The Journey back to Nandi, Enga

by Victoria Piakal

Most black nations have endured traumatic histories — land taken, languages erased, and identities fractured. Papua New Guinea, however, stands apart. We are one of the few black nations where colonisers never stole our land or silenced our language. These sacred treasures — our land and our language—form the core of our identity. What we have is rare, not only in the black world but in the entire modern world.

During the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests, I shared this story with friends from around the globe. Jessie, a fifth-generation Parisian from the French West Indies; Katrice, an African-American from Cincinnati; Mazin, a first-generation Australian from Sudan; and Aunty May, an Aboriginal elder. They spoke of the pain and trauma they carried — of land stolen, traditions lost, and systems of oppression that still haunt their communities. For some, the burden of this history was so heavy that they sought counseling to navigate the deep wounds it left behind.

What left them most fascinated was my story of Nandi, my small village in Enga Province. I told them of how my family’s land had been passed down through over many generations past. From my mother’s father from his father and back down the line, remaining within our family since time. This was something they could hardly imagine.

Even more incredible to them was the fact that my village only emerged from the Stone Age less than 90 years ago. I shared with them vivid memories of my childhood in the mid-1980s, when I lived at the intersection of two worlds — the fading traditional way of life and the dawn of modernity . I told them about my Wahas (grandfather) trading his Yakaip Yambal for white shorts — a symbol of the transition from the ancient world into the modern era.

I painted for them the beauty of our culture — the great storytellers who were not just entertainers but master orators. They would gather in the Enda Anda at night, telling stories filled with parables and songs, unlocking mysteries and passing on wisdom. I spoke of the Anka seasons, when my grandfather would venture into Kakas to gather Anka and gave the largest portions to neighboring tribes — a testament to the spirit of generosity deeply rooted in our traditions.

Our land and our language are the heart of who we are. Living on our land means practicing our customs, honoring our traditions, and keeping our Yumbungs’ legacies alive. But tribal war, the greatest threat to culture and identity, has cast a long shadow over our people. It has stolen lives, displaced communities, and fractured relationships, threatening the very core of our existence.

For decades, the people of Nandi were refugees, forced from our ancestral land by what Enga Province is notoriously known for — tribal wars, sadly of our own doing. But last year, with my cousin and a few others, we created a WhatsApp group, uniting Peperres from all over the country. Our vision was clear: to make peace, return to Nandi, rebuild our village, grow crops, and bring economic development to our home.

Six months ago, after long negotiations, we reached a turning point. We compensated one of our enemy tribes, paving the way for peace. The Mup tribe, who had held Nandi as ransom for lives lost during the conflict, released the land back to us. In return, they asked for 90 pigs and 20,000 Kina by December 2024.

On October 7, 2024, we set foot on Nandi soil for the first time in decades. It was a historic and emotional moment. With the Word of God in our hearts and spades in our hands, we entered the land of our Yumbungs — not with guns, but with a determination to rebuild. We bathed in Lai Mares, breathed in the scent of the Yoal trees, and looked up at the stars under the Nandi skies — moments we had only dreamed of for years.

The entire community rallied to support the initial settlement. We pooled our resources to buy tents, solar chargers, rice, and sweet potatoes for the settlers. Through a GoFundMe page, we raised enough money to build two traditional houses and provide food supplies for a month. Churches and neighboring tribes showed extraordinary generosity, donating food, fire wood and timber to help us rebuild.

This generosity is part of our heritage, passed down by our ancestors. Our Yumbungs were people of great wealth and kindness, hosting grand Mena Ya (pig-killing feasts) and Tees (the most complex and sophisticated system of wealth exchange in the ancient tribal world ). These events displayed not just material wealth but the spirit of community and abundance. Sadly, tribal war and political division have eroded this spirit, giving rise to jealousy, envy, and anger.

For people like me, the return to Nandi was deeply personal. It meant more than just reclaiming land — it meant preserving the customs and traditions passed down through generations. I had seen the pain my black friends carried from the loss of their land and language, and I knew that returning to Nandi meant giving my daughters a secure future rooted in the legacy of our ancestors.

But just weeks ago, tragedy struck. On November 21, 2024, while preparing pigs and money to fulfill our agreement with our enemy tribe, armed men launched a violent attack on our village. Eight innocent lives were lost — two women, including one who was pregnant; two children; two elderly men; and a young man. Unarmed, we could not defend ourselves.

Despite this devastating loss, we have chosen the path of peace. We will not retaliate. We remain steadfast in our commitment to justice and reconciliation, trusting the legal system to prevail. Those who died believed in a future for Nandi — a future of peace, unity, and hope. They are heroes who died for a dream larger than themselves.

Today, the people of Nandi stand at a crossroad. We grieve deeply for the lives we lost, but we will not give up. Nandi is more than a place — it is the heartbeat of our identity, the foundation of our culture, and the promise of a brighter future.

We will rebuild.

We will heal.

And we will honor the sacrifices of those who gave their lives for this dream.

Nandi is our past, our present, and our future.

~

~ Feel free to follow @theNandiStory IG page for more news and stories.

~ All images supplied by Immo Ashakali

A Man Called Taxi

And so I hear the call from that forever land.

Yet another passing of a constant from my childhood into the timeless shuffle of eternity. Perhaps not the centrepiece furniture, yet a constant nevertheless.

That Patriarch on a knoll called Pulimp!

One of his many quirks was his knack for running in secret. Folks called him “The Taxi” because of his unquenchable thirst to run. And run he did. He ran like the wind, and he ran like mad when no one was watching!

Nengga ooh, pii ooh!

Rest easy now, Champ!

RIP Loi Mek Rapura

The First Papua New Guinean: A Tribute to Sir Michael Somare

I never had the opportunity to meet the great Michael Thomas Somare in person, and so would not have a personal story to reflect on here. Yet I cried when news reached me that he had passed on.

One cannot talk about Papua New Guinea’s nationhood or independence without mentioning Somare. In fact, there is a brilliant essay by Ian Taukuro that quite poignantly captures this idea. (recommended read).

The tenacity and courage it took for a simple teacher turned journalist to take up this fight to steer a conglomerate of very diverse tribes, hamlets and islands towards nationhood without bloodshed will remain his greatest legacy.

On one hand was the giant that was the Australian government – a surrogate to Britain’s waning colonial empire. From within was the challenge to get these thousand tribes of Papua New Guinea to buy into the idea of unity in diversity, in spite of how unprepared some of us may have felt then.

Somare was the First Papua New Guinean. He was a colossus, both in PNG and the Pacific. He will forever be to us what Mandela is to South Africa and Gandhi is to India.

I have had my fair share of the “what-if” discussions with my peers, but at the end of the day, I will remain forever grateful that Papua New Guinea is an independent and a free nation because of Somare and his cohort.

Tenk yu tru Papa.

Vale Grand Chief Sir Michael Thomas Somare.

Photo from abc.net.au by Denis Williams’ Estate/PNG Post Courier

Featured image: “Trupela Kumul” by Brett Avea

A Lesson in Futility

I know I once said writing was therapy but I lied. It sounded cute to pull out such a line. In reality it is anything but. 

Writing is a constant battle trying to chase down a single thread into a room filled to the rafters with a kaleidoscopic jumble of cotton yarn, and I have to find where the thread leads to, and if it even ends. All while endlessly sampling other options. It is a never-ending struggle that leaves me in despair on most days. 

Almost a lesson in futility it seems.

Sometimes I cut the thread prematurely and lie to myself that all is well. Only those who look closely can pick it up. Much like how I murdered my last post “Greater Expectations”. It is only then the prematurely cut thread like a bleeding toe nags and niggles me with accusing stares screaming justice!

But who’s gonna hear your cry? Your pleas are walled in and confined to my thoughts. Go knock yourselves out and sail on into the wide ocean of synaptic membranes. Maybe you can find the edge of the world and fall off into the ether where all forgotten dreams go. At least that is what I tell myself will happen to them.

So I turn a deaf ear to their protests for justice and board up the door shut. Go away for months on end. Then when I least expect it, like a bad habit that won’t go away, a feel a tickle and turn around to realise that a single sliver of thread has tracked me down.

Like the haunting of a ghost, even when I look away, it tugs and reaches out to my peripheral vision and decides to squat there until I do something about it. There is nothing else to do but to once more open the door to the madness inside!  

And so the quest of thread chasing goes on.

Feature Photo by Evelyn Chong and Jeremy Bishop from Pexels

Greater Expectations

Memoirs from year One

^{Nickson Piakal}

His eyes were transfixed into nothing, lost into the distance of his thoughts. Standing a little beyond the throng of people gathered around the makeshift podium, he was oblivious to them as they were to him.

With limp hands, he held the little piece of paper that he had just fished out of the yellow Manila envelope. His lanky frame seemed to droop even more than usual. It was as if all the fight had been taken out of him. Gone was even the restraint to hold back the tears that welled up and silently rolled down his face.

A northerly breeze was ushering in a spray of mist that day, turning the day bleak as it hazed out the surrounding hills in a white-grey blanket as it so often does on afternoons like this. Bringing in the quiet chill of Mountain Mul, it cried with him as it whispered melancholically through the spindly leaves of the ancient rustic casuarina tree by the school fence.

He would finally break from his reverie as others in lighter spirits revelled in the celebration of happier news. Dejected, he turned away, and in one swift motion crumpled up the offending piece of paper as he wiped away the tears from his eyes with the back of a faded blue flannel sleeved arm.

I was in Grade 1 and had no idea why my cousin reacted the way he did.

“Kang Pita nii fel em o”, was the word that would eventually reach me. Peter had “failed”, so they said around the fireplace that night about my cousin. He did not get a placing in high school, and it was Christmas of 1985!

The image of that long-ago Friday afternoon outside the sky-blue classroom halls of Bukapena Community School has stuck with me for some reason. Perhaps because of the peculiarity in the absence of family members accompanying him on that day when every other kid had their family members to share that moment with.

Did they abandon him because of his results? Was there more to the back story that would exact such a reaction? Was there trouble waiting for him when he went home that day? I did not see him again to query him further with those questions. I would not see him for another fifteen years or so.  

Peter’s experience is the story of many other young kids in Papua New Guinea. It is an all too common sight that gets a rerun every November and December when so many expectations come crashing down. 

Making it to high school has always been the holy grail of every primary school-aged child and their parents. It was a validation of one’s intellectual prowess. High school signified progress. For the kid, it was a progression into freedom from parental oversight and thus a giant leap into adulthood, or so they thought.

While school exams and assessments tested one’s intellectual abilities, our traditional coming of age ceremonies like initiations and song and dance put to the test one’s maturity while admitting them as functional members of society. Thus grade 6 exams proposed the misconstrued notion that it was an equal substitute for our traditional cultural coming of age ceremonies.

So goes a tangential story where Peter’s uncles Yapi and Komet – who were his peers by age – made it to high school. On their first term break home from school, their parents asked them to go fetch water in the nearby creek for cooking. Yapi and Komet exchanged incredulous glances at each other and then at their parents. 

“Are you kidding me?”, retorted Yapi. 

“We’re in high school. Can’t you send Roland and Nickson?”

Yapi had bought wholeheartedly into the fallacy that his high school certificate signified adulthood, and so warranted some sort of free pass, and thus he was absolved from the menial chores often associated with kids, like fetching of water and collecting of dry twigs for firewood.

Expectations and yet more expectations. 

Perhaps what was missing then and is needed more of is a better heart to heart dialogue. Conversations. To lay down all our expectations and reality on the table. In failing, we end up crushing our kids with disappointment when they don’t turn out to fulfil our often ridiculous and unreal expectations.

In spite of the setback of that cold December’s day in 1985, Peter would go on to become a technical trainer. He now serves as a senior lecturer and a long-standing staff at a leading technical institution in the country.

~^ktp

A Peek Behind the Bougainville Independence Referendum

The people of Bougainville overwhelmingly voted in favour of Independence in the recent Referendum a resounding 97.7%.

I keep noticing some sticky points cropping up in discussions surrounding this Referendum. These questions and assumptions need some brief responses first for clarity’s sake:

1. Did the Bougainville Crisis prompt them into Independence?
   • No. The Bougainville Crisis began as a protest against environmental degradation, especially of the nearby Jaba River.

2. Why Independence when greater autonomy is a better deal?
   • They tried it. Twice! In different formats.

3. Will other provinces also follow in the steps of Bougainville?
   • Bougainville’s backstory is littered with complications beyond mere political power wrangling. PNG’s socio-political landscape is as varied as its people, so we cannot say one size fits all.

4. Is Bougainville ready for independence?
   • Is anyone ever? Was America ready for Independence? Was PNG ever ready for Independence?

Let me interject with a disclaimer here that these are my personal views and opinions of what I consider as one angle to the multifaceted story of what brought us to this juncture of history. Feel free to disagree and correct me where needed.

Bougainville and her wish for Independence reaches far, further back than that of mainland Papua New Guinea, going back into the 1960s. In fact, they declared their independence two weeks prior to PNG’s independence.

But that declaration of independence on the 1^st of September 1975 was ignored and went unacknowledged by the powers that be, simply because instability as you know, is bad for business, especially if you already have a good thing going.

(Here one can easily draw parallels with Grasberg Mine in West Papua. Is it any wonder the plight of the West Papuans are largely ignored by the world?)

Essentially, the PNG government annexed Bougainville in a manner of speaking, not through policy or legislation, but by some very sneaky moves.

Sneaky move number one was to take the ostrich stand – simply playing dumb to the requests of the people of Bougainville, who rightfully felt hard done by, by the post-colonial Australian Government.

As a case in point, prior to Independence, the Bougainvilleans had set up the Bougainville Special Political Committee (BSPC) to negotiate for their people to better manage their lot with the Papua New Guinea government. However, the Special Committee appointed to negotiate for the PNG government allowed the negotiations to fall through. Either through sheer ignorance or just plain arrogance, one can only wonder. In any case, this was one of many blunders along the way.

The second item out of their bag of tricks was the Provincial Government system. Technically it was a worthy idea, and given another time and place, it would have been such a noble undertaking.

However, two weeks before PNG would go to Independence – the very same day Bougainville was declaring her Independence – the PNG Government says:

“You know what Bougainville. I feel your pain, bruv. Here. Have a Provincial Government on me. That is a form of government too. Except its way cooler coz I take all the heavy lifting* of running a nation off you, and you get the best parts like having some level of autonomy into the running of your own affairs.”

“But, but,…”

“Ssshhh… no buts. Maski toktok planti na kisim tasol yah, laka.”

The heavy lifting* was code for 20% of the profits from the Bougainville Copper Mine (BCL), of which a paltry 0.5-1% was left to the indigenous people of Bougainville.

These were all adding tinder to the growing flames of secessionism.

The idea of Provincial Government was sold to a yet disgruntled Bougainville to quell dissent. It was but a band-aid solution. The rest of the 19 provinces would follow suit. Ideally it was supposed to decentralise powers to the provinces and give them a certain degree of autonomy.

But as Spiderman’s uncle said, with great power comes great responsibility.

It was apparent that the notion of “great responsibility” was a concept that was lost to some, if not most of the Provincial Governments, partly because Spiderman the movie was yet to be made, but mostly because the majority of provincial governments lacked the capacity to function as initially intended.

This eventually would prompt the National Government to pull a switcheroo in 1995 to reassert most of those powers. By then, the original Provincial Government – The North Solomons Province was no longer a functional province. It was crippled by a bloody civil war and was under lockdown by an embargo placed on it by the PNG Government.

After the end of the 10-year long conflict several attempts were made at seeking legitimate governance. The Autonomous Bougainville Government (ABG) eventually emerged as the governing structure for the Autonomous Region of Bougainville (AROB).

As it was with Provincial Governments system, Bougainville yet again led the way and graduated to gaining greater autonomy through the ABG.

This was supposed to be a step up from the old provincial government system. Well on paper at least. In reality however, things have been anything but.

Most notable of all was the continual budget cuts to the ABG. PNG reneged time and again on its key constitutional duty to uphold its end of the deal in the Bougainville Peace Agreement. An act that is reminiscent of its pre-independence era dealings with the Bougainville Special Political Committee.

In addition to budgetary allocation for delivery of basic services, the ABG should have special funds set aside for reconstruction and rebuilding, irrespective of whether she votes for Independence or not. However, with continual funding cuts, achieving that has proven to be but a pipe dream.

A majority of Bougainvilleans – including veteran leaders like John Momis, have come to accept the fact that no matter how the PNG government packages it to them, governance of its land and its people will be dictated not by mutually agreed and internationally ratified agreements like the Bougainville Peace Agreement, but by terms set by invisible power brokers lurking in the murky corridors of Waigani.

The people of Bougainville have for over 50 years suffered under this subtle subjugation through manipulation and mistreatment. I am not even mentioning the atrocities of the conflict era here.

They have realised that they will remain as mere afterthought to the PNG Government in spite of their shared history. They have come to accept that as long as they linger under some degree of an autonomous government, they will continue to be fed with the scraps under the table. Time and again, successive governments have reaffirmed that to them, not in words but by their deeds.

The outcome of the referendum of independence is a resounding affirmation of that deep conviction. Their collective sighs of deep relief crescendoed into a bang with 97.7% voting for INDEPENDENCE.

The ball is now back in the court of the Papua New Guinea Government to follow through with the next course of action, which is for the National Parliament to ratify the result of the referendum. The referendum serves as a clear mandate from the people directly to the government, who then must take the final step in officially legislating the will of the people into effect.

The result of this referendum may not be binding, but given the sensitivity and the historical context, it is time to put all the cards on the table in the true Melanesian spirit of ‘Pasin barata‘ and follow the wish of the people of Bougainville and prepare for a new neighbour.

This is not weakness but of maturity. An acknowledgement of the rich shared history that our people have. From Papua New Guinea’s own founding up to today. Of an history steeped in blood that was spilled along the way, but is also forged in blood through deep familial bonds on both sides of the Solomon Sea.

Papua New Guinea received her Independence on a golden plate as we so frequently like to say, and it is only proper that we pay it forward to foster peace and goodwill for both our peoples collectively while sharing in the bounties of both of our lands, and build upon it as we forge our way forward together into the future.

God bless Papua New Guinea and God bless Bougainville.

END

 

Nicodemus

N I C O D E M U S

Deserted.
Abandoned.
Denied.
Betrayed.
Alone.

Gone

is Last Friday.
A whisper in a dream.
The cheering throng,
Their songs long gone.
The palm fronds

Discarded

Trampled.
Broken.
Tattered.
Battered.
Like His body

Bruised.

Now in the dark of noon,
Everyone hastens away,
To keep the law,
While the lawgiver,
lifeless there He is

Hung.

Low in death.
Death by law.
Dead by law.
Despised,
Even by flies.

Ugly.

Filthy.
Reeking.
There is no smell like that.
You smell it in war,
we smell it in murder.

Blood!

That stench of fresh death
Unmistakable of blood
Gush, seep and drip
Crimson in escape
with life its loot.

Death!

‘Twas then…
In that lonely hour.
One who once stole in,
Silent in the dark of night.
Now boldly steps forth,

To take Him down.
‘Fraid no more.
Won over by love.
Wraps Him with love,
In the finest of linen.

Recalling

‘Twas He who gifted him,
The first ever to unwrap
the finest love song
ever given to man,
in yet another silent night

how
He unwrapped to him,
The finest lines,
of a love song
gifted to man:
He gifted him,
The first man ever who
unwraps the finest lines
oflove song
ever given to man:

“For God so loved the world,
That He Gave
His Only
Begotten Son.
That whosoever
Believes in Him
Should not perish but
Have
Eternal
Life!”

Trepidations

Even before the taste of victory can properly settle in, there is already rising from within my gut that sense of trepidation of what lies ahead.

Anxious, yet bracing myself for the challenges of the unknown journey that I have to forge ahead. It is after all uncharted waters for me.

First there were the sleepless nights of preparation. Strategising and re-strategising upon the thousands of miles covered pacing around the room. Countless speeches in front of the mirror. Affirmations on notepads, ceilings and glass windows.

Softly to myself, below even a ghost’s whisper, I let these words run on repeat to embolden my courage:

“He who is in me is greater than He who is in the world.”

If my mind was CNN, this passage from 1 John 4:4 was the newsfeed that scrolls across the screen night and day.

Now that hurdle has been overcome. The road from this point on looms even larger in the obstacles and challenges it holds in store.

What seemed like a finishing line yesterday has turned into a launch pad. A starting line all over again. But this time with even bigger mountains ahead. To conquer against the odds that are stacked against me. Against the sneers from the dirty corner. It’s going to be all upstream from here on.

There is no going back now. This dark void of the unknown is an inevitability for me. Inevitable like the path through the murky depths was for Moses and the chosen.

I could put on a brave face and say “bring it on”. But deep inside I know it is but a facade. I’m shaking beneath my shoddily crafted armour of know-it-all and do-goodery.

So I have to state the Truth. He brought me thus far. I know He won’t leave me hanging. He will walk with me through it all. Be it the murky depths, the raging storm or the fiery furnace, He will see me through it all.

Gentle Shepherd that He is, knows even the depth of my thoughts. Even to the innermost sanctum of my heart. So this morning, upon seeing a quite sense of anxiety brewing, He gently leads me and allows my eyes to rest on these words:

“Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.”

I Peter 5:6-7 NKJV

I am at peace now, knowing that Jesus – yes He’s got this.

 

Remembering Bob Hawke in Mt Hagen

I was 11 when I saw Bob Hawke in person. Waving mini crayon and pencil coloured-in flags of PNG and Australia, I joined other school kids to line the streets to welcome the first ever Australian Prime Minister to visit our humble little town.

I was standing somewhere in front of John Fosters Stationery, holding up a small placard that read “Welcome to Mt Hagen, Mr Bob Hawke”.

Standing at the back of a white ute that was traveling slowly he was waving at the crowd along the roadside. Upon seeing my little sign he nodded at me and said,

“Thank you, son.”

That was the first and only time an Australian Prime Minister spoke to me. Even for that brief moment, it left an indelible impression on me.

Only recently have I discovered that Bob Hawke was a prolific letter writer. He took the time to sit down and reply to everyone who wrote to him, especially school children.

Truly a Prime Minister of the people.

What a legend!

They don’t make em like that anymore.

Vale Bob Hawke…

Picture: Nic Walker and Fairfax Archives

 

Exeunt Twenty Eighteen

 

This is the face of someone who is feeling so super fly at the moment but is really a fool who embarks on a spur of the moment 26km hike.

Thinking I’d cover this in a day, I didn’t see the need for camping gear, nor torch, not even a match to light a fire.

The problem with this arrangement is that I started on this journey a little bit too late at 1330 hrs.

My only rations were a pack of potato chips, Tim Tams and two bottles of water, and reading matter. Reading matter?🙄 For what, you may ask?

So here I go on my merry way, taking in one breathtaking scenery after another. Australia has some of the most amazing coastlines.

There were these secluded beaches that really tempted me to linger much longer than was required.

Knowing how we have it so rough and rugged back home in Papua New Guinea, I must admit I scoffed at the idea of having these neat little raised platforms for pathways and carefully cut out sandstone for steps up slopes.

Little did I know that in a few hours with the very same breath I’d be thanking the person who came up with this ingenious idea to lay out the way for trekkers in such a manner.

The sun was gradually receding beyond the hills as I reached this spot that proved a perfect location for me to close the Sabbath. In that quite moment of contemplation the gravity of my situation became quite clear. So I said, “I’m such a fortunate son knowing that you got my back, Jesus.” #praiseYouinthestorm

If I chose to rest that night, I would most likely spend my night under a tree or a overhanging rock with not even a skimpy towel to serve as a blanket. Having met a few snakes and lizards along the way including a bigas goanna, I didn’t want to imagine who would decide to keep me company that tonight.

No. I was gonna walk on all night, with nothing but starlight to light my way.

Nightfall eventually met me on the face of a cliff head with the roar of the sea a distant 100 metres below us. I climbed on upwards as fast as my stout Highlands pistons could fire and push me on.

Even now upon reflection I realise there wasn’t much fear. My sense of  urgency left no room for fear to ply its tricks. Faith also has a huge say on one’s mettle, especially in moments like this. 

With not even phone battery power to light my way, it was already dark when I descended on the other side. I stumbled, and almost rolled down that side of the hill.

It was then I saw some light through the sparse vegetation. It’s somewhere on the beach I figured. A din of voices drifted up over the sound of the waves. As I emerged onto the sand dunes I noticed a well lit building with lots of kids laughing and playing around at the back. The crowd of adults were clustered about in front in conversational groups.

I had literally stumbled upon a bar smack bang in the middle of nowhere right in the bush! Not even a road in sight!

I’m knackered. Completely spent. I forget the last time I loved the sight of a bar. Sweat and all I push inside through the throng of patrons with exhausted “excuse me sirs/ma’ams”.

“Do you sell water, sir?”

“That’s the strangest request I heard all night, but I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Water did arrive. In abundance, as my story of misadventure unfolded unto peels of laughter from once were strangers not more than a few minutes ago. 

Someone slapped me on the back and yelled “Give this man a drink!”

Within the space of 10 minutes I had met almost everyone there. With hearty handshakes and drinks galore I was made right at home.

They would go on to put me up for the night. Some awesome fair dinkum Aussies. Legends.

This act of kindness from complete strangers will linger on in my memory. This has set a good tone for me to take on the new year. 

With a scribbled note of heartfelt thanks to my kind hosts, I would leave early in the morning while the dews of this mysterious valley were yet asleep on the leaves.

Their only request:

“No photos please. We like it that we’re under the radar.”

“But if I don’t Instagram it, then it never happened.”

“Well then it never happened.”

😊

In Pursuit of Happiness

There is this story of a boy who is sitting by the banks of a river one day fishing. He hears a jet plane fly overhead. He looks up wistfully and says, “I wish I could be that pilot flying up there in the sky”.

Many years later, sure enough the boy becomes a pilot. One day while in the cockpit of the plane he looks out the window and sees the familiar river below, snaking away into the sea. He can just pick out his favourite fishing spot of those bygone days. “O, how I wish I could relax by that river again and fish all day.”

‘The grass is always greener on the other side’. So goes the old adage.  

It is a story of chasing dreams with the expectation of finding happiness in the attainment of those dreams, whatever those dreams may be for you.

We are born into this big chase. The eternal pursuit of happiness as they say, but it has proven as elusive as ever. Just when we think we have a good hold of it, it leaves us empty. Like trying to catch the wind.

The phrase ‘pursuit of happiness’ is a misnomer. It implies that happiness is a destination. A final end goal. It is not. Happiness cannot be the journey either. If anything, it is your attitude on the journey.

True happiness exists when one finds contentment, and contentment has to come from within oneself. It is the peace of mind one has in spite of external factors and circumstances surrounding her. It is a deliberate choice to be content.

To be content does not equate to being resigned to one’s fate. Being content does not mean you take whatever life has dealt you with, and submit and roll over and die.

No.

Being content means to get your buckets and hoses out coz it’s time to water the grass on your side, so you can get it just as green or even greener. Heck you can grow a rainforest if you want to.

…

 

“Not that I speak in regard to need, for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content:
I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
Philippians 4:11,13

 

Remember the Living Years

I wasn’t there that morning
When my Father passed away
I didn’t get to tell him
All the things I had to say…*

So goes that familiar song.

It was quite the hit in the early 90s of those high school years. Not really a cheerful song. Nevertheless a poignant reminder on the brevity of life.

To say your piece. To make peace. To see eye to eye first. To say it loud, and to say it clear. Before it is all too late. Before those you hold dear are gone.

I loved that song, not because I could relate to it then. My father was away for the most part of that period, so l tried to relate to it by projecting myself into the future. Into the world of what-ifs. Would those words be ringing true for me when my time came around?

He was a soft spoken man. A pacifist – one to always go for the more peaceful approach when in the midst of conflicts, a path that was often less desired, for fear of being seen as cowardly and weak by others.

Only now I realise that it was the exact opposite. It takes true courage to take that path. A kind of courage that is seasoned with humility. To walk alone.

He recollected once to me of how he saved another man’s life when in prison. A man who was supposed to be a tribal enemy.

I wish I could sit down with him one more time and get more of those stories from him. Going back even in time to the stories of his childhood.

I want to ask him.

What were your favourite pastime when you were growing up in Elakale?

Was the earth of Konggoulum paste-like and as yellow as I picture it in my mind?

What made you leave the comforts of the fairytale fields of Nangguin in pursuit of a western education?

What pushed you to journey on foot from the top end of one province to the tail end of another?

From the headwaters of Ambum River in Londol, Enga Province, down to the muddy flood plains of the Waghi River in Fatima, Jiwaka in the early 60s.

I want to say sorry.

That afternoon when my friend Kumdi Max showed you to my room at Niomuro flats when I was doing my first year in Uni.

I was consumed with rage to see your face. It felt like betrayal all over again. I was lost at what to do. A part of me wanted to punch your lights out. Instead, all I could muster was to blow cigarette smoke into your face and tell you to get the hell out as you came sobbing and hugged me.

Perhaps the better thing I should have done then was to sit down and talk with you. To get your side of the story as to WHY you were missing from the picture for the most part of my high school days.

Now I realise I may have missed a whole chunk of the story, often reserved for the two grownups in the picture. Now that I have joined you in fatherhood, I want to know even more, but I still come up empty handed.

It is only in retrospect that we see a little bit clearer and learn some of life’s tough lessons. Even the courage to exercise restraint. That emotions left unchecked and unrestrained always get the better of us. If we could empathise more, then perhaps we could understand better.

I would eventually make peace with him over the years. I brought him to meet his first granddaughter. The unmistakable joy of a grandparent welled up as tears in his eyes as he held her in his arms for the first time. He beamed with pride as he called the name we gave her. Nisoron. A name of his language.

His health had been deteriorating for a while. It took its toll on him but he hung on. He would still be up and about with his black weather beaten briefcase as if everything was ok. He was one to hide such things from people. Smiling in the face of adversity.

In early March of 2016 I spoke very briefly to him. It was a rushed phone call before I left for Mt Hagen. His voice sounded a bit weak over the phone. I put that down to one of his many faint spells. He was not in a good state to journey with us, he told me. I think I said I would get back to him. Maybe I didn’t. I do not quite remember that last phone conversation clearly.

There was so much on my mind then. I had planned this traditional bride price event for over a year by that time. My wife and daughter were flying to the village with me. This was where I was going to formalise the traditional chapter of our union in front of my tribal kinsfolk and elders.

I had no time to talk. I would talk to him later, I told myself.

On the morning of 30 March 2016 I would board the plane for the return journey to Australia with my wife and my 7 month old daughter in my arms.

Four days later news would reach me. That my father passed away that same morning I was boarding that flight. I still did not get to tell him all the things I needed to tell him.

Life goes on and the memories are all we have. All their stories get swallowed up by the grave, while those passed to us, when untold fade from memory with every passing day.

All those unasked questions go still unanswered. For now they may remain, as the song goes, ‘crumpled bits of paper filled with imperfect thought’.

… end

.

.

.

* The Living Years by Mike + The Mechanics

Write Like How You Talk

I stopped blogging for 5 years. Then all of a sudden it came back. Zzzzing! The buzz… Light bulbs of a thousand year’s lights.

I see the likes of Seth Godin churning out a post every day on his blog. I envy that. I would like to emulate that. One day. Some day. But some day never comes.

I’ll start slow on a weekly chant instead.

Even then, most days it feels almost like I’m drowning. Almost suffocating. Just clawing and struggling. Gasping for breath. Trying to get the words to dance together just right to make sense. To draw out the picture. Or at least get a resemblance of that idea to surface from the murky depths of my thoughts into something recognisable. Just enough to overpower all the background noise to bring out the music.

Every once in a while we stumble across writing that is indeed pure music.  The kind of writing that makes us close our eyes, smile, cry even, and drift away. An escapade even for a moment, yet so intimate. When you know that you and the author are so connected at some kind of a spiritual level. A level where even you cannot understand, yet you cannot help but relish it. 

Such is the power of writing. Of art. Of connecting deeply with people at the soul level. This is the truest level of communion between people, bypassing the masks that we all hide behind everyday.

Eileen Townsend did that for me in In Love and War. So did Tim Winton. Pick your favourite book.

Wouldn’t we all like to write like that someday?

Someday never comes.

So we keep honing our craft. Day by day. Week by week. Keep at it to reach that sublime level.

When you can get me to see the picture without the need for light in my eyes. That is what light bulbs of a thousand year’s light looks like.

Why am I speaking in metaphors anyway?

I don’t know. The weekend is coming up. Go figure.

One thing Godin asked that really got me thinking was this. “No one ever has talkers block…. Why then, is writers block endemic?” His reasoning is that we should write like how we talk.

So is it fair to say we should mind our words then? Chew on that.

 

Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how you ought to answer each one.
Colossians 4:6

Beyond the Four Pillars of Kokoda

Today, 11 November 2017, is Kokoda Day, marking the 75th Anniversary of the Kokoda Campaign.

Walking the Kokoda Track remains as one of the most life changing experiences for me. This is my take on that infamous Track written several years ago for ANZAC Day.

//

On MATESHIP: ANZAC and the Kokoda Track

Every 25 April each year will see Australians and New Zealanders stand at dawn. In silent salute in honour of brave men and women who took a stand to defend their country with their lives.

Of those that are remembered on ANZAC day, more than 2000 of them will be those courageous men who lost their lives on Kokoda. Regarded by many as ‘the Bloody Track’.

Australians have been involved in numerous conflicts from as far back as the Boer war. However none of them was as close to Australian soil as the campaign on the Kokoda Trail. The national security of Australia was hanging by the balance. That was how critical it was.

Jeff Kennett, the former Victorian Premier noted this fact in his recent article in the Herald Sun. He pointed out the Kokoda Track as a major Australian shrine. He went on to say that “the real wonderment of PNG still remains the Kokoda Track. (sic)”

Papua New Guinea must also see the Kokoda Track as a major PNG shrine as well, and not merely a tourist attraction for us to cash in on.

It is precisely on this bloodstained trail that the dynamics of the bond between Papua New Guinea and Australia relations took a major shift.

It was especially the diggers in the frontline who came to see Papua New Guineans in a new light. In stark contrast to the colonial era view of our people.

This 6-month long campaign also saw a lot more Papua New Guineans participate actively in the Second World War than in any other battle. They became porters, stretcher bearers, nurses, scouts and even some were in active combat.

From here on the legend of the famous Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels was born.

On ENDURANCE: My ignorance and Kokoda Track

For a Papua New Guinean born post-independence, the contribution of these great men bore little to no significance to me. They simply got lost in the pages of my high school history text book.

Perhaps we could argue that Papua New Guinea’s Independence on a ‘golden platter’ had a bearing on this apparent disregard for something of such historical significance. Then again this may have also stemmed from the fact that I hail from the heart of the Highlands of Papua New Guinea – a location left relatively untouched during the war.

This ignorance I had was soon to get a good dose of reality check as I came face to face with history.

In late May of 2010 I had the fortunate opportunity to check off the Kokoda Track on my bucket list.

The tales that you have heard about this challenging track is nowhere near the real thing. The entire 96km of this gruelling track alone will demand nothing but the whole of you. If you dare to take up the challenge then be prepared to be slaughtered!

From ankle-deep mud to slippery climbs that seemed to never end. Only to find steep descents on the other side that will turn the knees of any strong man to rubber. From leech infested mud plains to the murky Brown River. Onwards to the raging torrents of the Iora Creek, the Kokoda Track will put the human spirit to the test.

The arduous nature of this track alone has been known to make legends out of ordinary men. For it was there that I came to meet a man that displayed the true meaning of sacrifice by his deeds alone.

On SACRIFICE:  Pte Bruce Kingsbury VC and Kokoda Track

Private Bruce Kingsbury VC – a Malvern boy

I came across the legend of Private Bruce Kingsbury upon entering Isurava. This was another battlefield where the two opposing forces engaged in a raging battle that lasted for weeks.

Kingsbury was, and remains the only recipient of the Victorian Cross in Papua New Guinea.

The Victorian Cross (VC) is the highest decoration of the Commonwealth given with honour to anyone who performs an act of valour above and beyond his or her call of duty. It is the Australian equivalent of the American Medal of Honor.

A farmer and a real estate agent by profession, Private Kingsbury fought valiantly and gave up his life in order to save the lives of his mates and his commanding officers. Because of his actions alone many were able to live and fight another day. Some went on to see the end of the war where they would go on to see their children and grandchildren and die of old age. That day 29 August 1942 got etched down into the history books and into their minds forever.

Because of this selfless act, the following was written of him by W.B. Russell:

“Whenever men speak of courage,
wherever men speak of sacrifice,
he will be remembered,
his name ever an inspiration and a challenge.”

On COURAGE: The essence of the Kokoda Track

Starting from Ower’s Corner all the way to Kokoda Station, it was hard not to notice the plaques along the length of the track. They help to point out the historical significance of the locations or the actors in it in relation to the Kokoda campaign.

Skeletal remains of weapons and helmets are littered all throughout. The remnants of foxholes and craters made by mortar rounds lay eerily silent next to each other. Weather and time have metamorphosed them into vague resemblances of their former self. Yet they linger. Mute witnesses to those terrifying times, reminding us of grim tales of desperation and bloody carnage. They also hold a much louder truth. A tale of the human spirit. A tale of courage in the face of uncertainty and imminent doom.

With each passing day it was hard not to see what these valiant warriors had to endure. Ordinary men who rose up to the occasion to successfully fight off a larger, better trained onslaught of Japanese forces.

Brigade Hill is one such location where such fierce fighting ensued.

After leaving Brigade Hill, I made my way round the western side of that hill towards Efogi. For anyone who has been there, they will know that there are several similar looking bends there. One of those bends hangs precariously close to the edge of a rocky ledge. It is a narrow pass between two jagged edged rocks pointing inwards with just enough space to allow the passage of ONLY ONE person at a time. A few centimetres of misstep left and a gaping yawn of a chasm awaits to receive that unfortunate stray.

This narrow little pass brought me to a halt and to a moment of quiet contemplation. You have to give credit to the tenacity of the Australians with all those weights on their backs with gun in hands, plodding through the muddy slopes and bogs.

However, I was more in awe of the Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels then.

I have tried over and over to construct a picture in my mind to see how four men would negotiate such a dangerously tricky one-lane path with a young wounded — perhaps even unconscious Australian in a stretcher. Carrying anything more than 10 kilograms along the length of the track is no easy feat, let alone a 70 kilo fully grown man. I got lost trying to figure out this equation.

However I was dead certain of one thing though.

I beamed with humble pride and admiration at the accomplishments of these selfless men. Papua New Guineans. Warriors in their own right. With no incentive whatsoever. Just a simple desire to help a fellow human being, even though a stranger he may have been.

With simple courage they  stood alongside the Australians in their capacity as human camels, ambulances, scouts and all round saviours.

Then the words of that poet rang with crystalline clarity as I trudged on. I caught a faint whisper of what he saw.  When that wounded soldier by the name of Bert Beros penned that beautiful ode to my forefathers, the Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels.

‘Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels’ 

Many a mother in Australia
when the busy day is done
Sends a prayer to the Almighty
for the keeping of her son
Asking that an angel guide him
and bring him safely back
Now we see those prayers are answered
on the Owen Stanley Track.

For they haven’t any halos
only holes slashed in their ears
And their faces worked by tattoos
with scratch pins in their hair
Bringing back the badly wounded
just as steady as a horse
Using leaves to keep the rain off
and as gentle as a nurse

Slow and careful in the bad places
on the awful mountain track
The look upon their faces
would make you think Christ was black
Not a move to hurt the wounded
as they treat him like a saint
It’s a picture worth recording
that an artist’s yet to paint

Many a lad will see his mother
and husbands see their wives
Just because the fuzzy wuzzy
carried them to save their lives
From mortar bombs and machine gun fire
or chance surprise attacks
To the safety and the care of doctors
at the bottom of the track

May the mothers of Australia
when they offer up a prayer
Mention those impromptu angels
with their fuzzy wuzzy hair.

– by Bert Beros

 

I was never a PROUDER Papua New Guinean than at that very moment.

I may not hail from the Koiari tribe, nor a Kaiva, but I was proud then. As I am now. Proud of my heritage as a Papua New Guinean. That those brave and selfless impromptu Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels are also my forefathers.

If you are a Papua New Guinean, consider the Kokoda Track as your pilgrimage. What it takes out of your body it will put into your heart and soul!

That is the essence of ‘The Bloody’ Track.

Lest we forget.

***

---

Special delivery for ANZAC day from Afore, deep in the heartlands of the Managalas Plateau in the Ijivitari District of Oro Province, Papua New Guinea.

(Hurriedly scrambled out in the dead of night on a trusty Nokia N76 pre-smartphone days, so by all accounts an accomplishment in and of itself. 🙂 )

Awara!

25 April 2011

—

Fact Check

*Technically, the closest attack on Australian soil took place when the Japanese struck Sydney and Darwin with mini-submarines and air attacks respectively. These however cannot be classified as ‘campaigns’.

** Koiari – the biggest tribe in the Central Province, they live from the coast all the way up to the inland which includes Sogeri and land on which the Kokoda Track runs through and the surrounding area.

**Kaiva – this is the general reference given to the Oro side of the Kokoda Track all the way down towards Popondetta.

**Awara – a common greeting used by the Oro people to generally mean, “Its all right/Its all good.”

---

 

This was originally published at HopeTrek

Watercress Economics

The other day I picked up a bunch of watercress from the local grocery supermarket. It was going for $3 AUD, Sydney price. The single bunch could fit neatly into the palm of my hand.

The $3 watercress

It drew a chuckle from me. Where I come from I would be trampling on these measly bunch. I would never count them worthy of my plate even.

There is this entire river that springs out from the side of the mountain. Icy cold it is. An entire farm of watercress lives on this water. Perennial and all organic. Pu’up Keres, we call it.

If I wanted watercress on my plate, I would get a bigger bunch of thick and succulent watercress for FREE!

However, for the sake of discussion, I’d say $3 (or PNG K10) could give me roughly three square metres of an entire watercress patch to harvest.

On such days, nostalgia kicks in.

A part of me momentarily wanders to those cool climes. The carefree life of dirt, gardens and calloused hands. Where the smell of smoke from wood fire signals rest, warmth, conversations over the fireplace. , and a delicious serving of earthen baked sweet potato. With the receding light of day, the cicadas reach a crescendo as they pick up the chorus of dusk.  To usher in even colder nights. Crisp quite except for the night sounds. Then every so often the very faint sound of radio music wafts in with the breeze from the neighbour’s shortwave transistor radio from across the creek, crackling and hissing, battling with static. No TV. No worries.

So what is the moral behind this story so far?

Everything in life comes with a certain worth associated with it. We place values on them, and that value – or our perception of it, is most often the key determinant for all the decisions that we make in our life. Thus follows the reasoning that our lives are the total sum of all our choices.

What about the choices that we passed up? How would they have benefited us? Would we have progressed? Or would we have regressed? True economists would refer to this as the opportunity cost.

This then begs the question of  how exactly does one truly measure and quantify the opportunity cost of quality of life?

To better understand this in laymen’s perspective, I will use a term more easily understood. Sacrifice. There are big sacrifices that we make, which we most often feel the pinch of the experience that comes with it. Often it is endured for the greater glory or comfort that awaits us in the foreseeable future. We actually label these as indeed, ‘sacrifices’.

Then there are those little sacrifices that we make, almost unconsciously when we are following the progression of life’s journeys. Go to school, take up a trade, get a job, find a wife or husband, make a home, have some kids, settle down, and the story goes on.

At the time when you took up that choice, you would have never dreamt that one day you would see the benefits of that alternative choice as a ‘sacrifice’. It was the negative alternative that you, by every means had to avoid. Or so we thought. Dropping out of school to farm the land, for instance. No way!

Unthinkable!

Years later down the road, something as insignificant as a bunch of watercress can show you that there is value in every choice that you make. Even the option deemed as the ‘negative alternative’ ultimately has value.

Indeed life is the total sum of all your choices.

Whether you are living in happiness or in misery is also a matter of choice. You choose. 

If you choose happiness today, then when nostalgia next bumps into you in the shopping aisle, or wherever it may be for you, chances are you will be left smiling.

 

Watercress farm, Pu’up Keres Pana,  by N. Piakal/2009

watercress farm, Pu’up Keres Pana,  by N. Piakal/2009

Fresh from the rocks, Pu’up Keres Pana,  by N. Piakal/2010

Natural architecture, Pu’up Keres Pana,  by N. Piakal/2010