BOUGAINVILLE'S GREAT EXPECTATIONS

                                                                           

 

A review of the film Mr. Pip

 

The Papua New Guinean soldier wants to know who Mr. Pip is. His men round up the villagers who are then severely interrogated. A little boy, as slow a learner as Mr. Watts is (for that is Mr. Pip’s real name), says he knows where Mr. Pip is. The boy points out a house and a white man is brought forward. The white man soon realizes the dilemma of fiction and discursive information and in the process of differentiating the two for the benefit of the soldier and his men, he, the soldier, shoots him twice on the chest, calling him a liar and a spy. His body is then dragged to the back of a house and hacked to pieces. To the soldier Mr. Pip is never that fictitious character from Charles Dickens’ novel, Great Expectations, but a master-mind controlling the BRA. The soldier’s next task is to find Mr. Charles Dickens himself and similarly execute him.  

 

Or so goes the story of this film, Mr. Pip.

 

When Lloyd Jones set out to publish the novel Mister Pip in 2006, he probably had in mind the Bougainville copper mine as not only the largest mine in the world in 1988 but also a complex multi-billion dollar corporation from which much would be expected, all at the expense of the ordinary Bougainville islander and those that came to live on that island. Schools and other government service agencies on the island were shut down, the people had nowhere to turn to but unto themselves for all possible means of survival as just a few meters next to them was a war raging between the BRA and the Papua New Guinea armed forces. But it was to the people themselves that all bruises and trauma of that war were left, with so many desolate hours of “great expectations” lying ahead of them somewhere in the distance of an unseen future. And the resultant revelation for all of that would be nothing but an abandoned crater, a hole in the ground not worth fighting for.

 

The journalist Sean Dorney looked at Bougainville and offered extensive reports over ABC and other media publications of atrocities on the island and for which he was threatened or deported.

 

But this film, Mr. Pip, needs to be understood not so much as a report on what happened on Bougainville as to its insistence on asking some of the greatest questions of literary merit since time immemorial, especially on the plight of ordinary people in extremely difficult circumstances. Miss Xzannjah Matsi and Hugh Laurie join forces to give not only Bougainville but also the whole of Papua New Guinea the best of performances since Abert Toro’s Tukana and the William Takaku-Pearce Brosnan portrayal of Man Friday. The casting was excellent and the use of organic material in the form of raw village talent deserves commendation. Who can judge between character and real life? Who can boast of who’s who in Hollywood or Bollywood but a remarkable piece of literary rendering of ordinary humanity on film, the big silver screen, like this one? There, and only then, do we hear voices of the masters, like Charles Dickens; like Mr. Watts aka Mr. Pip; and that little Buka girl that snaps out of a reverie, out of the strangeness of a long dream just to learn from the wisdom of the crabs and Mr. Dickens that home is where we all want to be and certainly not a thing to be ashamed of. Mr. Pip, the only white man in that village perishes. The other villagers, including Matilda, barely manage to escape. And when they do, there is much to look back to as reminder. In essence, the civil war was utterly senseless.

 

The film also carries some historical references, through dialogue, character flash backs and certain locations of filming, that trace and reflect upon those famous yet now forgotten black birding voyages of the 18^th and 19^th centuries. The island of Bougainville has once upon a time been a gold mine of black slavery. Not a single 19^th century British novel, be it Dickens or Jane Austen, passes by us without a slight mention of slave trade whether from Africa or anywhere else such as the Pacific islands. Both the author of the novel and the film makers have been careful enough to remain faithful to their historical research data, by sparing us a little of that information. In this film, Mr. Pip, in particular, we are given the opportunity to trace those black birding voyages, when Matilda (the character Xzannjah’s portraying) makes her way from Bougainville to the Solomon Islands, to Australia and finally to Great Britain where she inherits part of a house that belongs to Mr. Pip. Matilda, of course, turns down the offer when she remembers she could not, much as she might have, save Mr. Pip from the PNG soldiers. She inherits rather a copy of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.

 

This is a good film. Get to see it soon. 

This review posted simultaneously by The Anuki Country Press.

FINAL ISLANDS - 3

                                                   

    

FINAL ISLANDS IN THE SUN

Chapter 3





     Nathalie stood with her guests under the shed at Alotau’s Sanderson Bay station and watched the girls prepare the dinghy for the trip to Samarai. She enjoyed sending her guests to the island, relishing every moment of pleasure each trip had brought them. Both she and her guests knew that time spent in Milne Bay without a trip to the island was time wasted indeed. Every one of them knew and valued the island’s historical significance. Although run down in many ways, Samarai remained the island to visit; especially for those who treasured the note book, the diary or the camera. To the locals and tourists alike the island was a reminder of a certain monumental past such as in being the administrative centre for the entire province once upon a time, a brief stopover for foreign trading vessels and ocean liners, or a mooring isle for storm beaten vessels of those ancient mariners from far off shores…  
As the girls prepared the dinghy, bailing out the previous day’s rain water and loading the luggage, the guests settled comfortably along the benches offshore, either reading books or looking out at the vast display of sailing vessels and the sea stretching out of the bay. A couple from Dover, Colorado Springs asked how long it would take to sail to the island.

    “On my 22 footer, it will be just under an hour and a half. You should be there long before lunch time. The girls prepared mackerel sandwiches with a lot of salad for your lunch. In case you need that. But food at Samarai will be just as good, provided you get there before all goes stale.”

    “Hey Doboro Fjords,” called out one of the girls from the dinghy, “this trip is more than your scuba diving lessons yesterday. You need to be ready.”

     “Stop teasing our guests, Foroga, and finish loading the dinghy. We have to get them to  Samarai before lunch today.”

      “Gala bo kuwali,” said Foroga. “But tell the doboro from Norway to be ready. This ain’t peaceful Tufi, you know. Weather around here can be unpredictable at times. Look at the clouds overhead.”

      “Then test the water, Foroga,” said Nathalie. “I want my guests back safe and sound by 4pm this afternoon.”

    “Yam nuamaise, Numwaya…”

     Foroga scooped up salt water in her palms and threw it into her mouth, letting her taste buds work. In a moment she gave the thumbs up sign and the other girls scurried to load the dinghy with luggage and supplies for the day.

    “And where is that boy with the zooms?” asked Nathalie.

    “Who knows?” chorused the girls.

    Presently a boy with plastic containers walked up to them, panting heavily. Foroga ordered him to load the plastics quickly. He looked lethargic, if not plain lazy, and this annoyed the girls all the more.

    “Did you go all the way to Sagarai to get the zooms?” scolded Nathalie.

    “The service station was crowded, Numwaya,” said the boy apologetically as he loaded the plastic containers. “Holiday time. Peak period, remember?”

    “Don’t you dare ask me to remember anything, young man,” muttered Nathalie under her breath, careful not to let the tourists overhear her. “If there’s anything worth remembering it’s the day I rescued you from your grandfather treating you as a slave in his yam gardens. Be thankful you have breakfast served you in time while you’re with me.”

    “Yam nuamaise, Numwaya,” said the boy and looked as if he would not raise his head for a while yet.

      At which point the girls had heaved the dinghy in, stationing it by its side along the wharf for the guests to board. The guests did so without difficulty, Doboro Fjords being the first. He was known as that for being a Norwegian who loved his sojourns at Tufi more than any other place in Papua New Guinea. He had happened by this province out of curiosity before travelling on to the Tufi fjords, he had explained upon arrival. But, explanations or not, the girls at the Numwaya Nathalie Lodge found him good company, especially in the way he would serenade them on a guitar with a Belafonte tune after a glass or two of red. The girls in turn would use the “five key” on the same guitar to sing him some Hetei Dickson tunes, telling him that Hetei Dickson was a better Belafonte for the Milne Bay Province than any other.

    “O island in the sun…made for me by my father’s hand…” he would begin.

    “No, no, no, Doboro Fjords!” they would scream at him like parakeets. “You sing, ‘I’m going back to the island… down Eastern Papua way’…”

    When everyone was comfortably boarded the girls working on the dinghy alighted, leaving Foroga and Mimi manage the trip to Samarai. The boy who brought the plastic containers appeared distraught. The couple from Dover known as Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg, or Dan and Amie, realized his troubles before anyone else could.

    “Let Diko come along, too, Nathalie dear,” said Amie Goldberg. “We need company.”

    “All right,” said Nathalie, almost reluctantly. She turned to the boy. “Get on, then, Diko. And be kind to our guests. Don’t bother them with petty requests and stuff.”

     “He never does,” said Dan.

     Doboro Fjords moved to give Diko space as Foroga prepared to start the 40 horse power engine.

     “Uncle Tomwaya should be home before we get back,” said Mimi.

     “He’d better be,” said Nathalie. “Anyway, it’s not unusual for him to overnight along the north coast if he’s too tired to drive back.”

     “He’ll be all right,” said Foroga. “Here, Diko, don’t sit idle. Distribute the life jackets. Have everyone wear them, please. Regulations.”

     “Better be going, then,” said Nathalie. “Before the weather changes its mind.”

     “See you later in the evening,” said the guests.

     “Have a safe trip. Enjoy.”    

     The girls eased the dinghy out slowly, letting it weave among the other vessels, Mimi at the front with a bamboo pole, plodding at the tyre guards to gain clear passage. Diko held the sides of the bigger boats to push the dinghy along. The guests turned and waved to Nathalie.

     Once clear and out in the open Foroga started the engine and directed everyone to sit where she thought would be the safest. She revved the engine, put it into gear. Mimi took up her station at the front and the dinghy tilted skywards. It was flying.

                                                              

Chapter 4 of this novel: revised, edited and updated at The Anuki Country Press.

*All chapters subject to alteration or renaming as the novel progresses.     

FINAL ISLANDS IN THE SUN - Chapter 2

                                                                       

FINAL ISLANDS IN THE SUN

 

Chapter Two

    “So what did you want to become?”

    The question came to her mind from an old man whom she could hardly remember. She tried visualizing that old man. The best she could make out was her class mates at university telling her how wise that old man was. Very wise, they insisted.

    “So what did you want to become? At his age, I mean?”

    The old man had this sinister habit of repeating the same thing over and over.

    She turned, feeling dazed. She wanted to answer the old man’s question, tell him he was outdated; and that his kind never lasted long.

    “Miss,” came a harsh voice, and she realized she was at a police station.

    “Miss,” the constable repeated, edging her along, into the dark confines of the station’s interview rooms. “The senior sergeants are waiting.”

    Then as if in place of reciting ‘you have the right to remain silent’ the constable blurted out suddenly: “You bashed up that little boy like he was an adult.”

    She started.

    She knew then that even she might have been manhandled somewhere along the way.

    She swore. She spat.

    “The little brat was paraphrasing you grown up apes,” she muttered under her breath.

    “Constable,” a senior policeman emerged from a room down the corridor. “Just show Miss Caswell in, will you?”

     The constable instantly snapped shut his heels and led her into what looked like a conference room for senior police officers. Three senior sergeants looked up mournfully at her. She shrugged, took the seat offered her.

     “Someone coming for you, Miss Caswell?” said the one who had directed the constable to lead her in. “We have an odd case here,” he added, indicating a file on the table.

     “The laws you women create in parliament, Miss Caswell, bounce back at you like this one,” chuckled another, pushing the file towards her.

    Caswell was cracking her now bruised knuckles. The three senior sergeants smiled.

    “Let us hope someone does come for you, Miss Caswell,” they all said, rose and went outside.

    She was left alone. She flipped through the pages. The intending charges looked ridiculously fabricated. She didn’t lie in wait and ambush the innocent little boy. And what’s this about child abuse, for God’s sake? She read on: complex childhood plus peer pressure, parental demands of getting the best in life, failed emotional associations, high cost of professional maintenance fees, boredom, aloneness, lack of social input… what the heck is lack of social input… all these, culminating in that resort to aggression as necessary distraction…adding, finally, that child abuse was a serious offence.

    She pushed the file away, making it look as if she did not open it at all. The sergeant who did the chuckling seemed too old to be employed in the police force. She wondered why aged old seniors like him still loitered around in the public service.

 

    She sat there, waiting. A cleaner mopped her way in to where she was and asked her to lift her feet so she could do the rest of the room. She obliged. After mopping the whole room the cleaner asked if there was anything she wanted. Yes, she wanted the senior officials attending her case immediately.

    The cleaner advised her that they would be out for a while. It was their lunch hour.

    “Oh, great...”

    “The people who forced you down to this police station were remorseless, my elder,” said the cleaner.

    “I don’t need your sympathy,” she said. “That boy needed discipline.”

    “Still, they shouldn’t have dragged you here by the hand,” said the cleaner, adding “my elder” with extreme courtesy.

    The cleaner had a point. People justice was getting out of hand in Port Moresby. She looked at the cleaner closely. She looked familiar, like someone from her part of the country. She wondered, though, why an elderly looking cleaner like this one would address her as “my elder”.

    But as if in answer to her wondering, the cleaner bowed slightly and said, “Our hill together, my elder.”

    There was a commotion outside.

    The cleaner did a sudden genuflect and remained still, her head bowed.

    The three senior sergeants made their return to the interview room somewhat hurriedly. The fat and older one was sweating. It was a behavior least expected of the seniors. A few security personnel entered the police station, clicked their heels and stood at attention. The crowd moved aside to let a woman through. The woman looked thirtyish. She displayed a certain amount of authority about her, sniffing at what lay before her from a height. The cleaner remained as she was. The woman looked at the cleaner briefly then waved her to rise.

    “Ku Gaesasara,” said the cleaner and rose to stand at ease.

    The woman nodded and marched into the interview room.

    “Lady Gaesasara,” said the fat old sergeant with a bow, his palms glued together in reverence. “It is good to see you here in person. We did not realize Miss Caswell was your client. Do forgive us.”

     “There is nothing to forgive, my elder,” said the woman. “I must rather thank you and your good officers for looking after my client well. Is there anything you would like me to know   before I take her away?”

     “Nothing that would warrant addition to the noise the media is making about Miss Caswell, Lady Gaesasara,” said the old sergeant, “except, of course, her file here which we shall keep for our own records.”

     “Ah, yes; the media and their usual tirades. Very well, then, I shall leave with my client.”

      As the constable escorted her out to Lady Gaesasara’s men, the cleaner leaned over to the woman they called Miss Caswell and whispered, “Our hill together. You are in good hands. All charges will be dropped.”    

    Miss Caswell looked puzzled. She turned, regardless, nodded her thanks to the cleaner and the constable and was whisked out of sight.

    The old man and the other sergeants followed suit, escorting Lady Gaesasara to her car. The young constable turned and joined them, to whom Lady Gaesasara turned and said, “And where are you from, young man?”

    “Boku, Sir.”

    “Sir?”

    “Lady Gaesasara.”

    “And where might Boku be?”

    “Inland Rigo, Lady Gaesasara.”

    “Ah, yes. Where the loyal ones come from, wouldn’t you say so, constable?”

    “I heard mention of such, Lady Gaesasara.”

    “As loyal as the Baniaras?”

    “That also I heard mention of.”

    “You heard mention of these, constable. Don’t you have an opinion of your own?”

    “That I do, sir!” said the constable and quickly snapped shut his heels to attention. “Ku Gaesasara! Our hill together!”

    The senior police officers, particularly the old sergeant, nodded in agreement. Lady Gaesasara was visibly impressed. The power of law, she thought.

    The crowd that had brought Miss Caswell to the station decreased in number by now. A few angry murmurs could be heard, however. But there were no rocks or stones, nor even sticks and footwear cast that day. And Lady Gaesasara’s party along with the police officers would then wonder how long it would take to hold out such spates of mob justice. The saddest thought of all that crossed Lady Gaesasara’s mind was what to do with the little boy who had provoked a simple law-abiding woman to violence.

                                                                               

NEWS FROM AFAR

                                                                             

"Ia ora Russell,

I'm so happy, you can't imagine !

Thank you very much Russell

for your answerings ! 

I'll send your e-mail ! 

 Thank you for your contribution too,  

to the reveiw, Vents Alizés, 

May be you could accept 

to be a member of the comity 

for the writers in the English speaking Pacific area,
 

or only for those of  PNG ?

 

 It will be great. 

I'm impatient to read you: 

Each word (every word ?-  All the words !) 

of your SAILING ON A BOUNTIFUL ARK  

is magic, with a strong power  

to open the imagination

to transport everybody  

to the wonderland 

the poetic world 

an invitation to be and fly 

on cloud nine 

a sailing to find  

what you are looking for ! 

What a magnificent invitation ! 

I like the word "bountiful",

beyond "beautifuI", 

I feel it, refering to the Bounty 

like a word that was turnt,  

inside out ! ! 
 

Yes ! Yes ! 

Two times Yes ! 

W'll be very interested 

In your SAILING

 ON A BOUNTIFUL ARK 

Thank you very much Russell ! 

Bien à vous,

Flora" 

Please send your poem ! 

Best wishes, 

Flora 

 

It is good to be in touch, Flora. Merci bien!

 

 

TRANSITIONS AND TRANSFORMATIONS IN PAPUA NEW GUINEA LITERATURE AND POLITICS

                                                                    

 

Transitions and Transformations

Literature, Politics and Culture in Papua New Guinea

available from the University Bookshop, University of Papua New Guinea

A book review by Russell Soaba

“Transitions and Transformations” is a new publication by Dr Steven Winduo from the University of Papua New Guinea Bookshop. Aptly sub-titled “Literature, Politics and Culture in Papua New Guinea” the book serves its purpose well in answering the academic and intellectual needs of literature and political science students at third and fourth year levels of study.

But the book itself in Winduo’s publications checklist aims to do more than just restrict itself to the classroom environment. It is to re-awaken the slumbering intellect now comfortably nestled in our institutions of higher learning throughout the country. Indeed, and with the sort of political rigmarole of the hours that goes on in our prominent national universities such as UPNG and UNITECH, our literature, as written by Papua New Guineans, is not embraced enough not only by the Education Department, or the Office of Higher Education for that matter, but also by those in power who should be doing better.

Consider the following narrative as excerpted from this new book:

“Rabbie Namaliu and John Kasaipwalova are said to have quickly realised that drama and fiction can be used as ‘a basis of commentary on their country and the new nationalism, with particular reference to colonialism as they understood it’. Kiki and Matane achieved the status of ‘grand old men of letters’ while Kasaipwaloa and Soaba assumed the role of ‘token rebellious youth’. But such labels served to pamper their creative impulses more than to build up the recognition accorded by any nation to its writers. Papua New Guinea has forgotten its early writers. They have been abandoned, just as happens to the character Jimi Damebo, the writer-figure in Soaba’s Wanpis. The death of Jimi Damebo in Wanpis can be viewed as signifying the death of any serious support for the development of literary culture in Papua New Guinea. The birth of PNG literature in the late 1960s and its developments in the early 1970s had the full support of the Administration of the Territory of Papua and New Guinea. In Papua New Guinea today the scenario is one of neglect. Access to publishing opportunities, writing grants and support groups is very limited. Russell Soaba often reminds me that the life of a Papua New Guinean writer is a difficult one because the society itself is a difficult one.”

As early as the 1920s Papua New Guineans had already begun publishing their thoughts in the English language. The government anthropologist, F.E. Williams, initiated an ambitious experiment known as “The Papuan Villager” through which they were able to do so. It was a good start, although in some areas there was scant certainty as to the authenticity of material published. Some argued that the government anthropologist wrote most of the stories, consisting of myths and legends, himself.

That should not, however, deter us from digging into the scholarly aspects of what is being written by way of literature today. “Transitions and Transformations” does exactly that, but with a tremendous sense of scholarly intent. The book itself is a heavily researched monument of literary preoccupations covering an important era in our literary history - from those anthropological collections of myths and legends of the 1920s to Ulli Beier’s creative writing boom of the 1960s and 70s and, indeed, to the academic enquiries and theoretical discourses of the present. And as far as formalist approaches go in literary scholarship it is so well written that it feels all the more entertaining for the ordinary reader as well.

The book contains altogether 16 chapters that both the student and the general reader will also find familiar. Chapters such as “Unwriting the Papuan Villager”, “Writing the Political Unconscious”, “Constructing Indigenous Poetics”, ‘Creative Spirit and Political Energy”, “Literary Culture as Intellectual Capital”, “Contemporary Undercurrents”, “Oral History to Folk Opera” and “Transitions and Transformations”, to name a few.

Then there are those that both the student and researcher into PNG literature find memorable, including the internationally acclaimed essays such as “Double Conscience Without the Instrument to Liberate” or “Wanpis Existentialism” where the Papua New Guinean is seen as “an object of knowledge, exhibition and control.”   But each chapter is a kind of diary as set down daily, week by week, month by month and year by year by a writer such as Steven Winduo who stands in the lecture room today and makes both the students and us eternally aware and warns us subsequently that our culture, our literary attempt at understanding ourselves as a nation, is the thing that matters the most.

All the 16 chapters become dialectical embodiments, as it were, of true scholarship that make us wonder if our critics, who declare openly that our institutions of higher learning have lost face a bit, could think twice about what is actually being taught in the classroom environment to the younger generations that follow us today.

As recently as last week there was a squabble reported of certain MPs and Ministers of parliament opting for full time studies at UPNG, even during their terms as members of parliament. Aside from Post Courier’s beautiful editorial on this which sounded more like a eulogy than anything else (Thursday 21/3/13), we ask: “What has really gone wrong with our country? But more precisely: what is it about our institutions of higher learning that makes even an MP want to pursue further studies at, for example, places like UPNG? The answer to such musings is quite simple: in drafting our Constitution we forgot that the crucial point at heart was education for all. It seems that our Constitution has addressed everything else in our country – except the clause dealing with proper education for all, be they ordinary citizens or members of the national parliament.

“Transitions and Transformations” by Steven Edmund Winduo is an important publication. While we would like to think that it is targeted towards senior students of literature and political science at UPNG it is quite, at yet another level, an important indicator for all of us.

 

Published simultaneously today by the Post Courier of Papua New Guinea.

 

Chapter 4 of FINAL ISLANDS IN THE SUN

                                            Chapter 4

  Earlier at his office in Alotau, Tomwaya had obtained from the passenger for his own business records scant details on what village he was traveling to, how much that would cost, the type of transport appropriate for the trip – except, of course, asking for more information on the client’s employment, location of job, spouse, dependents, next of kin if any, and so on. He simply said fill in this form, sir, and the girls will complete the rest of the details later. He was more concerned with the thought that he would be earning some good money that day. Aside from that, he resolved not to allow any one of his employees handle his brand new and coveted double-cab four-wheel drive in transporting the passenger from Port Moresby, except himself.

    At breakfast a few hours before that his wife, Nathalie, had warned him of whom he chose to transport across the rough terrain from Alotau to the Raba Raba district, including the dreaded Cape Vogel area. Hadn’t he noticed, she warned him that morning when he told her where he would be driving to that day, they had to let Pomio Queen remain at anchor out at the bay for two hours while the police went through each passenger’s baggage checking for drugs, evidence of arms smuggling, black market liquor and so on. There were rumors going on as well that people from Baniara within Cape Vogel itself were now sporting strange connections with certain religious sects throughout the country, hadn’t he heard? He should be more careful whom he was dealing with. And anyhow, she concluded, you can’t trust these Baniaras. The Governor of the Milne Bay Province is from Baniara, mind you.

   Now, as Tomwaya looked at his passenger slumbering away beside him, it occurred to him that his wife could have been speaking sense after all. Did he know his client’s name? All he did was ask the city traveler to fill in the required forms “and leave the rest to the girls” without taking the trouble to check what was written there. The “girls” in this case meant Nathalie and her nieces at the office who did the rest of book-keeping for him. Now he just did not know who his passenger was, least of all memorize his name if he had to. 

                                                                       
Read the revised version of this chapter here The Anuki Country Press.