The Kaiwatara mines in folk literature

The Kaiwatara mines lie in the remote and higher altitudes of Cape Vogel called Kukuyaland, once a province or district of the Great Anuki Country, ruled by the Warakouta aristocrats of Ribua. Not only is the region remote and wild, but its terrain remains equally tyrannical for those who may dare to venture into its fringes and hinterland.

How a Queensland-based company managed to move the heavy American-made mining equipment from the coastal regions of Giwa (south coast of Cape Vogel) into that wild and dangerously precipitous terrain remains a mystery. But local folk literatures mention the use of horses and donkeys along with long lines of human labourers to move the heavy machinery which were as large and hardly transportable looking as those found at the abandoned Purari Delta mines, the Wau-Bulolo goldfields, the Woodlark Island mine sites and others throughout Papua New Guinea.

But of course with the Wau-Bulolo goldfields modern transport modes such as air planes had helped in transporting pieces of equipment such as dredges and then assembling these pieces upon arrival. With those at Kaiwatara mines none of these modes were available aside from sea transport so think of the amount of human and domestic animal labour expended in transporting such heavy equipment. All this happened during the 1920s.

The pipe end shown here goes almost a mile down.

The Kaiwatara mines are said to have been flourishing as they existed during the 1920s the economically boom period at the global level. Workers to the mines came from virtually all over the world local folk literatures report, but just as any other oil and gold mine in the country such an economic boom would come to a close as suddenly as it had started.

The impact that these mines had had on the social fabrics of local populations was enormous and as we all know at once positive and negative. A new era of borrowed Western type of trade began to take place among the local populations along with unceasing migration of people from other parts of the then British Papua. But again these would cease as suddenly as they had begun.

What then remains of these abandoned mines are the replicas of equipment left to rust away but at the same time serve as sources of inspiration for the mind that is creative. Thanks to the Kaiwatara mines and what remains of it today so many traditional songs, operas, orals histories and contemporary compositions such as poroga have be composed and are still sung today in as many as eight different languages of Cape Vogel. Among these compositions are the classic nipogana (traditional epics) Dobodobo, Menaga, Bonubonu and Kiara, storyboard’s favourites and as sung by the Anuki greats Doboro Tupotupo and Doboro John Bill – equivalents we could say of Enrico Caruso and Luciano Pavarotti, respectively, in the Western world.

The Kaiwatara mines have long been the source of inspiration for storyboard himself, having published a book of poems in 2000 in which this region of Cape Vogel is mention through a long elegy titled “Siapa.” The elegy is based on storyboard’s two years of education at the ages of 6 and 7 and under the care of his grandmother, Kwabura Sylvia Kawakoka. The region is also talked about in the last chapter of Bishop David Hand’s remarkable book, MODAWA: Papua New Guinea and Me 1946-2002. In that book Bishop David’s contemporary, Bishop Blake Kerina, merely talks about the winding up of the company from 1931 to 1934.

Sometime last year, storyboard found himself talking about the Kaiwatara mines with a colleague, Vincent Kewibu, of the archaeology section of the Anthropology & Sociology Department at the University of Papua New Guinea. Since both men are from Cape Vogel they often refer to the mine site as the “King Solomon’s Mines” of the whole of Cape Vogel Basin. Over the Christmas-New Year break, Vincent did visit the Kaiwatara site. The following is a brief report of his visit to the Kukuyaland:

“It takes about a day’s walk to Kaiwatara from Giwa and Didiwa. Kaiwatara is one of the early sites of oil and gas prospecting projects established in the late 1920s. By the early 1930s operations ceased.

A Queensland-based company held the licence to prospect for oil and gas at Kaiwatara. The remains of the pipes, machinery (rusting away) and well are still there. The machinery was supplied by the Buda Company of Illinois and Armstrong MFG Company of Waterloo, USA.

The well is located at the end of the grassland about 5 metres from the cliff-face (30-40m up from the water) of the Kuuru Creek. Kuuru Creek is a tributary of Kwipa River which joins the Awitapu River. Remains of materials related to the prospecting activities are located in the grassland nearby.

Kaiwatara is located within the territory of the Kukuya people. Today the people are settled at Kiiyagha on the plain near the Kwipa River. It is within the Giwa ward of the Makamaka LLG.”

 There are several explanations to the mine’s sudden closure. 

First, folk literature explains the sort of negative impact such mining industries can have on local populations. These include excessive and random migrations to other areas of a country or province. They also contribute largely to the breakdown of traditional family units and social systems. Of this latter explanation, the Anuki folk literature is full of it. Fearful that their traditional system of government would disintegrate rapidly the Warakouta aristocrats advised their wise counsellors to cast a spell of ibumutu upon the mining company, hence its sudden closure.

Second, an argument erupted between the two partners of the mine. The Kukuya folk literature reports a kind of high noon showdown (American fashion) imminent between the two who might have been brothers. Thus, the sudden closure.

Thirdly, some scientific as well as economic explanations reveal that the 1920s were economically the boom period of the Western world, particularly its imperial powers. Hence, the desire there was to claim extra territory and set up mining industries throughout the world. All this came and went as suddenly as the appearance of the economic depression of the 1930s just around the corner. That would in turn leave the Kaiwatara mines as desolate as any other mine site in Papua New Guinea.

We bring you this story with special regard to the sort of mining industry activities we experience through LNG and similar large scale projects in our country today. We hope they shed some light on how best we can handle certain social problems deriving from these. 

                                                                            

You can learn more about the Kaiwatara mines from Vincent Kewibu at this email address: vkewibu@upng.ac.pg.

                                                                      

Don't look down

                                                          

This is not a good story to tell. But we have to tell it anyway due to some unexpected turn of events at various quarters of our academic norms and practice.

One day, storyboard receives a strange phone call. The caller happens to be a very recent appointee at senior level from a certain academic department of the University of Papua New Guinea.

“Yes, sir, this is storyboard speaking. How may I help you?”

“Do you know Mona Lisa?” (Real name withheld.)

“Yes, I do. In fact, Miss Mona Lisa is a very bright student of mine.”

“When you see her today, instruct her to come to my office immediately.”

A little baffled, since the department was far removed from the discipline of literature, storyboard said: “That I can. But begging your pardon, sir, may I ask what this is in regard to?”

Thereupon the caller embarked on a lecture about his status and qualifications as compared to storyboard’s, and should he, storyboard, choose not to heed the caller’s instruction it would go down on record as an act of insubordination. Would storyboard be willing to risk that by questioning the caller’s intent in summoning the said student up to his office?

Of course, storyboard ignored the caller’s threat and decided upon warning Miss Mona Lisa that Dr. So-and-So wanted to see her on matters that might not have been work-related.

To which the student asked what storyboard’s advice would be if she did venture up to the caller’s office out of curiosity. Storyboard, after studying his good student’s smile and the mystery surrounding her eyes, pointed out that the university was a liberal environment as much as any other democratic setting and that as individuals one ought to exercise a certain amount of precaution regarding personal conduct and safety.

Since that incident Mona Lisa went missing from the Waigani campus. The co-supervisor of her honours program along with storyboard went through all worry and trouble trying to find out where she was. Has she gone home to her home province? Has she rather migrated to another country? Relatives from her home province also wanted to know. Even her appointment as a temporary tutor in Literature was beginning to become redundant and subsequently a new wave of honours students came on board to fill up the student’s position.

When Mona Lisa did re-appear some two years later she deposited a three-hour drama script at storyboard’s office, and that play was noted to be revealing – indeed a replica of a very intelligent young woman who had for one reason or other decided to take an existential type of departure that only creative literature itself might best explain the stress and worry she might have encountered during her brief sojourn as an honours student.

What storyboard failed to realize there and then was the unscrupulous attitude of the caller albeit appointee as a departmental head. Within a matter of semesters, not years, that caller would lose his position and in the following year become jobless. What followed thenceforth was that the university could barely manage human tolerance in having him re-instated somewhat but this time as a lecturer like storyboard. But even that position seems too small today to fill the incumbent’s shoes. So what does he do? He starts pushing and shoving, staging coup after coup to get into power – an activity hardly fitting for an academic environment where oratory, research and publication, including churning out the very best of manpower for the nation count more.

At this stage we must point out that where there is a threat apparent to place the reputation of a tertiary institution in jeopardy, such individuals must be dealt with accordingly through the media. Storyboard is only too glad to do so here on behalf of his well-meaning and highly respected colleagues, who no doubt have exercised that human sentiment of tolerance so much even that human quality can get well and truly expended.

Looking at this particular aspect of human conduct from a philosophical point of view reveals to us that what we are looking at is indeed the story of human failure in the raw. We all strive for that ultimate state of perfection in our lives but very few of us reach the top eventually. Those who succeed turn around and start mentoring the young who come after them. They become models worthy of following. But it is sad for this lot that fails even with such academic decorations as PhDs. What they mentor turns out ruthless and violent as evident in the life of our incumbent in question.

Now when parents spend thousands of kina to send their children along to us, they have in mind people who will nurture their young in the best way possible. But when these generations of young people are entrusted quite unwittingly by parents to the care of such unscrupulous individuals who revel in power more than human values, we are indeed staring at the face of social decadence point blank.

Even parents themselves must become actively involved in the workings of a tertiary institution, not just their terms as committee members at high school level only. The likelihood of our young walking away into oblivion without any hope of getting a job after four years of academia is enormous and needs to be quelled with the parents’ vigilance as well. As the song by B.B. King has it: “better not look down, if you want to keep on flying; put the hammer down, keep it full speed ahead; better not look back, or you might just wind up crying; you can keep it moving, if you don't look down.”

Thus, entertaining such unscrupulous individuals to the point of taking full power to control our lives can be tantamount not only to B.B. King’s idea of bringing ourselves down to their level but also as Shakespeare would put it: “anything from the neck up is heaven; anything from the neck down is hell.” 

Photos above by Ekar Keapu of The National newspaper showing over 1,000 new intakes of undergraduates during orientation week at the University of Papua New Guinea. A majority of these will be streamed into the School of Humanities and Social Sciences which houses the Literature and English Communication department.

                                                                             

Signs of our times

The arrow in this photo seems to be pointing to the National Parliament, the law-making premises of Papua New Guinea.

                                                            

It is always a nice thing to be prepared. Not that anything great can happen in our ordinary and simple lives but that it is wise to stay prepared.

And we do so by looking at the signs that surround us.

Overgrown grass that needs cutting, weeds about the fence, fibro walls rotting away, foot paths unswept and in many instances once lovable thoroughfares left littered and neglected. Sometimes a familiar and oft visited habitat looks as abandoned as ever, and gives us the impression that may haps no one cares any more about so many little things that surround us.

But the lesson of such instances of negligence startles us suddenly when Eda Ranu drops by to cut our water or PNG Power removes certain wires that used to supply us with electricity. And when we do look around in search of the source of all our woes and worries we notice it all, loud and clear and right at our doorsteps.

We have not been mindful about our bills.

And moreover, we have not been attentive to the voice that kept prompting us over the years: “Let the fig tree teach you a lesson. When its branches become green and tender and it starts putting out leaves, you know that summer is near.”

How negligent then have we become, especially in this day and age when modern technology has taken over all manner of human chores. Once, a messenger designated as a clerical assistant knew all that was recovered of him in order to get a certain job done for a department. Nowadays such entities are obsolete. You can email your boss as freely and as carelessly as protocol itself chooses to be absent in our consciousness. And a simple clerk, of all people, can transfer vast sums of money from one point of contact to another simply because modern technology allows that to happen.

                                                                   

Not so, thinks Eda Ranu which comes around to disconnect our taps, technology or not we were not paying our bills and that’s that. And Eda Ranu’s explanation: “Where is there documentary evidence that you were paying for sewerage and water all these years?” So we show them our pay slips and the amounts that were deducted from our pay to them and what do we get for an answer? That ain’t official by way of evidence. We know you have had that amount deducted from your pay, but look here, worthy and learned colleagues, we have not been receiving a penny of your so-called “deductions”. So what say you now?

Thus, if a company is said to be on the verge of liquidation, and this is what storyboard is getting at, let us not be alarmed, but rather go back to our diaries and try to pin point the date when all this moment of negligence first started. Sure enough, we will see it. If it was in 1995 that we stopped paying our bills to Eda Ranu through our clerk at the buttons of the computer, then perhaps the answer lies in the area of our good clerk not taking the trouble to actually deliver the money to Eda Ranu. Yet our pay slips show that certain amounts were deducted to Eda Ranu, as simply as that. Do we reprimand the clerk? We should rather not. Because in the beginning we did not let him know that we knew what he would be thinking and that we would certainly know he would know what we were thinking. That way he would, physically, remember to deliver the cash to Eda Ranu and not to an alter ego somewhere at BSP.

That little amount accumulated over the years sends awkward sound waves by way of signs to how easily man can go wrong even with his own inventions of which he should very much be in control. We have forgotten to consult nature. We cannot read the signs any more. We become so shut in that what we do indoors accumulates over the years until someone from somewhere else comes along and starts pointing out the loopholes of our own self-management apparatuses.

                                                                    

Shaken, we panic; and in panicking we find ourselves cleaning up our yards while in fact we should be welcoming our guests now beginning to flock in upon the so-called given hour.

Of course, stories such as these have very little in them when we first hear them. Eda Ranu must excuse us for using them as an example here, but storyboard has a good mind to suggest they be thankful as this serves as good publicity.

Examples aside, these are good stories to tell. To the one who listens these stories often turn out to be big stories in their own right. The guest is the most important personality in our lives. That is why we talk about signs and being prepared at all times. Our guest must be entertained. So being reputable people that we are, we get down to the traditional ritual of welcoming them. In most Melanesian societies it is an absolute must that a guest is well taken care of. We welcome him with familiar gifts, firstly, such as betel nuts and drinks. Then there is the ritual of traditional dishes: besa, if one is doing the monamona; or leu (almost pronounced theu in Wedau), a special dish consisting of baby taro leaves, coconut oil and mashed taro for important guests.

Our guest becomes our final judge of what we are as a community, as a government department or a school, college and institution of learning. He is the one who has the power, we might say, to assess whether our very act of existing and functioning as such is justifiable after all. Thus, if he says we ain’t paying our bills, we must listen.

The opinions expressed here are very much general and should not serve as “pointing fingers at” certain organizations in our society. But lessons learnt in this article are very much for the benefit of all of us.   

Last minute clean-up activity at the Waigani Campus.

 

 

Our Prolific Jeff Febi

                                                      

One of Papua New Guinea’s prolific writers currently churning out poems and short stories, not to mention the novels he has up his sleeve, some already published, is Jeffery Febi.

“A song for camels” is a recent short prose piece that caught storyboard’s eye.

It talks about coffee growers of the Highlands region, the difficult terrain that one has to combat with practically every day to ensure no calamity comes his way. There is mist and cold sweep of winds pervading each valley and ridge, and a careless or an unwary step along the hillside tracks can prove fatal in some areas.

Yet those that live along and beneath the ridges labour strenuously away, knowing that this is their destiny. In Jeffery Febi’s story, Somolie slips and falls, but thanks to a brief ledge along the cliff wall of a mountain he clings on to dear life. His cap falls, too, in those brief fatal seconds, revealing a smooth moon shaped “hairstyle” by which Mihi, a relative, spots him a few metres above. Mihi then calls out frantically if his kela clansman is all right. When that brief drama of struggling back to the safety of the mountain top is over, both men can now look down at the menacing deep gorges and gullies beneath them and at the cap that is barely visible and laugh their hearts out.

 This is a nice and lively melodramatic piece, so representative of the hard life and times of the highlands coffee grower today. There’s a kind of railway gang chorus attached to it, a sort of toil and moil sentiment which Jeffery wants us to see through this short story. When the Highlands Highway becomes dysfunctional at times for one reason or other, the author draws our attention to the rough terrain that surrounds that area. It reminds one of an oft used geographical term, “tyranny of the terrain.”

Yet without the men and the women of those regions, including the help of children to some degree, we in the other parts of the country would not enjoy a nice cup of coffee in the cool of evening some days. Notice the song the coffee growers sing:

They call us camels. They call us white horses.

They call us semi-trailers. They call us many names.

Names of things we don’t know much of. 

We’re they who walk with the strength of our fathers.

Those bygone men who had tamed angry rivers,

Appeased bellowing clouds and walked with mists. 

Our coffee beans shall not go to waste!

Our coffee beans shall not go to waste!

O no – no - no; shall not go to waste! 

Jeffery then sums up the short story as follows:

“Mihi joined and they sang with a certain pride that sent the song speeding downhill on the wings of a determined breeze. 

Far below, an army of white bags in a long and winding line resembling a herd of camels on a journey came into view. When the song reached them, hearts were touched and moved. Many repeated the chorus and the gorge reverberated with their inspiration. 

It is their song and they loved it. It inspires strength which they need in order to climb Kuipi; and confidence to walk shamelessly with their loads through villages (whose inhabitants ridicule and call them names) along the road. 

And they continued singing their hearts out - husbands, wives and their children.”

The thing that fascinates storyboard about Jeffery Febi’s work is his ability to maneuver his subject matter to and fro, much of which is wide ranging as far as themes go. One moment we have a poem on coffee or a short story of same (as partly represented above). At another, it is the subject of corruption and expensive power play around the vicinities of Waigani hilltops, and yet at another a poem of gentle persuasion set in the remote regions of the country. In each item we read, there is evidence that this writer moves his readers around a bit, even if it means taking them on tour of some complex cultural set up which we are not very much familiar with. Yet he handles his subject matter so well that already the organizers of The Crocodile Literary Prize are beginning to rave about his work.

His achievements are prospective as well as deadly sure. This writer knows what he is doing, and is in full control of his subject matter. That sentiment of certainty would certainly make men such as Thomas Gray envious. Notice the following lines from Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”:

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife

 Their sober wishes never learned to stray;

 Along the cool sequestered vale of life

 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

But of course we would regard Gray’s as patronizing. The rural scenery that Febi offers us is real, as real and tangible as the coffee we taste in our cups. Indeed, Febi’s work seen in the collective offers an important remark on the current issues of the day governing our intellectual lives. Life is no longer that sober device that Gray once had in mind for the so-called little people of the rural areas. In Papua New Guinea, the re-awakening process of the rural sector is much more tumultuous than that. Each character of a short story or persona of a poem regards the world through questioning eye-holes, as it were, and attempts at discovering answers to these questions. We commend Jeffery Febi for that insight.

The reader will notice that some of the entries along with Jeffery Febi’s work in The Crocodile Literary Prize are previously published material, much of which coming from the Writers’ Forum of the National Weekender. We would like to remind the organizers that much of that material is copyright material, ownership of which belongs to individual authors firstly, but should they come within the winning and publishing range then sufficient acknowledgement would be due to the National newspaper. Rather than send money give The National a medal. They deserve one.

COFFEE

By Jeffery Febi 

 In many a land well-favoured, crowds
 They stand to proclaim their renewals.
 And invite bees onto many a pearly stage,
 Then yellow their limbs with their jewels
 As bees in hype and gaily dances engage.

 Some begin to bow under jovial loads,
 As green gold replace many a pearly stage.
 This transformation, bees send to hive
 With gentle persuasion to kindly disengage.
 Then days of colour prepare to revive.

 O! masses upon masses, more beautiful,
 Load grey brown branches. And between
 Weary green leaves, paint them shiny red.
 O red! pleasant red! a signal to convene;
 Hurry! please hurry! or they will shed!

 And men, women and children convene
 With excitement and many a gaily song,
 Under weary branches to lighten a load.
 And then for many an happy hour long,
 Bags after bags and more they overflowed.

(An entry in The Crocodile Literary Prize.) 

Side-stepped by Shakespeare!

Happy New Year, fellow lovers of words!

“Why dost thou pine and suffer dearth/Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?”

With those words, exeunt storyboard, stage left – for the year 2010.

But wait. “Were’t not for laughing, I should pity him.” Perhaps those are much truthful from the bard himself than what storyboard would like to think of himself. In fact, all the pejoratives heard at the Globe Theatre would be more fitting descriptions of and for storyboard. He ain’t that real, is he?

One of the stinging experiences that storyboard recalls of any Shakespearean tragedy is the way a hero, or even a court jester, spends the last few seconds of his life making a speech. There is at once irony and tragedy involved in that.

A clan member in Romeo and Juliet, for example, does not quite know that during a tussle with Romeo and others he had been fatally wounded. He nonetheless embarks on comically expressing an opinion which takes up more than five seconds of dialogue. Then, suddenly, he is rolling down the stairs to lie still at the bottom. Then a cry rings out that he is no more.

How he is wounded happens as quickly as lightning. An actor must be a genius to act that part out. And while the actor is privileged to know what he is presenting to the audience, the character himself does not. It is this character that storyboard is interested in. He is like every one of us. A good director must tell us exactly when and how he was wounded. That much we need to know. But as for the drama itself the character who is fatally wounded does not know that he is dead long before he had begun his final speech. But he does manage to complete that speech, and that in itself is miraculous. Good old Shakespeare.

It is as if the world, which is a stage according to the bard, has denied us that little knowledge. With us being that particular character play along, nevertheless, totally oblivious to the fact that we have been had. In such circumstances it would be wise, if we had the opportunity to decide for ourselves, to merely read the signs of all and sundry that surrounds us and walk away. But nine times out of ten we do not. And that is the most tragic part of our lives.

And all the more tragic if those of us know that our time’s up but that we choose to go on clinging onto this thing we call power.

When once a certain gentleman sensed that his time would be up, that he could lose all, he sought the opinion of the one who knew best, and the advice he received was less encouraging for him than he had expected. Go out and sell everything you own, and with that give your chattel to the poor. Be content with simplicity in living. What did our learned colleague choose? The exact opposite of what he had heard.

It would seem therefore that there is no way out of this dilemma. Either we cling on to power and regret it, or resign our offices and see our families starve.

But there is always a remedy to all this for all Papua New Guineans and that is what storyboard is getting at here. For those who have reached the age think seriously of writing memoirs. Your memoir could be the history of Papua New Guinea as a sovereign state. And it is true that such a memoir could sell.

Perhaps this is one good area of communal activity that we should attend to. Steven Winduo mentioned this at his “window” not long ago. Apparently those to whom the message was directed and who should have been paying attention decided not to. And that is sad.

Virtually all the leaders of the world redeem themselves through the genre of memoirs. The results are usually seen to be encouraging. Let our leaders do likewise. Let this activity be one of their New Year resolutions. It is a better activity than any other enterprise, especially when the clock has struck three pm several hours ago. It is good for the generations which follow to know what had gone on before them. Even good men could lose an opportunity like this one. Notice the opening citation of the bard’s for this article. Surely we all think we are rich, we are good, we are okay, but are we really happy inside, where the soul is? And there you have it.

As for the bard himself he did what was correct. If he were a statesman the option would have been to resign his office, retire to the woods, build a cabin and write poems. Never mind about the worldly luxuries and creature comforts. The sea is full of food and so are the hills and the forests. What more can we ask for in Papua New Guinea?

We stay on in the cities and you guessed it. Things have become astronomically expensive, quite unaffordable for a good few of our country men and women. Notice even how expensive Poet’s Corner has become these days. Thinking even that the item of inspiration would be affordable storyboard discovered quite to his dismay that its costs K56.95 at a local supermarket.

But come away from that shop and concentrate rather on writing the memoir.

                                   HAPPY NEW YEAR!

                        

Power and the dangers of linguistic violence

The Arts 1 Building, nowadays known as Kuri Dom Building, once the home of UPNG's Language and Literature Department as much as host to many a linguistic debate on power, hegemony and post-colonial discourse.

One of the pressing dilemmas a young graduate of UPNG can find himself in is when he first tastes the meaning of the word “power”. In his new job as an administrator or simply as an academic the temptations to misinterpret the word are enormous. This is particularly so when he finds himself in a working environment which demands a lot of him by way of qualifications and a good report on leadership skills. In his new appointment he will obviously find a lot of workers who can be many years his senior. He being one of the new breed of graduates who are sent out there to lead will have to be extremely careful with the word power when dealing with his new colleagues.

Sometimes the word is loosely coined in any work environment as “empowerment’, meaning one has the power to take full control of one’s destiny, if that destiny has a lot to do with knowing who you are, where you are, the job you are required to perform and most importantly whom you are given the task of leading. In such a situation and if you are as fresh as inexperience teaches it is always wise to tuck your self-pride away at the back of the mind and concentrate on the demands of the job you are given to perform. Ensure you understand the job thoroughly, meaning you know what the interpretations of its duty statement exactly are.

Your other colleagues, a good number of whom are your seniors by so many years of experience, will be the ones whose very performance under your leadership will help determine whether you are a good leader or not. Seek advice from them before embarking on a decision on what is to be done about whom or what. But if you take one quick peek at your qualifications, compare that to your colleagues’ moments of lifetime deficiency of sorts, and subsequently fall for making a fast decision without consulting anyone else in your work environment can have drastic consequences. Sooner or later someone from somewhere, not necessarily from your own office or within the company you are working for, will be obliged to approach you with precautionary measures albeit friendly advice on how far you have strayed as a leader. The Waigani campus as we all know usually churns out the best there is by way of manpower in leadership market potentials.

The word power is one of those quiet little animals that get stuck to our backs whenever we find ourselves in a position of responsibility. It is a word that needs to be attended to in the manner that we brush our teeth each morning. It means we have to value the word as a precious possession for which others look at us with respect and admiration. And it does not matter how old we are when we possess this little creature: we can be as fresh as 23 years old or as veteran as 60. That is the value of the word power. All around us are people who help us nurture the little creature with care and diligence. We become unkind to the little animal and away it goes, snarling and gnashing its teeth at anything in its path.

Now storyboard chose to talk about this word power here considering the way his younger colleagues at a certain organizational meeting recently decided to throw him overboard as a member of the board of directors, so-called. One even went as far as asking when storyboard was dying so that he would take over as the board’s chair of consultants and advisors. Storyboard rather than feel insulted thought it was his duty to remind the youngster that his question could be considered invalid as the meeting had barely begun. At this point the young man realized his mistake and had to put up with the stares that surrounded him for the rest of that afternoon’s session. As the meeting progressed, and at the back of his mind, storyboard could merely recall the words of Simon and Grafunkel’s Elcondor Pasa which ran “I’d rather feel the earth beneath my feet...”

Thenceforth storyboard reminded his young entourage of advisors and educators where they were all coming from. Our country is in a bad way, we can see that. But it is not for us to panic, go for the emergency buttons, and that sort of thing. I think we have retained our position of respectability and credibility for so much in so many years. There is no need as yet to start revolutionizing ourselves here and there. Moreover, there is no need to bring the impeding woes of a bad parliamentary session at Waigani upon ourselves – least of all to places like ours here. We have a targeted audience given to us by our duty statements to cater for, and that is the generation that we are now teaching to become leaders tomorrow. That generation, and its parents of generations before it and those to come, knows who we are, what we are and where we are coming from. We don’t want even to change their minds about us and our conduct, do we now? That much duty we have; that much power we have.

At this point, the youngest of the younger colleagues present in that meeting, asked politely if everyone was aware of the word power and the sort of linguistic violence it would carry with it in given situations. In response to which, a senior colleague pointed out that teachers of languages, in particular teachers of English, should be wary of certain implications imminent in their choice of vocabulary – even in the least of susceptible remarks uttered or written about themselves and others.

This article is written especially for those young UPNG graduates anxious to wield power and influence wherever they go. It serves as a reminder that a UPNG degree certificate is a conferral of power upon and unto itself. It becomes a privilege, an expression of social status. It must not, therefore, be mistaken as a weapon to do what we all enjoy doing, and that is asking our next door neighbor to bow before us each morning we wake up to stretch and yawn. Power is a wonderful gift. Only a bad gesture and miscalculated use of language corrupts it.