Papua New GuineaMapOctober 11–14, 2013 No one was expecting me in Papua New Guinea. Mount HagenMapI landed and walked into the airport building, which looked more like a glorified shed. The crowd of arriving passengers quickly collected their luggage and dispersed. I stood outside by the entrance and didn’t know what to do. There were no taxis. There just weren’t any in this city.
«Is someone picking you up?» a large woman with a kind face asked me. She came back. Drove me to my hotel. Offered to show me around. The country is closed off from the rest of the world, but it’s the rest of the world’s fault. It’s just not interested.  Although it’s juicy here.  The people live close to the earth.  They’re tolerant towards modern forms of commerce, but never forget their traditions.  They always notice travelers and follow them with their gaze.  They always raise a hand in greeting.  They wear bright clothing and like plaid and stripes.  There’s nothing to see in the city.  One of the few large buildings.  Former fuel barrels make for capacious city trash cans.  Outdoor advertising.  These guys are trying to either sell the wombat or entertain people on the street.  Vendors of national souvenirs. There’s a very large number of bearded old men in Papua New Guinea, by the way. They’re everywhere.  Stocktaking.  Cave paintings at a supermarket.  A Papuan.  The number one car in the country is the Land Cruiser. And it has to be white.  Windshield wipers are decorated with plastic zip ties to make them look like eyelashes. Very pretty.  Truck windshields are always covered with grates. As well as all the other windows. Just in case.  A license plate.  «Bird of paradise, Mister!»  Let’s get out of the city.  The woman’s Land Cruiser is the real deal. Complete with cockroaches. The roaches crawl out into the light from every crevice. When the car hits a bump, they hide.  Coffee drying. It’s covered with blue tarps to keep it from getting wet in the rain.  Green coffee being packaged.  The village lives quite well off the fat of the land.  The homes don’t have any chimneys, just like in the Central African Republic or Madagascar. Cooking fires blacken the thatched roofs from the inside.  Coffin for sale. Fits both adults and kids.  Adults.  Kids.  Today’s gathering is in honor of the newly betrothed. Guests arrive with gifts. The wedding is still some time away, but the gifts must be collected now—that’s the custom. First, money.  Then household goods.  Putting livestock on the carpet for gifts isn’t very practical, it’ll run away. So it’s left to graze nearby.  Everyone is supposed to have a good time. The old man is having a good time.  The old woman is having a good time.  The young woman is having a good time.  The woman’s driver emphatically insists that I shouldn’t walk around the city alone. Who knows what sort of people I might run into. Six months ago, one woman was stripped naked, tortured and burned alive right in the street. She was suspected of putting a curse on another woman’s kid. The police came, but they were chased away. It’s none of their business. Port MoresbyMapThis is the capital.  The bus stops are progressive here, with Twitter and Facebook logos.  A traffic light. Underneath it is a Land Cruiser with a yellow gun sticker. I never managed to find out why people put these stickers on their cars here (the driver is armed?).  Sometimes there are even two stickers.  Payphones.  A trash can.  A postal worker applies glue to stamps.  A pedestrian crossing sign—like the ones in Australia (and also Ecuador, Pakistan, and Burma).  A PSA warns against drinking on moving vehicles, even if you’re a passenger.  Welcome to Boroko Police Station.  Everything is so heartfelt, so real. |
