Home in Papua New Guinea

Death of My Life

2008-11-17T16:59:00.005+10:00

The call everyone dreads. Yes, I was sitting down in my usual spot behind the computer having seen my son and daughter off to school on that fateful date, August 12, 2008.
Once the dreadful news had been imparted my friend, the messenger of same, waited for a response from me. All I could say was,"I don't know what to do!". Luckily for me, my friend did and had already co-ordinated airline tickets for me and the kids to fly home to Alotau.

Phone back on the hook, I tried to pull myself together and think of the next move. Should I call the school and inform the children at once or leave them to enjoy their day blissfully unaware?
I called another close friend to ask her opinion and we decided on the former.
The two teenagers were back home in no time. "What's up?" they inquired looking suitably worried. News off my chest, we all broke down and wailed loudly for a while.

Fast forward to Alotau. This is a third world country and funerals are a do it yourself affair. No funeral homes here to ease your way in this time of pain.

The local Constabulary insisted on a Post Mortem because he had been found dead on our lounge room floor and other people had been visiting the house. This was a major delay since the hospital was short of doctors qualified to do the job.
The wet season was in full swing, dropping torrents of rain 24/7 ever since our plane touched down at Gurney. Not conducive to digging graves, never the less, relatives held a meeting and diggers were appointed to the task.
In between times, I went shopping for a coffin, clothes, soap, towels, and other items needed to clean and dress the body which we had to do ourselves as well.
I also argued vehemently with relatives who wanted to ship him back to the outer islands for burial.
I negotiated with the local Catholic Church for a place to bury him because the Kwato cemetery he had requested in the event he should go before me, had been closed by the Health Department.

The worst part was being required to attend the morgue with my daughter to formally identify the body. There he was, presented on a cold stainless steel table without a stitch of covering. Expressionless, his skin felt cold and his curly hair looked like grass with a layer of frost. Our daughter collapsed in a heap so I had to stay strong and comfort her.
I was then asked to be present for the Post Mortem but opted to wait outside.
I felt sick when, much later, the sound of a saw could be heard through the thin fibro walls of the operating theatre.
In tears, all I could think was how horrified he would be if he could know what they were doing to his body. He always did hate hospitals as it was.
Just as well I had sent my daughter back to the house... The rain kept falling......

It was the third week after his death that we managed to put him to rest. The service was held in the United Church and our youngest daughter was strong enough to sing for her Dad whom she loved so much. Everyone present broke down listening to her voice - not a dry eye in the church.

We emerged from the United Church, loaded the coffin onto the truck for it's final journey to the graveyard. It had actually stopped raining and a pale sun shone through the clouds.

For this final part of the funeral, we were accompanied by the local Catholic Father who administered the last rites. He held my hand tightly as the soil was back loaded on top of the coffin. I felt reassured and calm for the moment..

I then observed some relatives approach the grave wailing loudly and calling my late husband's name.
Anger welled and I wondered how they had the cheek to be so up front when they never did visit him in life and hadn't contributed a thing towards his funeral either!
I was so close to telling them to f*ck off that I beat a hasty retreat to my ute which was the signal for everyone else to leave.

My final weeks in Alotau were spent clearing the house of our personal and household belongings for distribution amongst those relatives who had helped and supported me through this difficult time. I returned to Cairns two months later owning the sum of what was inside my one suitcase.

Mirrored

2008-06-09T20:56:00.006+10:00

Those were the days when I used to spend a lot of time, relaxed fashion, in front of the bathroom mirror preparing to go out and impress the guys.
Then I married one and I had to share the space with shaving gear and someone who took longer than me in front of the mirror to get ready. Since he didn't have to pluck his eyebrows, cleanse, tone and nourish his skin or apply eye make up, I couldn't for the life of me understand why but I moved over anyway - to the bedroom mirror.

In our house in Papua New Guinea, there is a mirror in each bedroom as well as the bathroom one, so could someone please tell me why my three teenagers would be knocking on my bedroom door at regular intervals to check their profiles before going out??? Excuse me! Edged out of the bathroom and now fighting for mirror space in my own room? Please!
As you guessed it by now, I am always the last one to be ready with the family berating me for running late.

These days, down in Cairns there are a lot more mirrors in the house and two bathrooms so I am getting my own back somewhat. I even get to hand over bathroom cleaning duties as the girls share one and I share the other with my son.

I left them a sticky note on their mirror the other day: Dear Ugly Sisters, your shower needs scrubbing and the mirror needs a wipe. It's Cinder's 'off' shift this week. Prince Charming will fix the other bathroom. Love Fairy G.

Houselife

2008-04-17T22:38:00.000+10:00

Recently relocated to Australia after many years in Papua New Guinea, I found myself filling out plenty of forms to get my affairs and paperwork in order.

During my 26 year absence, the word "housewife" has become a Politically Incorrect term; a word now unmentionable.

All of the forms I needed to fill out required me to disclose my occupation but none had "Housewife" as an option for me to tick. I could have been 'Retired', 'Taking a career Break' or even (horrors!) 'Currently Unemployed'. Decisions, decisions! which box to check....

This left me in a quandry since I am still a wife, do stay in the house but don't fit any of the categories on offer!

Then I was at the bank, undergoing a face to face application, answering all of the questions as the Bank Chick penned them in for me. We got to that part, she paused, and looked straight at me with what could only be discribed as a pitying expression when I mentioned the 'H' word.

'Let's put Home Duties', she said firmly, moving rapidly to the next item before I could argue.

I wanted to know if 'Home Duties' was the new Genderic term for anyone not percieved as doing anything important with their day because they are home-based; I failed to muster the nerve to ask....

Well excuse me! I do have a life, an interesting one at that. I propose that the new term 'Houselife' be adopted as Politically Appropriate instead.

Bloggers Block

2008-04-17T22:29:00.000+10:00

It's been more than a while since my last post. My ideas for something fresh, intelligent, and relevant to the community have totally dried up. Houselife, or Home Duties distract.

According to my teenagers, Golden Girl (14 yrs) and Sunny Boy (16 yrs), I am all but past it and apparently don't have any information worth imparting anyway.

This is confirmed by the numerous times either of them quiz me on any given subject, only to argue like hell unconstructively when I supply an answer or idea. (Why did they bother to run it past me in the first place?)

Instead of spending my day with serene thoughts, breeding content for my blog, I am constantly feeling upset and hurt as to how a chirpy "Good morning" or "Don't forget your lunch boxes" could merit such a vitriolic response from GG and, at best, a grunt from SB as he delves into his school bag to extract all the soggy gladwrap from previous repasts together with a pair of damp, smelly, muddy sports socks which I promptly throw out - it being cheaper to buy a new pair than all the detergents necessary to restore them!

Totally swamped recently, under the constant negatively charged atmosphere in the house, I did borrow a book from our Public Library about insubordinate teenagers. I have gleaned more than a few management hints and it is an absolute relief to know that I am not alone in my suffering.

Do readers think I should change their names to Tinkerbelle and Oscar for as long as their personalities fit the mold?

Baggage

2007-11-19T21:25:00.001+10:00

Baggage is something we all carry at some time or another. It can be a weighty burden, frustrating or just a plain niusance.

My baggage was made in China and I thought it was up to the job but it proved otherwise.
I also thought I was travelling light, putting the all important tickets and passports in the side of my laptop case and leaving my trusty handbag at home. Mobile and coins went into my pocket.

I packed my expandable suitcase most carefully - 6 times - and still had to leave my favourite pair of shoes behind. I would have worn them but the last time I tottered around Airports in high heels I ended up with multiple blisters and a sort of knock kneed look because of the pain. Stick with the thongs Linda.....

Time came to leave the house. As usual, the flight to catch is always the Red Eye Special whenever I go anywhere. I wish I had given the pub a miss last night (or was that this morning?)
I attach the shoulder strap to my laptop bag and hoist it over my shoulder. Kids grab my suitcase and wonder if it will be over the 16kg limit. (Who cares I should get 'mates rates' since the wantok system is in place here) They manhandle it onto the back of the ute.

As I walk down the varandah steps, my laptop swings down sharply in front of me, bumps my legs and I nearly fall. Bugger! the shoulder strap broke and this is the first time I have ever used it! "Lucky that happened now!" comments hubby, "You might have fallen down the aircraft steps" I silently agree, thanking my lucky stars I had decided against the high heels.

The morning passes predictably and I duly arrive at Jacksons Airport. I have to reclaim my heavy suitcase from the carosel.
I stand and watch for a bit wondering how I will grab it with one hand, when the other is holding my laptop case. No way am I going to leave it unattended here!
As well, the turbo charged conveyor belt was fairly rocketing along and my way was blocked by all these large Highlands ladies and gents.

To give myself a bit more time to think about it, I dial Mili Meiema on my mobile to let her know I arrived in Port Moresby. Of course! this is the Capital City, no service! I opt for a text and it actually goes.
I make a move now and fix my eye on one strong looking guy standing right where my suitcase reposes. I smile sweetly and ask him if he could possibly grab it for me. He does and the top handle promptly breaks off at one end. He looks really upset and embarrassed but I reasure him and he exits fast.

I struggle to pull out the plastic handle, which is stuck, so that I can trundle all the way to the International Departure Building - a five minute walk away. Once there, I let go of the handle to grab the appropriate departure cards from the counter and my suitcase overbalances falling against the legs of a lady beside me. I turn red and apologise profusely.

Several hours, a slumber and a tasteless airline meal later, I find myself in Cairns, once again reclaiming my baggage. This time, not a set of muscles in sight to help me out and I need both hands so I leave my laptop bag on the floor next to a security guard and wrench my suitcase, with difficulties, off the carosel. This time I notice the undercarriage, to which the wheels are attached, is totally cracked.
By the time I have inspected the damage, called Air Niugini everything I could think of under my breath, I turn around to find a beagle hound on the end of a customs officer, scratching away at my laptop bag!
This really is too much and I snatch it up out of further harms way. Of course the Officer wants to know what my bag could possibly contain that is of interest to his dog and, in order to open it, I let go of the suitcase which overbalances once more, this time side swiping the beagle who just sits there. The pained expression on the face of the Officer is a sight to behold.
I manage to explain that we have a pet sugar glider at home in PNG, who hides in the front pocket on occasions. Perhaps it's the smell of that exciting the hound. He accepts my explanation and lets me go.
Its a long trundle to the arrival lounge where Tina and Leonard should be waiting. The wheels are wobbling badly now and it's a struggle to pull the thing in a straight line but I finally get there.

Predictably, there are no kids waiting so I pull out my mobile again to call Mili Meiema as well as Tina to find out how far away they are. Damn! my sim is Bmobile network, no global roaming and as dead as! Emergency service only....

I sit and wait patiently. Leonard bounces up gives me a hug and grabs the suitcase, trundling it roughly outside to the car. As he lifts it into the boot, the undercarriage, complete with wheels falls right off into the gutter. I am home.

Happiness is....

2007-10-09T09:57:00.000+10:00

...having your family touch base with you and each other - often!

I'm feeling happy because my first born son Mark, living in France with his longime partner Michelle, sent me two emails within this last fortnight. He hadn't contacted me for almost four years until now.

Second son living in Sydney, Jeff, phoned my eldest daugher Tina a coupla days ago and I got to talk to him too. He doesn't call very often.

Tina and younger son Leonard text each all the time nearly every day to compare itineraries!
Those two always remember to call home and let me know whats on, which I reckon is pretty considerate of them.

The icing on my cake this week will be my youngest daughter, Mili-Meiema, arriving in Cairns for a weeks break to coincide with my 58th birthday on the 11th.
LG - Life's good!!!!!

Kusebo

2006-05-28T20:35:00.000+10:00

I'm not quite sure of the precise moment that I stopped being a Londoner and became a Kusebo! Kusebo means "friend" in the Bwaidoga Language of the People of Goodenough Island in Milne Bay Province - located at the extreme end of Papua Niugini.

I have been married to Agai, a man of the above mentioned domain for the last 24 years and it hasn't been easy, let me tell you that!

On the one hand, it seems that I have married a whole family - not just the man - and as such I am expected to house, feed and entertain whomsoever turns up at our house without notice, needing a bed for a night or two, or three, or more.......
Spouse and I had many arguments about this in the early days. FinallyI got smart upon the chance discovery of Good Old English Cookery!
After serving(with a smile of course!) porridge for breaky, macaroni cheese for lunch and meat with three well boiled soggy veg for dinner, nary a dish of rice or kaukau in sight, guests seemed to be inclined to cut their visits to two days maximum and take off to the houses of other relatives.
As a bonus, nobody much favours our residence on subsequent trips to Alotau. By using the Selective Feeding Method, I now control who comes to stay and for how long which keeps the marital relationship sweet!

The concept of housing and how to use it is entirely different in the mind of a Pacific Islander. Here I am in my Dimdim(local term for european) designed house thinking that since our three bedrooms are filled already with ourselves, other family members should tactfully notice that we have no room to accommodate extras.
Not so! We have a huge open plan lounge which can fit six bodies in line at one end if we bump the coffee table up to the TV rack, plus a large veranda able to sleep another eight. Never mind that we are all late for work because of the queue for the bathroom and that it takes forever to prepare breakfast for fourteen guests, it is expected that such a large space be shared! Thank God for discovering the Selective Feeding Method.....

Perhaps it's lucky that being born a Libran, I can see both sides of the fence from where I sit on top. Looking down on one side there are "my" people who have a tendency to treat ethnic others with inverted snobbery, condescention and worse. On the ethnic side of the fence my adopted people look at the rest of the Caucasian populace with some amusement and more than a little jealousy of their economical status.

Mind you when it comes to being one half of the mix in a mixed marriage none of the above observations are really helpfull. I'm hoping someone will read this blog and share their experiences.