, the extent of delay to anticipate between investment and return—whether that’s social, temporal or spatial. The more nebulous concept of what goes around, comes around, which explains unbounded acts of risk that might be found in Buddhist or Hindu social contexts, has no precedent in small scale societies like those in PNG, and contrasts sharply with the protestant ethic of rural Sweden. The great risk in a cash economy is giving away cash and not expecting anything in return.

 David Akin and Joel Robbins (1999) have edited a collection of essays on Melanesian currencies and how these articulate with the cash economy. Much of the emphasis of these essays is on new social relations that these introduced currencies are forging, as they do or do not follow principles of short term quid-pro-quo or delayed reciprocity that drive kula, moka and other indigenous trade systems. In their introduction (Robbins and Akins 1999:4-7), the editors explain that although local valuables look like ‘currencies’ in many ways---and anthropologists even suggested before Independence that the introduction of the cash economy had been relatively smooth and a new ‘kina’ would not be disruptive of the older currencies (viz.Counts and Counts 1970:91)---they never act like them. And the destabilizing effects of new currency have definitely been felt in these economies, where there are no indigenous counterparts for anonymous transactions.  

Where the new money undermines pre-existing systems of authority it also generated anxiety about social and political power. Suddenly traditional institutions have lost their authority, and new figures of importance arise from wage labor and the growing consumer culture. Big men back from their jobs in the capital are now given more credence in village affairs than the elderly Luluai, if only, perhaps, because they now own the best veranda for a public meeting.

 Traditional currencies never ever end in consumption---they form continual chains of transactions and social expectations. It is true of western money that people must pass it on in order to consume it; it must be converted to be ‘spent.’ The final transaction becomes the most important. All modern currencies are only important as a means of exchange---they are, by definition, exchangeability itself. By contrast, however, traditional currencies are continually creating social relations and thus remain less fluid, less ‘interchangeable’, than western ones: they keep moving and accruing density, accumulating associations with their transactors and only growing more ‘valuable’ as they slip less easily from palm to palm. People create kin by manipulating the flow of these exchange objects. These can be consumables, shells, information, dances and esoterica. Their movement sustains relationships, defines a community, and works as a constant regulator of hierarchy and authority. It’s a great deal more complex than the mere idea of ‘money is power’ that imbues in western capitalism.

 Classical neo-liberal economics is based on an equilibrium model, governed by mathematical laws that are presumed to be ‘natural’ or beyond human intervention. The market used to be a volatile beast in pre-Keynesian capitalism, but now it is a rational entity that strives for equilibrium---these are the metaphysical premises of capitalism, whether or not one agrees with them. And as such, they have no exact epistemological counterpart in Melanesia, where people constitute economic institutions more often than they ‘shape’ or constrain them. People are economics in PNG; there is no economy without sociality here.

‘Affinity fraud’

 The many Pentecostal and charismatic evangelical churches now based in,  travelling through, or reaching out to PNG are essentially in the business of creating communities. These are communities that can define themselves by their media, the books, CDs and television programs that cross-market their ideas and allow remote Papua New Guineans to remain a clansman or woman, a Morobean or Eastern Highlander, a Papua New Guinean, and now also a part of some global ‘imagined community’ (sensu Bendict Anderson (1991 [1983]). Dan Jorgensen says that an important part of the appeal of a Pentecostal crusade called Operation Joshua that came through the Telefomin area in 1992 was the invitation to join one such global community, not only as members of a church, but as descendants of the Biblical tribe of Benjamin. One of the most interesting aspects of the story he tells is how the American evangelist George Branson arrived in Telefomin fully well-read on the community and its regional importance as the birthplace of the ancestress Afek. Invoking one kind of affinity, he then offered the villagers a loftier, universal identity as one of the lost tribes of Israel. But Branson had a crucial strategy in cultivating this flock. Perhaps because he had read the work of anthropologists like Jorgensen, perhaps because it was a trusted marketing strategy, he sought out the most important ritual expert in the community, an old man named Falamsep, and proceeded to sell him Operation Joshua.

 In the words of one of the participants, they ‘pushed him and pushed him’ with a combination of directed prayer, pressure and inducements. Taking a leaf from the Deliverance Gospel, it was claimed that the spirits of the house were responsible for illnesses and deaths, hinting that Falamsep was implicated. By way of inducement, Branson was said to have given him K350, a carton of tinned beef, five chickens and a promise of a trip to America. (Jorgensen 2005 :453) 

Not surprisingly, Falamsep capitulated. He destroyed the spirit house, burnt the relics, and with other villagers, began to dig for diamonds on the sacred ground. In fact, Branson had arrived with a geologist (appropriately enough), who tested the newly cleared and sulphuric-smelling ground and suggested it might harbour a valuable (if poorly defined) ‘uranium gas.’ (Ibid:453-4).

 The lesson of Operation Joshua is that sociality is key to success. The best way to cultivate communion and inclusion, is to define the ‘other.’ Who is them and who is us? Who is sinner and who is saint? American ministries accomplish this on home soil by selling sweet talk and xenophobia in equal measures. Their outreach to developing countries seems to appeal to a fraternity of ‘disenfranchised’ fighting the global behemoths of world banking and foreign aid. It may be that viral marketing has something to learn from these Christian appeals. Despite Central Bank warnings now being run on EMTV, those ubiquitous Nigerian email scams are not that successful in PNG (although one high level civil servant did sign away K800,000 in a related scam [Cox 2006:2]). Help me, they say, rather than help us. Their long distance anonymity works against them, says Cox. One of the crucial determinants to the success of fast money schemes has been their use of faceto- face social networks; the kind of word of mouth marketing that personalizes any deal. It does matter that named individuals have signed on and can provide testimony to getting their 200% returns, but more importantly, people join these schemes in ways that reaffirm existing social boundaries and posit their overlap with international ones.

 This explains the appeal of ‘compensation claim’ forms, for example, which promise reparations or rewards on the basis of one’s professional or social identity: you are being acknowledged as a member of some wider community of consumers, believers, sufferers or victors. Pyramid and savings and loan schemes take this communitas one step farther, usually promising rewards to a beleaguered or disenfranchised minority who may otherwise be suspicious of legitimate finance institutions. The sine qua non, of course, is religious: the ‘universal’ church that offers moneymaking opportunities to their flock only. It is this kind of inclusion that lured Telefomin church goers into the charismatic Operation Joshua, which promised both the recognition of their status as one of the lost tribes of Israel (through DNA testing) but also the windfall of discovering ‘uranium oil’ under the spirit house that they were compelled to destroy (Jorgensen 2005).

 U-Vistract has had a similar appeal. Originally it was open to Bougainvilleans only, moving in Port Moresby through workplaces like Air Niugini and Bank of South Pacific, and in the North Solomons and across PNG through United Church and Pentecostal networks (Cox Op cit: 2-3, Gibbs 2005). Pentecostal pastors were even character witnesses during the trial of U-Vistract’s leader, Noah Musingku, and Deputy Senior Pastor for the Christian Life Centre in Port Moresby claimed that he was a Born Again Christian (cited by Cox Op cit:3). Pastor Bob was on the Board of U-Vistract and told Cox that many of his parishioners who benefited from the scheme then funded social programs, a new church building and even a car for the Pastor (Ibid). The CLC pastors ‘used their influence over the congregation to promote the scheme enthusiastically and preached this from the pulpit at Sunday worship. Their preaching also included denunciations of the bank of PNG and those within the church who were opposed to the schemes’ (Ibid).

 An unregistered bank, the appeal has always been to avoid national or international banks, which pulled out of Bougainville during the crisis, and in so doing opt out of the satanic hands of globalization which have already  undermined the mainline churches (Cox Ibid:13). U-Vistract was designed as a self-sufficiency scheme that could be expanded to other developing countries and eventually supplant finance institutions like the World Bank and the IMF. Tragically, these ambitions got drowned in a morass of controversy surrounding Musingku’s Fijian bodyguards, and an attempt to offer the Solomon Islands Government roughly US $350 million U-Vistract dollars. UVistract’s objective, Musingku says, has been to ‘finance the end-time harvest’ Ibid:6).

 The organization is here to ensure that grassroots citizens not only accept Jesus Christ as their personal saviour but also to ensure that each family has enough food to eat each day, enough money to buy clothes, enough money to pay for school fees, accommodation, transport and all other basic necessities of life (U-Vistract News, Nov 23, 2001, Vol 1, Issue 12). Cox (2006:10) reports that Noah Musingku was able to use United Church and Pentecostal Christian networks to promote U-Vistract, and three Pentecostal pastors actually gave written character witnesses for him during his contempt of court trial in 2000. Pastor Bob Lutu, Deputy Senior Pastor for the ChristianLife Centre, Waigani Praise Centre, stated in his National Court Affadavit (as cited by Cox 2006:10) that Musingku was ‘a Born Again Christian (sic)… who faithfully attends Christian Life Centre Waigani.’ Members had invested in the scheme and used this income to donate to the church, funding its social programs and the pastor’s own vehicle. ‘It has been our experience that the Church income was at a high level when members of the church were

receiving returns on their investments under the programme.’ The Christian Life Centre apparently funded a new building from U-Vistract income. Pastor Bob was on the board of U-Vistract. He and other pastors at CLC, notably Senior Pastor Charles Lapa, used their influence over the congregation to promote the scheme enthusiastically and preached this from the pulpit at Sunday worship (Ibid).

 Musingku says globalization is driven by the World Bank and other institutions in ‘the interests of the devil’ (citing Revelations 17 and Romans 12:2). U-Vistract is a godly system fighting the powers behind globalization, which has already coopted mainline churches in PNG.14 Tragically, however, this sanctification did not prevent U-Vistract from causing at least as much pain and suffering to its members than any other manifestation of globalization. People have lost life savings, and irreparably damaged those all important relationships that made U-Vistract initially successful.

 A recent editorial in The National called ‘Never again’ (The National Online, 10.2.07, http://www.thenational.com.pg/), offers an excellent eulogy to UVistract:

 THE Bougainville administrator is one of the first Papua New Guinean leaders to speak bluntly about the failed         U-Vistract money scheme. This week, Peter Tsiamalili gave a warning to the public servants under  his control.         He told them that they must remain loyal to the Autonomous Bougainville Government and not to U-Vistract.         And he was straightforward about the notorious money scam. ‘Investors in UVistract must know that their         money has disappeared for good. They were bad investments, and the illegal money scheme will not make any         payout,’ he said.… U-Vistract began as a classic pyramid scheme of financial investment and return.         …U-Vistract appeared to present an extraordinary opportunity to such people, and to those who might loosely         be labelled our country’s middle class…The first investors were receiving substantial profits on their small         investments, just as the scheme’s originator Noah Musingku had promised. It seemed everybody knew         somebody who had become rich overnight as a result of this wonderful scheme. This word of mouth publicity         was assiduously boosted by U-Vistract officials, and the ames of some senior PNG figures were bandied about         as examples of investors in the scheme. The result was inevitable. It is reasonable to say that the nation was         galvanised, and normally astute people became enmeshed in the UVistract web. Despite repeated prompting         from the media, and from economists and financial experts, who explained how such systems must ultimately         collapse, U-Vistract became a national network, with agentsreaping ever more unsuspecting citizens in a grim         harvest. As recently as last year, U-Vistract representatives were attracting hundreds of existing investors and         would-be investors to large meetings in towns such as Madang. This was despite the on-going failure of the         scheme to pay dividends to investors. It is a remarkable tribute to the charisma of Mr Musingku that he was         able, against all the odds, to maintain substantial public confidence among ordinary people despite the stark         failure of his scheme, and a seemingly endless line of broken dividend promises. The most distressing aspect         of that whole scenario was the continuing silence from our leaders. Apart from warning advertisements placed         by the Central Bank, and the occasional half-hearted alert from government sources, very little action was         either taken, or apparently contemplated…Musingku travelled overseas, visiting Singapore in order to get the         Mint there to print currency for his newly established ‘Kingdom of Papala’. He infiltrated the Solomon Islands,         and promised to rescue that unfortunate nation from its financial woes. And most savage of all, he convinced         hundreds, perhaps even thousands of crisis-weary Bougainvilleans of his ability to end their miseries and         create a glowing and prosperous future for them.

Microcredit

Here’s the problem: How can legitimate credit schemes, many of which are sponsored by well-heeled NGOs, avoid the pitfalls of these quick-money schemes while learning from their peculiar success? How does this new fusion of Christianity and anti-globalization sentiment effect development efforts inPNG? Despite the cynical view taken here of the evangelical campaigns, one of the simple lessons of these money scams seems to be that people are willing to take an economic gamble when they see it as a leap of faith with real social benefits. Sometimes it is worth the price just to be a member of the club.People gather like iron pilings around religious and development leaders across PNG when they know this will involve them in a new society, a new community of members. Whether it is the ‘imagined community’ of video/audio/text consumers for a particular crusade, or the crude receipt onereceives for signing up with a War veterans compensation scheme, these are all contemporary equivalents of local identity markers in PNG, which not long ago would involve a tattoo, haircut, dialect or shell necklace.

At the peak of these pre-millennial money schemes the Development Bulletin hosted a collection of articles dedicated to assessing the validity and longevity of the most secure of them (Vol 50, 1999). David Kavanamur and Robert Turare (1999) focused on Liklik Dinau Abitore Trust (LDAT) and the SimbuMicrocredit Scheme, which had been in operation for more than two years by then. Liklik Dinau, a prototype of the Grameen Bank Bangladesh, was founded by the UNDP in 1993 and backed by UNDP, PNGBC, AusAID, NCW, and Peace Foundation Melanesia. Operating out of the Eastern Highlands andtargeting mainly rural women, it already had a strong recovery rate (Ibid:13, cf. Bablis 1999). The Simbu Microcredit Scheme was similarly successful, and had not been introduced to barren ground: Simbu has long had a sterling reputation with its rotating savings and credit associations (ROSCAs), whichare informal clan-based credit schemes. Most notably, the Wok Meri system in Chuave has been pooling and lending small amounts of money to entrepreneurial women since the seventies (see Sexton 1982, Warry 1987, and cf. a study of Kerowagi Secondary School with discussion of local credit schemes in Emori et al 2006).

 Management Professor Nicole Biggart (2000) writes about microfinance schemes comparatively, and says that everywhere in the developing world that they have proven successful, they have credited that success on the social relations that fuel and sustain them, which confirms the assessments of those writing about the PNG case (Bablis 1999, Cox 2006). Microfinance simply cannot be divested of its social component, or what Biggart calls their‘situational logic.’ Members are not individuated in the way bank customers or internet investors are; they enter and engage in these schemes as members of a community, sometimes church-based, sometimes not. David Kavanamur and R. Turare (1999:12) are also quick to point out that of the women’s credit schemes in PNG, many of which did not succeed, the most commendable one came from the Western Highlands where the women took good records and also hounded their clients for repayments. The lesson may be that members must follow a business plan, and the strategies for its application should be acceptable in their own community. 15

 Karen Lewin of the Lutheran Development Service describes the case of Putim na Kisim, a microfinance scheme operated by the Evangelical Lutheran Church of PNG (Lewin 2002, see also Kopunye et al 1999), by challenging a proposition of economic anthropologist Chris Gregory (1999). Gregory claims that the root crop subsistence basis of Melanesian societies makes them resistant to entrepreneurial capitalism. The fact that root crops do not store makes their economies fundamentally different from Asian rice-growing economies, where this commodity can be saved and transacted in local and international markets. While sweet potatoes provide ‘subsistence affluence,’ they do not predispose farmers to petty trading, and therefore produce relatively few indigenous entrepreneurs. Most finance in PNG, Gregory also notes, is provided by foreign aid or private expatriates (Gregory 1999:84-86).16

On the contrary, Lewin points out, traditional exchange systems are especially well-suited to the concept of savings and loans—think of pigs and brideprice, she says; and it is the very sociality of these indigenous systems that make them work.17 Putim na Kisim models build on traditional networks of obligation and reciprocity.

 The wisdom of Putim na Kisim members in finding the unit of society where the strength of obligations is such that people risk being excluded from the community if they are seen to upset the lives and harmony of others. By building a Putim na Kisim group among the same people who together will pay compensation and bride-price, fight as a clan, celebrate and worship, their obligation is as strong as to a clan member. (Op cit:96) John Charles Cox says these fast money schemes must be seen in terms of the social relations they inscribe, and for this reason it is extremely important that economists become anthropologists during the introduction of microcredit projects across PNG. Microcredit now enters an environment that is faintly phobic of international banking, where everyone knows someone still waiting for their payout from one or another scheme. Evangelical crusades have crystallized ideas about Satan and fanned fears about an imminent end time where the ‘included’ will be spared and the ‘excluded’ left behind. What is more imperative than forging national identity today is the need to join one or another of these churches, where one’s identity as a member will spare you from a gruesome fate and reward you with riches in the Lord’s name.

 

The Paradox of Keeping-While-Giving

 The Asian-Melanesian rice-root crop contrast Gregory draws is interesting to debate, but it evades some of the important variations that exist within Melanesian economic systems. Along a highlands east-west axis, anthropologist D.K. Feil (1987) first elaborated the many social variations (social structure, marriage rules, gender relations, and more) that exist across a continuum of high and low intensity agriculture, population density, and varieties of ‘incremental’ exchange—that is, systems running east to west that either trade in pigs or pearlshells, and rest on different degrees of short-term profit: two pigs loaned, for example, means three pigs returned, and so forth. Anthropology is full of binary contrasts to explain socioeconomic variations in Melanesia. Highlands big men have simply been the most successful fundraisers and investors in PNG to date: their modus operandi being to subsume their clansmen’s wealth under their own ambitions and produce interlocking networks of indebtedness that can translate to political followings in a modern age. The moka of the Western Highlands perfectly articulates across the tee of Enga, as it runs west; and to the east, smaller, less subsistence rich communities tend to downplay the profit motive for a trade in equivalents that maintain peace and harmony. 

Similarly, there is another well-known continuum running from highland to lowland societies that posits wealth-based societies at one end and knowledge based societies at the other. In the first case, these systems of incremental exchange (like moka and tee) create what are called egalitarian societies, where democracy and competition beget ambitious and entrepreneurial bigmen and polities of clansmen ‘investors.’ But unlike coastal societies, these power configurations don’t endure through time; they’re made and unmade during a bigman’s lifetime. Coastal exchange is more about knowledge transaction, and the circulation of critical information over time rather than across a wide populous. This is where linguistic diversity serves the fundamentals of exchange, so that even with relatively less material wealth, people maintain relationships by transacting apples for oranges, your pots for my shells, or this ritual for that garden magic. It is also where money does not make power, where men and women inherit their titles (and the insignia of titles—like shell valuables) rather than earn then, or where initiation brings entitlement to young men rather than chutzpah (Lindstrom 1984, Harrison 1989). 

It may be evident by now that the highland-lowland distinction is one way to frame PNG culture’s vulnerability to Prosperity Theology or not. It would be easy to call lowland societies immune to the ideas of wealth and salvation, but these are also the societies where initiation and being ‘born again’ after radical disjuncture and trauma are part of the traditional culture. Hence, it doesn’t work to say new Protestant ideas can take off in the highlands whereas mainline Christian churches will hold onto the coasts.

 A common distinction is made between gift-exchange and capitalist commodity economies. Anthropologist Fred Myers (2001:6) opens an edited volume on ‘regimes of value and material culture’ with a discussion of Annette Weiner’s work in the Trobriands (1992, 1994), and how it challenged the established theories of exchange in Melanesian culture. Undoubtedly the most complex and celebrated exchange system in Melanesia is the kula, which not only stumped Malinowski but in so doing demolished the 19th Century ‘primitive economic’ straw man (1961 [1922], Weiner 1992). Long sailing expeditions, magic, mythology and ceremony accompanied the circulation of shell valuables that moved, apples for pears, in opposite directions around a ring of islands. What couldn’t be adequately explained, however, was why? There was no rational, i.e. functional, explanation for the trade and while it performed many utilitarian roles in the matrilineal societies it traversed, it had no apparent overarching purpose. Particularly problematic was the fact that no one could actually ‘own’ these constantly circulating valuables. Old and elaborately decorated, they could never be alienated from the ring, presenting kula players and their partners with the unusual paradox of ‘keeping-while-giving’ (Weiner Ibid; cf. other Massim exchange systems, e.g. Munn 198, Leip1999).

 Weiner says both Malinowski and Mauss depend too heavily on western economic theory. The whole premise of ‘self-interest’ driving the marketplace is inappropriate for systems where men (and their offspring) gain no direct returns from trading shell valuables, for example. Weiner’s says previous theories have been identified with reciprocity and equivalence, as in Sahlins (1965), and this is too great a reduction to economics. Instead giving should be related to social reproduction, politics, and the making of power relations. She opened the aperture of analysis so that exchange would be viewed beyond the moment of transaction to how things are created by such systems over time, how societies reproduce themselves and establish their social hierarchies. She coined the concept of ‘keeping-while-giving’, saying exchange is always embedded in greater and wider systems of reciprocity. Gifts are never just gifts, they always imply a return. And commodities are not just objects, either, they have their own sociality. In both commodity and gift economies there are the anomolous objects which we call hierlooms or treasures--- ‘inalienables’ for Weiner, and ‘immeubles’ for Mauss. Weiner and others, like Arjun Appadurai (1986), writing about the ‘social life of things,’ have argued for the coexistence of capital and gift ethics in both western and non-western societies. There is capitalism in the gift, he says, and vice versa.

 Writing about Fiji, anthropologist Nicholas Thomas says:

 [While] alienation, commoditization, and abstract exchange are most pronounced in capitalist economies, they         are not peculiar to those systems. Capitalism is characterised by social relations which bind worker to capitalist         in exploitative transactions, which predated capitalismhistorically and which now exist in some forms in all         societies….The transformations and contextual mutations of objects cannot be appreciatedif it is presumed         that gifts are invariably gifts and commodities invariably commodities (Thomas 1991:38-39).

 

Sociality as prosperity

Prosperity Theology is undoubtedly a good match for many local traditional ideologies in PNG. Highlands societies in particular have always understood the ethic of wealth accumulation and limited distribution. Even the idea of Positive Confession is sort of a put-up-or-shut-up argument for blindly following a bigman. Bellicose highlands communities may also understand how prosperity flocks are under siege, forever battling nay-sayers and Satan’s minions, not to mention multiculturalists, Muslims, Catholics and Mexicans. The fact that wealth-based economies in PNG have much shallower genealogical memories than do knowledge-based societies brings to mind Henry Ford famous aphorism that history is bunk. Where money reigns, no one needs a memory or a pedigree. In the highlands, utilitarian knowledge is favored over metaphysical knowledge, which completes an analogy with the protestant ethic over more ecclesiastical forms of leadership.

 It may seem to readers we have veered far off course from a critique of new quick-money scams and new gospels in PNG. But an important point to be made is that the differences between western and nonwestern economies, as between lowlands and highland, are more subtle than binary opposites can capture, and the coexistence of multiple systems in each economy should be the starting point for more detailed comparisons between these new Christian ideologies of monetarism, individuality and the imminence of an apocalypse, and the indigenous ideologies that have begun to assimilate them. PNG worldviews may be more ‘pre-adapted’ to these capitalist Christianities than we have been willing to admit. 

The common assertion that ‘gift’ economies are particularly vulnerable to corrupt forms of capitalist exchange, the palm-greasing of modern business in the Pacific, is also misleading. Proponents of new-style reciprocity in the form of kick-backs and payoffs are more often beneficiaries of this kind of corruption, as I note elsewhere in a discussion of Pacific Islands political corruption (Sullivan 2004). Whether it is dressed up as ‘Asian capitalism’, and therefore made to appear part of a proliferation of new nonwestern capitalisms, or given a Bible and a megaphone (and a weird hairdo, I might add), greed is greed. The same politicians who ‘support’ televangelists in their prayers for PNG prosperity are also the first to accept kickbacks as gifts and boast about their connections to criminal gangs. Benny Hinn, U-Vistract, Money Rain, and so many of these other schemes are excellent examples of ‘irrational’ economics. But that does not mean they appeal to ‘irrational’ or ‘pre-rational’ societies. In the end, scam artists are no more or less than that, whether the crop up within in response to rapid economic change (see Gesch 1985), or as part of free market globalization.18 Traditional societies are no more or less predisposed to aberrant behaviors, and studies that would explain away Pacific corruption in terms of indigenous exchange are no more meaningful that religious screeds that pronounce all non-Christians to be sinners.

Papua New Guineans are more likely to invest in the social relations behind these scams than their propounders will ever know. In PNG people do not invest money, they invest the social relations implicit in that transaction, and expect those relations to resonate well beyond the moment you send a money order or your bank details. People who invested in pre-Millenial schemes are still waiting for their payout, fully aware that the economic transaction has collapsed but absolutely assured that the social relationship forged will not let them down. Are Papua New Guineans naturally gullible? Do they have more faith in the unseen (the invisible hand) because they have always has magico-religious beliefs? Is this pre-rational man reaching for a faux-rational modernity? Hardly.   Papua New Guineans do not expect the anonymity of ripoffs, they are not accustomed to  being marked by con artists at random, and are waiting for some reciprocity to vindicate their investment. But in the global free market there is no accountability, only consumer culpability: no clansman at your gate, no global court of transparency for the  unconscionable. What quick-money and quick-salvation programmes effect is a gradual disillusionment of ‘community’ as it is known in PNG and in Melanesia more generally. They introduce anonymity, unaccountability, and the quid-pro-quo of transaction as strong and more rational than the sociality of exchange. The ultimate assimilation of capitalism in PNG will no doubt come when the remote villager is resigned enough to say caveat emptor—there is no one to blame but myself.

 

 Endnotes

1 I owe a many of the ideas in this paper to a discussion with John Charles Cox and his writings on microcredit in PNG.

2 I.e. the shroud of Turin is a fashion relic. This may explain the ubiquity of celebrity t shirts.

3 As one commentator observes: ‘You can log on to RaptureReady.com for a taste of how some of these believers view the world—at this writing the Rapture Index had declined three points to 152 because, despite an increase in the number of U.S. pagans, ‘Wal-Mart is falling behind in its plan to bar code all products with radio tags’.’ McKibben (2005:np).

4 Those left behind will also still have the internet, so blogs are being posted like the following: I realize this web page will be addressing two audiences: those of you who read this page before the rapture and those of you who read it after the rapture. My focus here will be on those who have found this page after the rapture of the Church. For anyone reading this material before the pre-trib rapture, I highly recommend that you ponder the negative consequences of being left behind and seriously consider committing your life to Jesus if you have not done so already. ‘I realize this web page will be addressing two audiences: those of

you who read this page before the rapture and those of you who read it after the rapture. (Anonymous, n.d. Oops! I guess I wasn’t ready! http://www.raptureready.com/rap49.html )

5 Elsewhere similar and sometimes more strident versions of prosperity theology are known as The Word of Life, The Prosperity Gospel, The Faith Movement, The Third Wave, New Life, Name It and Claim It Theology, Health and Wealth Doctrine, Signs and Wonders, Third Wave Evangelism, The Latter Rain Third Wave Movement, and Faith Preaching.

6 McKibben (Op Cit) writes: Other End-Timers are more interested in forcing the issue—they're convinced that the way to coax the Lord back to earth is to ‘Christianize’ our nation and then the world. Consider House Majority Leader Tom DeLay. At church one day he listened as the pastor, urging his flock to support the administration, declared that ‘the war between America and Iraq is the gateway to the Apocalypse.’ …The creed of Tom DeLay—of Tim LaHaye and his Left Behind books, of Pat Robertson's ‘The Antichrist is probably a Jew alive in Israel today’—ripened out of the impossibly poetic imagery of the Book of Revelation.

7 C. Peter Wagner of the New Apostolic Reformation reports on an Argentine faith healer in the movement, named of Carlos Anacondia , who said that during his services, on a fairly regular basis, decayed teeth are filled and new teeth grow where there were none before. (MacArthur 1991) Is this divine supply and demand?

8 ‘He said he knew he was under a moral microscope and was uncomfortable discussing the widely publicized episode last Christmas when the Osteen family was taken off a Continental flight to Vail, Colo., after Mrs. Osteen got into an argument with a flight attendant over cleaning up spilled liquid on her first-class seat. ‘It was blown out of proportion,’ said Mr. Osteen.’ (Blumenthal 2006)

9 Some of this positive thinking has raised questions about truth in advertising for the televangelists endorse merchandise on their programs and through their web sites. Pat Robertson and the 700 Club has had its problems with truth. At one point he advertised and endorsed an energy drink that he claimed gave him strength and vitality enough to leg press 2000 lbs. (909.09 kg) This assertion is controversial, as the Florida State University record for leg press, for example, is 1335 lbs. (618.82 kg), and the person who broke the record (later an NFL player and Navy SEAL) burst the blood vessels in his eyes in his attempt. In addition, no current piece of exercise equipment could support 2,000 lbs. for Robertson to press. The energy drink was then removed.

10 This could only be a reference to the controversial text by Samuel P. Huntington, 1998, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order, New York: Simon & Schuster, which argues for the basic irreconcilability of western and non-western (viz. Muslim) nations. But when this xenophobia becomes dogma in these new churches, it is often hard to discern the fears of ‘oneworld’ government and the desires for one-world government-religion-culture. A humorous profile of Pastor Tim LaHaye (Lyon 2005) explains how a Time Magazine profile had referred to him as‘Dr. LaHaye’:

…an ‘influential theologian’ (Academic titles are very big among graduates of Bob Jones University.)…the Time profile did mention LaHaye's attacks on Catholicism as a ‘false religion,’ but it soft-pedaled his zeal for the granddaddy of nutball conspiracy theories: the ‘Bavarian Illuminati.’ Believers argue that this cabal of European-Jewish bankers and secret fraternities such as Skull & Bones has stage-managed world events since the late eighteenth century. (Some contend that America was betrayed into sin when George Washington was secretly assassinated and an impostor named Dr. Adam Weishaupt assumed the presidency.) In his 2002 book The Rapture, LaHaye indignantly defended himself against a John Birch Society critic who accused him of being in cahoots with the Illuminati. To the contrary— LaHaye pronounces himself an avowed enemy of what he calls the ‘satanically-inspired, centuries-old conspiracy to use government, education, and media to destroy every vestige of Christianity within our society and establish a new world order.

11 As early as 1987 Lasaro was committed to the ‘prosperity gospel’ and proposed in Parliament that if PNG committed ‘ten percent of its budget to God… God himself will open the windows of heaven and pour out more blessings in (sic) this nation.’ This included protection from a range of troubles including natural disasters and law and order problems (Hansard 20 Nov 1987, 22-24, quoted in Gibbs 2005 np).

12 It’s doubtful whether PNG ever got a receipt for the K180,000 donation, as Benny Hinn Ministries/World Outreach Church has been roundly excoriated for its lack of transparency by such watchdog organizations as ministrywatch.com.

13 Note, for example, Kenneth Copeland Ministries’ Managing God’s Mutual Funds., and GloriaCopeland’s No deposit, No return ---whose blurb reads: ‘Many people try to withdraw faith fromtheir ‘spiritual account’ when there is nothing in the account to draw out. Learn how to make‘heavenly’ deposits so you will have a rich supply of God's Word on hand for immediate withdrawal.’ Both available on KCM website www.kcm.org

14 Ironically, Musingku later claimed his money was coming from the World Bank, prompting a denial by the Bank’s PNG Manager (Post-Courier 28 Feb 2006).

15By contrast, for example, Horan (2002) reports on a microfinance scheme in rural Tonga, where women were loaned money to produce handicrafts but instead they produced traditional fine mats, which, to Horan, represented an equally ‘rational’ strategy.

16 It should also be noted that Gregory’s ideas run counter to prevailing anthropological thinkingon Melanesian economies, which has referred to highlands systems (in particular) as ‘pre-adapted’to capitalism from the seventies forward, beginning with the classic work of Ben Finney’s (1973)on big men and business in the Eastern Highlands.

17 Cox (n.d.:5) also reminds us that relative isolation from the cash economy has meant that some communities have yet to fully grasp features of the new economy. ‘Thus, when Bablis (1999:20) reports that 90% of microfinance clients with the Liklik Dinau Abitore Trust did not understand the concept of ‘profit’, this should not be interpreted as a case of simple ignorance but as an example of a subsistence culture which has only limited engagement with the cash economy.’

18 But Prosperity Doctrine has its apostates, too. Reverend Jim Bakker, who spent five years in prison for defrauding Heritage USA investors, says he has had a change of heart about the prosperity gospel. The same man who once told his PTL coworkers that ‘God wants you to be rich,'’ now says he made a tragic mistake. ‘For years, I helped propagate an impostor, not a true gospel, but another gospel,'’ Bakker has said in his 1996 book, I Was Wrong. ‘The prosperity message did not line up with the tenor of the Scripture,'’ he said. ‘My heart was crushed to think that I led so many people astray.'’ (The prosperity gospel, St. Louis Post-Dispatch, USA, Nov. 18,2003).

 

 

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Life with Bilbo Baggins: elfin ethnographic mysteries

Last week a story in the international press blew the lid off anthropology. Specifically, elfin anthropology.

http://freedomshammer.wordpress.com/2013/02/16/anthropologist-held-hostage-by-elves-for-7-years/

Yes, we learned from one C. Michael Forsyth of Reykjavik, Iceland, that Kalena Sondergaard had been found.

— Seven years after she vanished without a trace, a female anthropologist emerged from a mysterious cave where authorities believe she may have been held hostage by real-life elves!

Danish researcher Kalena Søndergaard was stark naked, covered by dust and babbling incoherently when rescuers found her outside a tiny opening in the famous Elf Rock, traditionally believed to house the underground dwelling place of mankind’s tiny cousins.

“She was crouching like an animal and spoke only in a language unrelated to any we know,” said Arnor Guðjohnsen of the National Rescue Service, which airlifted the 31-year-old survivor to a hospital by helicopter.

“The only word we could understand was ‘alfur,’ an old Icelandic word for elves. On her back were strange tattoos similar to those markings Viking explorers found on rock formations when they settled Iceland in 874, traditionally known as ‘elf writing.’ ”

DISORIENTED: Missing anthroplogist Kalena “babbled incoherently” when rescued.

Though found without a stitch of clothing, the bedraggled woman did not appear to have been sexually abused. But authorities have not ruled out the possibility that she had voluntary relations with her captors.

“Elves reputedly have an interest in human females and are known to use mind control to seduce them,” observes folklore expert Eva Bryndísarson.

 HEROES: Iceland’s elite rescue team whisked traumatized scientist back to civilization.

 

Elf writing, elf rock. Yes, you guessed it, this is all code for my work with the people of the Karawari, their caves, their cave imagery, and their sacred stone Kopau.

But truth be told, all anthropologists search for elves (alfur, goblins, maslai, little people, gnomes and hobbits of the shire). It's madated by Malinowski's ethnographic method. A little-known prerequisite to the profession. And it dates from those years between the two World Wars when the Granddaddy of modern anthropoloogy found himself alone somehow on the Islands of Love, where he set up camp next to the Paramount Chief'ss wee little house in Omarakana, Kiriwina.

That's when the penny dropped for his Polish-Hungarian polyglot: what real society puts a chief---not to mention a Paramount Chief----in a tiny little house?("You must be kidding me," he was said to have uttered).

From there of course, all the mystification and subterfuge of the trobriands slowly unraveled, and we learn from our interlocator's Diary in the Strictest Sense of the Word that beneath all the big hair and shell valuables, despite the fetching banana leaf skirts and stylish over the shoulder men's jewelry, what we we were really looking at was a society of elves. Pointy ears and all. Of course the bombshell of pulp anthropology for the era has to be Malinowski's painstakingly literal Sexual Lives of Savages (sold in brown paper wrapper). But the most demystifying of his books was and will remain the impressively pedantic Coral Gardens and their Magic, which some say out of spite for not getting laid, divulges every single garden charm, love magic and beauty spell of his hosts. He really was pissed off.

And to some extent, everyone dislikes elves.  While they may be cute and seasonally important in Western countries (Santa tolerates them), and while they seem to be experiencing a revival in children's literature and ironic greeting cards (in different guises), no one outside their closed miniature world really understands them. They remain today, as ever, an anthropological mystery.

The fact is that all other people are elves, trolls, fairies, dwarfs and otherwise-diminutive being; they speak strange tongues and believe in unbelievable forms of magic.

But our fascination with them comes from the early modern era's zeitgeist --the age of discovery, when the idea was to demystify, reveal and make transparent all things previously confounding. Like quantum physics, monopoly capital and British humour. This was the 'teens. And just as Malonowski was liting the veil, so to speak, of Trobirand pointed ears, Sir Conan Doyle was taking a break from Sherlock Holmes to announce to the world he had found proof of the reality of fairies. The Cottingly Fairies, the world's first big Photoshop hoax, became the author's unmaking of course, and he staked his reputation for keen observation on the photo evidence of something his cohort Malinowski was coming to understand through participant observation: the fact that little people are all around us. But only sometimes are they photogenic.

   

I myself continue the Doyle-Malinowski ethno-fictive legacy. My subjects are also elves.

But in my world there are also trolls, goblins, woodland spirits and sing-sing participants of many kinds.

You really never know when they will materialize.

Not surprising for the tropical rainforest.

But look closely now. Squint alittle and you might spy them yourself.

They dwell all around.

And if you speak softly, and present your provincial research authority, they may come out to greet you.

 

UNEXPLAINED: Iceland’s government protects reputed elf dwellings like this one.

 

UNEXPLAINED: the mosquito proof sleeping baskets of the Sepik shaped like elf dwellings.

Now I myself believe that some of us are better suited to recognizing these creatures. We carry a sort of Lamarckian predisposition to the small, what you might call an ethnographic empathy. Or a genetic legacy. The Ó Súileabháins themselves come from a long line of leprechauns.

The Southwesterners of Ireland have always been a queer, and somewhat short people. They like to story, wet their whistle, and live under clover. We have been called primtive, yes, and on the offshore islands, like the Blaskets, we remained untamed until the twentieth century---indeed, until roughly the same time that Malinowski found the Trobrianders and Sir Conan the Cottinglys.

    

But these rough and ruddy folk were discovered half a century earlier.

In 1843, a Mrs. D. P. Thomson, wife of a Protestant cleric on the mainland...visited the Great Blasket and and, she wrote that she “was more affected than I have the power to describe, by witnessing human nature reduced to the savage state it is among these islanders, within almost ear-shot of religious light and civilization” of local women and children crowded into the schoolroom, “chewing seaweed incessantly,” who pressed lengths of it “into their mouths with their thumbs in a most savage manner, and spat about unceremoniously at will; they touched my dress, turned me round and round to look at every separate article, laughed with admiration at my shoes and gloves, kissed and stroked my old silk gown.” After submitting to this inspection, she proceeded to speak to them of Jesus Christ.

(Robert Kanigel (2012-02-07). On an Irish Island (Kindle Locations 168-169). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition.)

 

Aye na dunna tha sound familiar?

In 1907 the  Norwegian Carl Marstrander visited the Blaskets. He had been identified by his professors in Oslo as an unusually gifted student of linguistics.  “Children of nature,” he termed his island friends, or neighbors, or hosts, or objects of study, or teachers, or whatever they really were. “They are rather unstable in their mind, like a lot of Celts, and one doesn’t have to do much to make them happy.” Sadness never lingered with them, but passed “like the short summer showers in Kerry that come and go. They do not seem to think of a day after today. They do not know,” he wrote, “the slow patient work which will bear fruit in years to come. But whatever will give them profits at the moment gives them enormous energy.”

Marstrander pictured the islanders as forever joking, prone to exaggeration, inexorably drawn to “the strange and horrible.” They were “superstitious and blinded by many prejudices,” prey to demanding priests, yet quick to disregard their pastoral injunctions. One priest, angry at being ignored, cursed them, according to Marstrander, going so far as to offer prayers “that the Almighty might lead your boats into destruction on the sea.” For a few days, at least, the islanders, white with fear, forsook whiskey, gave up dancing and song. Impossible for one priest’s intemperate reproof to exact such a price? No, wrote Marstrander, “the West of Ireland still lives in the dark middle ages.”

(Robert Kanigel (2012-02-07). On an Irish Island (Kindle Locations 168-169). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition.)

 

But let's return to Reykjavik for a minute. Who is to say that the young elf ethnographer isn't related to the  Norwegian Carl Marstrander, or that her host community is not otherwise known to J.R.R. Tolkien, J.K. Rowling, C.S. Lewis and other great mystifiers of initialed names? Who am I to say that the elves of this woman's seven years of fieldwork (do you think maybe her grant ran out?) are not somehow related to the elves and fairies of my own family tree?

C. Michael Forsyth's report  continues:

According to one folktale, a pair of brothers had a close encounter with the hidden people. The younger brother Sveinn often disappeared for days without explanation and was rumored to have learned to talk with Elves. One night, his brother Arnór went to Elf Rock in search of him. To his amazement, a secret opening in the hill appeared and Arnór saw Sveinn surrounded by knee-high, pointy-eared men who were about to initiate the mesmerized youth in a bizarre ritual. Arnór convinced his brother to escape with him. Furious at having been denied their prize, the elves chased the brothers and almost killed them...

“Kalena may have stumbled onto an entryway to their kingdom,” Dr. Kristiansen speculates. “That act of trespass may have angered the hidden people and perhaps they took her captive so she couldn’t reveal their secret doorway to other outsiders.”

 Tradition holds that elves use magic for either good or ill. They can establish a psychic link with humans, although people who engage in such contact run the risk of becoming insane. That might explain why the brainy Ph.D’s mind is scrambled.

“Kalena’s brain is Swiss cheese now. She has been through a terrible ordeal,” says Dr. Kristiansen. “We are hopeful that she will someday be able to provide a lucid account of what happened.”

 
     

Field notes: a million things I will never know

Ethnographic fieldwork is about imperceptible differences. First they must be made sensible to you before you can make sense of them in situ. But my notebooks contain long messy lists of things I will never be able to explain. The well wrought pencilled logo on the back of a young mans white dress shirt says Revaival Yuts of Daxu.  --To me, it's better than a printed logo, and not for ironic cool reasons but for the handiwork. But is it better to him?

In Karawari last month I found myself reading two things at once: The memoirs of a Blasket Islander, and the  novel in Henry James’ voice by Colm Toibon, called The Master. I was trolling for distinctions that were never made in other times and places, something Toibon is especially good at recognizing. His James character is so perceptive but completely unreflexive at the same time, representing a kind of 'otherness' that Toibon is trying to celebrate I think. Similarly, we used to believe so many things that we couldn't know to be a hoax---like the Cottingly fairies--because our eyes weren't trained to see. Sir Conan Doyle, another master  of evidentiary description, sees the fairies as absolutely real---even Elementary, Dear Watson.

The imperceptables: I see a hand drawn logo on the guy's shirt, not a silkscreen, and Conan Doyle sees fairies.  Not young girls staging a prank. But what we don't see is still out there.  The ethnographer's job, like the private eye's, and the emoirists', is to understand the filters.

'She was a strong and rugged an hearty girl,' says the 19^th c Irishman in his memoirs.Of course to the Protestant missionary quoted above, she might really have been a frightful primitive without charm at all.

What does it take to see the difference?

I have also just finished reading a true crime story of a 1930s serial murderer, a woman from Cincinatti who is considered at the time to be a femme fatale, and her presentability a great smokescreen to the police. Everyone calls her pretty, so flashy, so glam, such easy bait for the old men she killed---a regular bombshell. But then we see from one photo that she is, in my cosmopolitan twentyfirst century eyes, really as plain as can be---virtually a man in drag. What do they see? The grooming, the nails and hair were ever so important signififers back then, that to put them on was to beome beautiful I suppose.

15^th C paintings of beauty are not beautiful to us---but why? Because cultural standards of beauty change over time. Thus we see early photos of relatives taken with  adoration that just look fussy and overdone today. In Papua New Guinea,  early shots of people by FE Williams and Frank Hurley are similarly reverent, and yet many women (not all) see their ancestral counterparts as ungroomed and overexposed--primitive. 

Everywhere you go in PNG and West Papua, there is a spoken disdain for the villagers who have yet to 'change.' The arse tanget line. They might live a few yards away, and they may have produced your own grandmother, but they are visible embarrassments to modernity. Neighbours and dominant groups call them stupid, backwards and sometimes SMALL. They are related to the little people over the hill, the realm of half-human masalai of middle history.

 

  

 And when you spend the day recording the lore of the most remote of people, you begin to glean an understanding. The stories tap a realm of magical determinism that is all too easily forgotten.

Ive translated one such story of the Penale about a culture hero. Reading through, it makes more sense to me now than ever before. But I wonder if this has to do with my being steeped in my children's sem-literate world of Harry Potters and Hobbits.

 As he was approaching the cave he was following the river and found a huge white stone in the middle of the water, and he realized that this huge rock was the entrance to a ston haus [cave] under the water. So he dived in and reached the middle of the cave. There he discovered two women who had their backs joined together. Their names were Wandabis and Muguwi. They greeted him and asked for his name and then they asked him what he was after. ‘I’m hunting for flying foxes,’ he told them. The women then told him that these flying foxes were their children. They ordered him to leave that area as soon as possible as that was women’s place and men were forbidden. They told to him to look for the haus man [men’s house] in their underwater world, and they gave him directions to look for a flower in front of the haus man [another cave], which was also painted. 

 

 The way PNG kids, especially rural kids, embrace the neo-medeivalism of children's literature and film (Game of Thrones, for example)---replete with dragons and honourable gestures and kings and serfs---make me wonder about my own predispositon to these kinds of stories as a child. I always felt at home with goblins, elves and leprechauns---until a time when I was compelled to foresake them for more civilized characters.

 

In the Sepik, opacity is a sport. Evading straight answers, parsing every bit of gossip, deflecting the compromising questions ---I find myself committing the opposite. It’s my own form of heresy.  It can backfire, however. Just when the foretry team is laughing and joking with Imboin villagers, spreading big slathers of good will, I find myself turning to Lukas, who has always been a sparring partner with me, and reminding him that we know he has conflicting motives. ‘What about that gold dredger you still owe money on? You mean you’ll give up courting gold miners and ILGs now? What happened to ‘we don’t want conservation’?  I’m niggling and can’t stop. It's just wrong. Fortunately, he’s not really listening. New friends are slapping him on the back.

 

 Transparency is the novelty. Why show your cards? It’s a knowledge-as-power world, where no one has wealth, but everyone has a special song or story to keep close. Preferably in a dialect. Because differentiation is the way status is brokered, the slight differentiations between clans and families and neighbours. It begins with slander of course. The Awim and the Imboin repeatedly dissemble facts about the Meakambut, about how brutal or savage they are, what depths they go to. A story about Pasu bashing a pregnant Lydia runs through us for days, until one of our team returns from a visit to the Meakambut scoffing at the story. The day after one team treks up to Tembakopa to visit them, one of the Awim men returns home eager to report to me that all the sago we’d provisioned--20 kilos!---is gone, and they have no more food us there. Im told that the Meakambut have eaten it all, and now have absolutely nothing to eat or serve their visitors. Strange, I say. They normally eat very well. Later we learn this is another complete lie, concocted to slander their backward cousins.

Chris is in the smoky kitchen telling US stories, old saws by now but forever good for a laugh and surprise. These are morsels of extreme exotica, like rare tales of Arabian Nights, that secure his cosmopolitan status amongst all of the Karawari. They are tales from the days when he got a cornea transplant in the US, and recovered in LA with me amongst a set of film industry friends. He talks about the time a Sudanese model tried to pick him up at a party, and when we saw a TV actress we recognized. Mythic.

 

But he likes to tell his best stories with drama, acting out segments in ways that might surprise their protagonists to hear them now. Chris was nearly blind and very shy when we spent time in LA, but a decade and five children later, his raconteur skills have really been polished. There’s the story of hanging out with his good friend, a ‘very famous black American actor’ Tom, who took him to a black Barbar Shop, and for a cup of burnt coffee in Venice that Chris filled with packs and packs of sugar. How they drove in Tom’s big black Esplanade SUV along a highway one afternoon, listening to James Brown as Tom talks about stunt acting. Tom tells Chris to hold on now. Chris stands to tell the story. Tom then he breaks the vehicle so it slides into a 360 degree--on the spot. Very Van Damme. Then (Chris tells us) Tom simply presses the gas and continues on his way.

This is how legends are made.

 

 But I have arrived, in my research, at a provisional theory. The world of maslai, mudmen and cold weather elves have come to merge with leprechains, O'Neills and the blarney stone.

 

 

 

This is what corruption looks like: There are no white ribbons without bandages

Today we honour those women and men who have survived to tell their stories about domestic violence in Papua New Guinea.  Nothing says more about their strength than the photo on the cover of today's Post-Courier. These women have lost eyes, teeth, limbs,  and children to violence, but are here to tell us it has to stop.
But today I also received a message forwarded from the Medical Society of PNG that implies these victims will get little relief ion 2014. The most important triage for these women comes from health officers, aid post orderlies, village health volunteers, community health workers and anyone else who can staunch the open wound, apply the tourniquet and offer a shoulder to cry on.

This is what the message said:

Dear Sir

There have been many reports in the daily print media about suspected corruption with regards procurement by the National Department of Health for the medicines and other medical supplies required by the hospital, health centres and aid posts of the country, - including http://www.postcourier.com.pg/20120906/news02.htm “Fake drugs sold widely in PNG”. http://www.postcourier.com.pg/20070419/news02.htm “Fake drugs on the market”

http://www.postcourier.com.pg/20111010/news01.htm “Sweep team eyes Health Dept”

It seems that this year the process will be corrupt once again.  Medical supplies procurement is worth up to K100m per year, - so this is no small money we are talking about.

The story of 2014 medical supplies procurement starts on May 6^th this year when the Health Dept. put out a request through the Central Supply and Tenders Board (CSTB) for a 3 year contract for procurement of health centre (medical supply) kits by international tender with a closing date of 30.5.2013.  The tender request states that suppliers who wish to put in tenders must meet certain standards,  ie, have

<!--[if !supportLists]-->·        <!--[endif]-->International Standards Organization (ISO9001:2008)  for Quality Management System Accreditation of the Tenderer

<!--[if !supportLists]-->·        <!--[endif]-->Quality assurance covering supply chain, manufacture and delivery of medical supply kits

<!--[if !supportLists]-->·        <!--[endif]-->Certification for Good Manufacturing Process (GMP) of the medicines to be supplied and Good Distribution Practice (GDP).

The deadline for tenders was the end of May.  However, someone must have realized that the Tenderer who is renowned for giving presents to people in the government procurement system did not have ISO ‘Quality Management System Accreditation”, because at the end of May the CSTB extended the deadline for tenders submission to 20^th June.  And then on the 6^th June, the Secretary for Health announced that the requirement that tenders must have ISO Quality Management System Accreditation was removed.

On the 20^th June the CSTB had a meeting which revealed the following tenders submitted:

Company	Tender Bid (Kina)	ISO Quality Management System Accreditation ?
Sesago Ltd	111,329,916	No
Boucher & Muir Ltd	108,436,029	No
Green Limited	99,480,703	No
Borneo Pacific Pharmaceuticals Ltd	71,478,316	No
International Dispensary Association (IDA)	51,142,940	Yes
Missionpharma/City Pharmacy Limited	48,028,677	Yes

The CSTB uses a multi parameter method of evaluating tenders; the bidding price is just one of the factors taken into account.  Other factors include whether the bidding company “understands the project objectives”, “the methodology and resourcing of the bid” (ie quality medicines will be supplied) and whether the company “supports local industry”.  Information is that the CSTB has recommended to government that the K71m bid by Borneo Pacific Pharmaceuticals Ltd be accepted.  Search of the PNG Companies office reveals that this company is owned by two Malaysian businessmen.

Research published internationally shows that there have been a lot of substandard and counterfeit drugs brought into PNG in the recent past.  In 2011, Nair et al in the Journal of Pharmaceutical Sciences reported that all samples of medicines supplied to PNG from the North China Pharmaceutical Group did not meet quality standards and one sample was clearly counterfeit (ie. a non active substance masquerading as medicine – usually starch or flour). Borneo Pacific Pharmaceuticals gets a lot of its medicines for importing to PNG from the North China Pharmaceutical Group.

A lot of money from overseas development partners assists PNG in the supply and distribution of medicines around the country.  Ausaid has supported the Dept of Health with hundreds of millions of kina over the past several years and last year sponsored the distribution of health centre kits to every health facility in the country.  This resulted in remote health facilities receiving adequate supplies of medicines for the first time in many years. Ausaid have agreed to distribute medical supplies again in 2014 as long as the tendering process for procurement is transparent and leads to the procurement of quality certified medicines.  However, if the successful bidder procures medicines from non-GMP (International Good Manufacturing Process) certified products Ausaid will withdraw its support.  Then we will be left with local ‘wantok’ distribution companies sending out low quality and possibly counterfeit medicines to our hospitals and health centres.  This will lead to the deaths of many Papua New Guineans and also much disability.  We all need say “NO”.

The Medical Society of PNG appeals to the Prime Minister to reject the recommendation from the CSTB in this case, and insist that tenders for the nation’s medicines only be accepted from ISO Quality Management System accredited companies who promise to only supply medicines from GMP accredited manufacturers.  Could the leaders of all public spirited organizations please support the Medical Society in the matter

Yours sincerely,

Professor Nakapi Tefuarani                 Professor Glen Mola

President                                                     Treasurer

cc. The Minister for Health

-- 

Professor Glen Mola FRCOG,FRANZCOG, DPH, OL

Head of Obstetrics and Gynecology, UPNG

 

Professor Mola is 0ne of the few gynecologists in PNG, specializing in medicine for the most vulnerable half of the population. He is on the front line of protecting women and knows how crucial medical care for them is in a country where mysterious deaths are attributed to witchcraft and STDs leave women infertile and abandoned by their husbands.

Professor Mola writes:

" Our only hope is that O'Neill will stop it before it is gazetted.  After all they can steal hundreds of millions from the road construction projects -- why steal K30-40m from the women and children and sick people of the country?

Unfortunately Borneo Pacific Pharmaceuticals have about K30-40m to 'spare' (ie. over the expected K10m profit one can expect for this kind of tender) to buy off almost every body in the Health Dept from the very top (probably Minister down thru Deputy Sec (Corp services)) to every single person in the Medical Supplies branch and still have plenty left over for 'profit'.  And they have done this sort of rort before so they are laughing all the way to the bank in KL."

Glen

 

 

The Mining Advisory Council sends us a letter

This is noncommittal, as you will note (and alittle snitty about my threat to embark on an international campaign---Done, by the way, MRA)---but it is very very good news in the end. We know that the MRA are meeting with the Natioal Museum and Art Gallery next week for further clarification of their appeal to halt the license, and that is another excellent sign that grassroots projects can and do make a difference. We thank everyone involved in signing the petittions, expressing their support, and contacting the MRA directly about the Karawari Caves and the need to protect them. Please rake a look at the Facebook page for Karawari Cave Arts to find more images, updates, and videos from the Namata meeting where we explained the petition and the campaign to the landowners at risk.

First, find below the letter I wrote, with the note from Philip Samar saying 'Toger, let's send someone to check this place out' (no small endeavour, let me tell you):

And these are the letters also attached in their email to me, filed as 'other correspondence.'  Thanks to those people who took the time to write letters, substantial letters, in protest against Pristine #18's ELA 2008: Stephen Corry of Survival International, linguist Darja Hoenigman who workes with the neighbouring Kanjimei community, and my dear friend the NYC activist Brad Taylor. These three perspectives, representing a renowned rainforest campaigner, a humanitarian based in the USA, and a Slovenian scholar and stakeholder who explicitly describes some of the reasons why this license should not be permitted (please read them all) reflect the breadth  of our support in this effort. We are so grateful.