Paradise Destroyed

8/8/2019 Paradise Destroyed

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I have had the privilidge of living in Paradise. I have hadthe gut-wrenching experience of watching it turn to hell.

I have lived on both sides of the razor wire, as one of themajority race in my own land. Moreover, I have lived asthe white minority in somebody elses.

This is not intended to be a history lesson; no nationalgeographic photographs accompany it. Its my personalrecollections, backed up by fact.

Many of you will have seen South Pacific the movie.

Do you remember the scenery? Hold that awesometropical setting inside your mind. Visualize the beauty ofthe mountains, valleys, waterfalls, and rivers. Imagine

long stretches of golden sand where footprints would notbe found.

That, my friends is something that comes almost close toPapua New Guineas majesty. A tangible, breathablekaleidoscope of color, sound and an indefinable magic.

Those of you who have not seen the movie, or havenever gazed longingly at travel brochures of tropicalparadises, will need to take my word for it.


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This place was a close to heaven on earth visually as Iwould ever get.

****

Papua New Guinea is an island divided. Papua is ownedand governed by Indonesia. New Guinea in 1972 wasgoverned by Australia; we had annexed it as a Territory.It had been an Australian Protectorate since 1920.

In 1943, the Japanese occupied the island. After the

Japanese surrender, Australia was again givenprotectorate rights.

New Guinea obtained Self Government in 1973 andIndependence on 9/16/75. .

This place is filled with ancient superstitions, and even

more ancient tribal traditions and customs. There at 850known dialects.Many villages have yet to see a white face; their isolationwithin the mountainous terrain is assured for a long whileto come.

Even the capital city of Port Moresby is not connected byroad to any other city in New Guinea; engineers have yet

to find a way of doing it.

The geography of the island is spectacular.

Two villages discovered only in the past two decades,were a bare four miles apart...and knew nothing of the


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others existence. They worshiped different Gods--andspoke a different dialect. The only common thread wassimilar diet, and longevity.

Instead of a network of roads, you have in excess of 500airstrips, most of them un-paved. These are capable oftaking small planes only. The capital Port Moresby andthe much smaller cities of Lae and Rabaul are the onlyplaces where large jets can be accommodated.

So--you have an island lost in time, whose peoples

should have been left to discover their own path, in theirown way. That didnt happen.

The resentment brewed slowly over time, in a cauldronmixed with fear to make a potent, deadly, toxin. Itsimmered and then began to boil. The steam and thepressure continued to build.

Touchdown Port Moresby...February 1972.

I lived in that incredibly beautiful place; I was able to seeit before Independence was granted. When it was stillregarded by many of its white inhabitants as a colonialoutpost. This included their own version Of Raffles hotelin Singapore.

The New Guinea version was called the 'Davara'. Itwas situated right on the beach with balconies all round,allowing clear views of the magnificent South PacificOcean in all its turquoise wonder.


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One of the very first things I was told by my new bosswas this, "The 3M rule applies here girl. In this place,you will only ever find three types of white man ...Missionaries-Mercenaries--or Misfits! Everyone falls intoone of those categories if they can stay the course longenough. This place will get under your white skin, andonce it does itll be a love hate relationship for as long asyou remain.

Well, I figured I would never gain access to number one

on that list. I had one belief system or so I liked to tellmyself. I believed in... Me. Simple...yes, very! So--Ihad two options remaining, for the moment misfit fit likea glove. I actually felt kinda proud thinking of myselfthat wayoh the ego of a seventeen year oldis frightening, and oh so very fragile!

The German's had had a shot at running this place; manyof the plantations were still owned and run by the third orfourth generations of the initial German landowners.

Then Britain took it on, and there we find the expatriatecolonial attitude, which was still very present.

Each household in the white population generallyemployed servants. I find the term House Boy offensive.


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Yet, this is what the locals were called, and they wouldask for work labeling themselves that way as well.

Most of the House Boys were given accommodation aspart of the deal. Boy houses had no power, and norunning water. They cooked over open fires.

These houses were generally one room, un-furnished,with one window and two doors, the rear one being usedto exit when the call of nature required.

The locals were paid a kings ransom of approx 80 centsUS a day. They worked six days a week from 7:00 amtill 4:00 pm. Depending on the requirement of the

Master! Yes ... that is exactly what the staff wererequired to call the male head of the household; thefemale was simply Mrs.

Whenever I attempted to have any staff call me by myname, it made them very uncomfortable. They wereafraid it would get them into serious trouble. Sadly, itwould have done, in far too many homes.

There are a couple of things you need to understand;there was no other work. Most of the locals werecompletely uneducated, unskilled, and for the most partspoke a version of 'pidjin inglis'.


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Port Moresby is the size of a small country town, thesesimple village folk came here hoping to make somethingof themselves. Most house boys were well over thirtyyears old. Although they had no real way of knowing howold they were, as no records were kept.

Most of them were trying to save enough to pay theBride Price for the woman they wanted, always referredto as Mary or in pidjin as Meri.

Bride price was the measure of a young mans respectfor the brides family. The more pigs, chickens,cassowary, and cash he had, the higher the chance thathe would gain her hand.

There was no television in Papua New Guinea at thattime. This is important to understand. There were no

preconceptions they had only our behavior past andpresent to gauge us by.

They had no way of understanding the concepts that weall take so much for granted. Their tribal language wasas spoken centuries before; they learned 'pidjin inglis'only to communicate with the white man.

They had no idea of what credit was, or what bankswere. McDonalds meant nothing to them. They hadnever seen a train, or a building higher than threestories.


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The only movies they had experience of were the onesthey gazed at in awe through the fences of the outdoormovie areas in most of the clubs.

The membership fees were so exorbitantly high that onlythe wealthiest of the local people could afford entry. Ifthey had hard cash, they were obviously educated andemployed, usually as public servants. This was thereasoning used by the white club owners.

The locals paid the same amount in membership--

however, they could not be seated in the same areas asthe whites.

Oh, we taught them so muchhow to drink booze toexcessand smoke cigarettes-- tailor made, not rolled innewspaper. We gave them the tools of their ultimatedemise.

Their other pleasure was chewing Betel-nut, it had anumbing affect, apparently similar to the high that mostof the white population got from smoking dope.

Werent we just the greatest benefactors? We showedthem howand then refused to accept any responsibility

for the tragic consequences.

When pay night came around and they receivedthe pittance that they earned, it was mostly spent onbooze and cigarettes.


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Whilst their families had to survive on rice, or taro root.

Our clever response to that ever-growing problem wasitis their choice!

****

I remember the day that the electric sliding doors wereput into the Burns Philp store. The queue of local

people stretched for three miles, just so they could take aturn walking in and walking out, all with great hilarity.

The police were called, and they too took their turn attricking that damn door.

Burns Philp had to disable it, and wait for the novelty to

wear off.

Their innocence was in many ways so very childlike.

Their village customs of payback were not.

The village systems are far too complex for me to

attempt to describe them in detail. I can give you a verybasic outline. If a village had a tribal difference with aneighbor, then anything no matter how small, could setthe violence of payback in motion.


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I lost count of the number of times I had attempted toreturn the short distance from town to my home only tobe stopped by Police roadblocks, as a payback riot wasunderway up ahead.

These fights were never a one-on-one; most times, theyinvolved hundreds of warriors from differing villages.

They were always brutal and frequently deadly.

Machetes, spears, knives, clubs, and occasionally rifleswere weapons of choice. After a winner was agreedupon, the winning tribal group would celebrate long intothe night. Mourning their dead, and drinking to theirvictory.

Lives were lost in one particularly brutal eruptionbetween Tolias and Goilalas two notorious highlandenemies.

They fought, and some died... over one stolen chicken!

Unbelievable? I wish it were. 'Jonas' the House Boyemployed by my boss was from the Goilala tribe. He

was injured, thankfully not seriously. He was moreconcerned with the fact that the chicken had yet to bereplaced.

Villagers that shared a common tradition were known as


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One-Talks' or wan toks in pidgin. These one-talks wouldcongregate on opposing sides in their hundreds and tauntthe others until tempers exploded.

The police would stand back and watch. Only intercedingif one of their own 'one-talks' were involved. Then, itwas hands on, guns drawn--and often used.

The training they had from the white officers, did not,would not, and could not interfere with their triballoyalties.

At that time, the whites were the masters. I knew eventhen, that it could not, must not...remain that way.

I had the freedom of the beaches at sunrise and sunsetfor barbecues and beach parties. I was able to walk alone

along the pathways-- gazing up at the miracle of starlightunvarnished by city lights, all those things were whiteprerogatives.

I didnt recognize the brooding discontent, not at first. Itwas more the sensation of waiting, for a storm you cantyet see, but you know it's coming! The air around you is

charged with electric particles, hovering, growing, andpreparing to explode into life.

The one thing that did make its way into my self-obsessed 17-year-old brain, were the changes in the


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village children. When I had first arrived, they wouldlaugh and run alongside the car, hoping for a treat.

When I left one year later, I couldnt help but notice thelaughter was gone. They now stood in ever-largergroups, saying nothing, doing nothing they could bepunished for. They stood just staring unblinking as wedrove by.

The day I flew out and returned to Sydney I cried. It had

been a marvelous year for me. A year of learning, safety,comfort, and freedom. I left a part of my heart behind.

I had no way of knowing then that I would return fiveyears later.

To a New Guinea, I barely recognized.******

Five years later

December 26 1977.

Christmas Day had been tinged with sadness, as myhusband of four years and I were leaving the nextmorning to fly out to Papua New Guinea. He hadaccepted a promotion to become the manager at a newly


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acquired branch of the largest Insurance Company in theSouth Pacific region. He was very young for such apositionhe was also extremely competitive and veryvery good at his job. He was the companys new GoldenBoy with a huge future in front of him.

I was so excited about returning to that beautiful island. Ihad talked non-stop about the place for the weeksleading up to our departure. My husband was locked in toa three-year contract. I couldnt wait to show him the'Paradise' I had left five short years before.

Funny, isnt it what memory holds on to? The beauty ofthe place and the wonder of being able to share it withhim, colored those doubts that had been makingthemselves felt in my consciousness just before I left'Paradise.

Making all of the troubling thoughts I'd had glow with arosy shimmer.

The plane touched down in the early afternoon. It wasthe wet season, and storm clouds and lightning greetedus on arrival, together with the wall of heat that hit us aswe walked across the tarmac.

The fences topped with razor sharp barbed wire lookedso out of place, at least to me. I had not been naveenough not to expect changes.

I had read the papers and knew that law and order had


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broken down significantly since Independence.

It wasnt so much the razor wire, to be honest; it was asensation of wariness. An edge I was familiar with frommy street days, yet had not expected to feel here in

Paradise.

I looked around for the cause--and found it. A group ofyoung men were inside the arrivals terminal, a largegroup of about thirty or so. We had been warned toexpect to run into some of these gangs.

I hadnt been prepared to encounter them quite so soon.

The local newspapers referred to them as Rascals, suchan innocent name, almost an affectionate term. Thename was misleading in the extreme. These were noinnocents.

These were some of those children I mentioned earlier,the youngsters who stood and watched in silence. Theywere now all grown up with rage to spare.

These young people hated, and the hatred ran deep.

Not just the whites, no, they hated anyone theyperceived to be better off than they were. The employedNew Guinea citizens now referred to as Nationals, were


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their targets as well, as indeed was anyone daring to getin their way.

Over the next two and a half years, our lives wouldchange significantly. The freedom that I had so cherishedfive years before was gone. It was unsafe to go outsideafter dark, unless travelling in convoy.

Nights out were organized so that all would meet upbefore dark and we would leave en-masse with up to sixcarloads of us at once.

We clung together; we were all employees of thecompany and for the most part we were young coupleswith no children.

We would only venture out on weekends in a largegroup.

If we decided to have a party all the guests that didntlive in our apartment block would stay over for the night,sleeping anywhere we could make room.

The company always attempted to house us in closeproximity... their staff lasted longer that way.

The clubs I had thought expensive back in 1972 werenow even more so. The only way they could legallyrestrict membership was to ensure that only those welleducated and employed could possibly afford to join.


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I was pleased to see that at least the seating was nolonger segregated, yet the invisible barriers were welland truly in place.

I'll recount a strange little incident that highlighted somuch for me, and helped my growing sense ofhelplessness increase.

It was 1977, my husbands secretary, a delightful youngNational woman named Ruth, had taken me aside oneafternoon when Id dropped by his office. She was very

excited, and needed my help. The previous night, Ruthand her family had seen Superman the Movie withChristopher Reeve and Margot Kidder.

Ruth, asked me in confidence where she could contactSuperman. I assumed she meant the actor. I suggestedshe might try writing to Christopher Reeve c/- the studiothat had made the movie, which she could find out bychecking the poster outside the theatre.

She was confused, and kept insisting that his name wasClark Kent. She needed him to come, as her village wasin danger of being overrun by their tribalenemy. Superman could use his magic to ensure hervillage won.

I almost laughed until I realized that she was deadlyserious. Ruth had been well educated at a missionschool; in fact, she had had more schooling than Ihad. Yet in her innocence of all things worldly, shebelieved Superman was real. It shook me. It was yet


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another wake up call.

The government actively encouraged all expatriates toemploy House Boys.

Unemployment was running at that time at a frightening80%. More and more young people were coming into thecity all the time, they came expecting wondrous things,they had no place to live, no government benefits, no

jobs, and no hope of getting one.

An enormous number of expatriates had left New Guinealeading up to Independence Day. Many more had left inthe years since. New blood was constantly being infused,and as we were bound to contracts the company could bereasonably sure we would stay.

Squatter settlements had sprung up everywhere,together with the enormous poverty, dysentery, anddiscontent that accompanied them. It hung like an ever-darkening cloud on all the visible horizons.

A white woman could not go shopping unaccompanied.

If possible the wives would band together and shop oncea week. As there is no cattle or dairy industry, fresh milk

and red meat had to be flown in frozen.

Unfortunately the storage facility frequently blacked outfor days at a time, as did our homes. Frozen food was ahealth hazard.


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We soon learned that chicken and fish could be had freshat the open markets, if we could only be brave enough togo there.

I had acquired a beautiful Rottweiler; his owners hadgiven up and returned to Australia. He had been trainedin a way I despised. It was common practice to put thepups in a sack individually, and have the 'House boy' kickand punch the bag. Then have him open it. The puppiessoon learned to hate anything black. My dog was no

exception to that, his owner had been a Police officer sothat King had been further trained to attack and stop oncommand.

I hoped like hell that I would never have to test thattraining.

King accompanied my friends and I whenever weventured out without our husbands. He was a formidableburglar alarm in the car.

New Years Eve 1978/79 we attended the Companycelebrations. Three car loads of us left together to return

home at around 2.00 am. As we reached the top of thehill on the only road out of town, we could see somethingburning off to the left. We couldnt quite make it out fromwhere we were; our lead vehicle was a land rover withhuge bars across the front, he slowed his pace alittle. The women were in the second and third


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vehicles. As we rounded a curve, we saw a roadblock upahead; 44-gallon drums were strung out across theroad.

It was not the police.

The fires were coming from two burning cars off to ourleft; to the right was a shear drop hundreds of feet intothe ocean, my husband screamed, Get down on thefloor now!

We knew better than to question, and huddled togetherin the back between the seats with our heads down, andhands clenched together.

The lead car put pedal to the floor and rammed theroadblock. We followed with engines screaming and tires

belching smoke. Gunshots followed us. We hugged thelead vehicle. He turned into his driveway, and two of thecars were hurriedly parked and locked into the garage,whilst the third vehicle sped around back. We entered thehouse without turning lights on, and sat in disbelief,adrenalin pumping, still trying to figure out what the hellhad just happened.

There was no point in calling the police. We knew theywould not come.

The guys had talked this scenario through several times,


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without saying anything that may alarm us womenunnecessarily.

I no longer had cause to wonder why the reinforced Landrover always took the lead. The experience pulled ourtight little group even closer.

We would fall asleep at night to the repeated sounds ofgunfire and screams.

We began to become desensitized to it. It was then thatwe knew we would only just make it through the timeremaining on the contract; we reached a decision toleave if in six-months we still felt the same way. Myhusband aquired a gun. We slept with 'King' at the baseof the bed. I had a wicked Japanese sword on the floornext to me.

It didnt matter to either one of us any more about themoney we would have to forfeit.

Home invasions were common, rape even more so, andmurder was on the menu every day.

The weapons of choice that the gangs used were still

machetes and knives, with one very big difference; theynow carried M16 assault rifles. Supplied by whom? I dontknow for certain.

Drug trafficking was growing daily.


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All in all, Paradise was heading for hell. Living therebecame it. We sat, we watched, and we waited for thecountry to implode.

I cried again, when we left New Guinea.

I cried with sadness at what it had become.

I cried with anger over what had caused it.

I cried with relief, to be leaving.

In answer to the question I am now asking myself, am Iprejudiced?

Against the color of a mans skinNo, I am not.

Against mindless violenceYes I am.

Do I believe we had a right to drag that beautiful place

screaming into a century it was unprepared for?...Emphatically No! I do not believe we had any right to doso.


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Did we have the right to plunder its mineral richness forour own profit? No, we did not.

Will New Guinea recover? Not in the foreseeable future.

*****

Thirty years later.

2010. Unemployment is now 90%.

Average wage equates to $1.25 US per day.

Law and Order has completely broken down, thegovernment of Papua New Guinea, has requested urgentassistance from the Australian Government.

Two-Hundred-and seventy-five police officers have beenseconded to New Guinea to train the localconstabulary. $800 Million has been granted inassistance.

Should we do more? Yes, I believe we should.

Is it too late? Everything in me wants to screamNo! But sadly, I must say Yes I believe it is far too late.

'Paradise', has already gone to hell.


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******

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Paradise Destroyed

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