Milk doesn't come from cows, silly
The whirlwind week that marked the introduction to my tropical island adventure has continued without compromise. I do recall being told that my pace of life will undoubtedly decrease, but I'm yet to feel that effect!
My flight from BNE to POM was relatively peaceful. Aside from of course the air hostess burning holes into my skin at the sight of my somewhat cumbersome ukulele she now had to find space for in the overhead luggage compartment. Devising a colourful but fictional story as to why my treasured instrument could not be subjected to the under-carriage storage where other mere common-folk-instruments dwell, seemed to keep her satisfied. Or dumb-founded. Or simply annoyed. Either way Luke the Uke got to travel first-class.
My days last week were filled with Tok Pisin language training with a warm-hearted local from Simbu called Egma. Such a delight she was to be around that I wanted to take her with me to Kokopo. She might've just fit in my suitcase too! My fellow AVI volunteer Geoff (who will be working for the Media Council here in Moresby) and Egma sung me Happy Birthday in Tok Pisin and the Gods must've known it was my 'taim mama karim yu' because we got lamingtons for morning tea... and then ANZAC bikkies for arvo tea!
Visits to the bank (waiting in line for a total of two hours only to find I couldn't open an account anyway!), obtaining a PNG drivers licence, meeting officials at the Aus High Commission, having to buy ANOTHER mobile (both phones I bought don't accept PNG simcards) and learning the ins and outs of Cholera, AIDS, Malaria and other fun diseases plus other local sight visits kept me busy... And that was in the first 48 hours of being in Moresby!!
My first market visit was all but tame. I managed to thoroughly offend a local lady trying to sell me these sausages that can only be described as milk carton sized lumps of highly processed meat in a tight, almost fluorescent pink skin. Yum!? I guessed they were a close relative of the good ol' frankfurter and when I tried to explain in my broken Tok Pisin that in Australia that they are much smaller and are more of a red colour 'like your pants' she then huffed and crossed her arms. Luckily her two daughters giggled and explained to me that I in fact was referring to her under-pants not her trouser-pants...
Lesson 1: Avoid describing peoples 'pants'. Death by fluorescent pink sausage imminent.
The other thing I have learnt is that PNG-er's make a mean pizza! Yeah - go figure? On my second evening we ventured to this little Italian restaurant called Cipello's tucked in behind some dilapidated buildings (a description apt for a large number of structures in Moresby) and I went all out with a half-half prawn and something vego (can't remember because the prawns rocked my world!) pizza. De-lic-ious! Or delizioso if we're being technical. (The ten years I spent learning Italian has been unusually helpful learning Pidgin - I never learnt grammar at school so pronoun/verb/noun/preposition combinations have made much more sense.)
Leading up to my departure for my new island home, I hadn't given much thought about what I would do to celebrate my birthday. Admittedly it was probably an intentional avoidance more than anything. But after lamingtons, ANZAC bikkies and a free spin class at the Holiday Inn (my first cycle class ever - was thinking of you choc-chip cupcake, Pip) I thought my birthday couldn't have been any better. Oh, yes and a phone call from my Daddy. Who I had to remind that yes, today is the 25th Feb... But then Geoff, George, Kate, Meagan (the three latter also volunteers from Aus) and I went for dinner at The Point - a Japanese/Vietnamese/Chinese restaurant. Again, the food here was amazing - maybe even better than the Wembley Food Court... All for ~50 kina (~A$25) including drinks.
Lesson 2: Don't ever challenge a PNG local in a pizza-making comp. You'll lose. Especially if you don't have prawns the size of tennis balls.
My last day of language training actually began at the War History Museum. And with PNG-time coming into full effect (similar concept to Broome-time) the owner decided that yeah, he might open just a little later today. Or maybe not at all. Who knows. So instead we trundled up the road in our faithful taxi which resembled something like a car - they call it a car, but in Aus you might just pass it for scrap-metal. Coming up on the horizon like an oasis in the desert was Parliament House. Now, Larry look this one up! The architecture is AWEsome!! Designed encorporating the main regions in PNG it was visually very tasty indeed!
The only thing to eclipse this structural masterpiece was a gigantic long-beaked, Sulfur-crested Cockatoo by the name of Cocky at the Moresby Botanical Gardens. And I met a pukpuk (crocodile) and finally lay my eyes on a kumul (bird of paradise) after painstakingly following any bird noise on the Kokoda track. The only bird that came within even cooee of us on the trek was 'apparently' a rifle bird... Twist, I can see you mimicking Reginald as I type this. :)
Friday evening Geoff moved into his new residence and we celebrated by having, guess what - pizza! And red wine. A luxury I was certain I was leaving behind with the shores of Australia! Meeting Geoff's work colleagues was a laugh and a half. There being two other Liz's already in their midst, I was soon appropriately named 'Eli-tree' = Elizabeth Three. Lots of red wine was drunk, maybe too much in fact and promises to wake early to play in a sports carnival the next morning were made. My ears pricked and my eyes widened with the promise of Netball. In the end they were responding to me like a parent would respond to excited kid on Christmas eve - yes, Santa is coming and YES you CAN play Netball tomorrow. That was the end of me. I was dying to get to sleep so I could wake up and get out on court!
An 8:00am pick-up from my compound, the Comfort Inn - my home for the past week, couldn't come quick enough. Joggers on, water bottle packed and sunscreen lathered, we head for the Sports Stadium. Hundreds of nationals teem into this comparatively impressive building. If skin-colour wasn't going to be a giveaway that perhaps I was the odd one out, then the fact I was taller than the whole group (by easliy a foot) would be a dead giveway. A few official speeches into a microphone that surely must've worked at some point, but not today, the whole stadium were on the feet giggling to a group warm-up exercise to the Frère Jacques tune with a tropical, fruitty twist.
Before I knew it we had finally made it courtside and once I had clarified that no, bibs are not available (or seemingly necessary?) the whistle blew. The centre circle was possibly two meters wide and the goal circle was half its usual size. At this stage I hadn't quite figured out why it smelt like I was in a machinery shed until I looked at my joggers. Two things: 1, that I was wearing them (the only one on court not barefoot or running in thongs!?) and 2, the court lines were in fact marked with engine oil. De-lightful.
If the sun and heat were't enough to kill me, my little GA opponent probably would've. Her little oil-soaked feet were the culprits to my quickly blackened shoes. It crossed my mind that perhaps I should take off my shoes and get amongst but I didn't fancy stepping on the chunks of concrete from a nearby building which were scattered accross the semi-dirt, semi-grass court.
Lesson 3: Don't bring your ego to Netball. PNG girls can shoot. 100% accuracy from anywhere in the circle. And they don't mind letting you know who's boss either. Oh, and leave your shoes at home.
Never would I have thought that I would have been out nightclubbing Moresby. But, here I was meeting up with two other AYAD volunteers from Perth to head out to the prestigious Lamana Gold Club. And what an experience that was. The AYAD volunteers have two-way radio's with direct communications to security guards, who among other things, act as their chaffeurs - taxi's don't operate after 6pm because it is too dangerous for them to drive around. So as I clamber aboard this ultra-air-conditioned bus with equal number of guards to passengers we head away from town. Lamana was like nothing else in Moresby. Highly polished marble floors, beautiful wood reception counters, dazzling light fittings and a grand entrance to boot. The club is out the back, round the corner, down some stairs, through a narrow doorway, past the pokies, through all the nationals and quasi-national ex-pats out into an open-roof, multi-stages, pyrotechnics dream!
After being told it is the 'place to be', I was soon informed that the PM's daughter was standing right behind me and the captain of the national rugby team was only a conversation away - not that you could have missed the sheer mass of muscle. After witnessing (from a safe distance) three brawls, I counted my belongings and decided to turn it in for the night. The AYAD's hollered their guards and they came-a rocking up the hill to drop me back at my compound.
My hope for a sleep-in Sunday morning was disrupted when I couldn't quite figure out if that phone was ringing in my dreams or my reality. Either way, I drifted back into semi-sleep until my alarm buzzed at 8:00am - I didn't want to miss my Weet Bix fix which would be cut-off at 8:30am. (I have to admit though, Weet Bix just isn't the same in PNG. With real cows milk costing the equivalent of ~A$6, powdered milk is financially the only option.)
Looking at my phone I deciphed a message from Geoff saying don't worry I saved your clothes on the washing machine from the tsunami... I just thought I misread the message until I went downstairs to the commonroom packed full of people watching the breaking news. I had missed that at-the-time vital message from my in-country manager Shupiwe, stating the current tsunami warning.
The potential and pending arrival of this enlarged swell gave us extra reason to head into the hills to Sogeri for the afternoon, a beautiful rural village where I had my first PNG coconut during my initial PNG visit one Sunday in July 2009. Stopping off at a favourite watering hole for the ex-pats, I quneched the thirst with a soda water and satisfied the hunger with a pukpuk kebab... Yep, crocodile kebab! When in PNG...
Lesson 4: Guards with guns are the ONLY answer. Actually, so is powdered milk. That and savouring that latte shouted to you by your boss.
So, for the last few days of this current working week, I have been enjoying an air-conditioned environs at the Head Office of the PNG Tourism Promotion Authority in Moresby-town. The lifts are tempramental and the power gets cut of on average twice a day (three times today already) but everyone in the office is so lovely and welcoming. They've actually given me two desks to spread out in and read through their marketing plans and tourism projects. I had some really great feedback from my boss in Moresby - who I met for the first time yesterday, and my role out in Kokopo is looking even more exciting and amazing by the minute!
If I haven't convinced you to come live in PNG, then you are more than welcome to come visit me on my tropical island! Everyone I meet continues to tell me (it has actually become a personal joke now) that Kokopo (or Rabaul as it was known - before the volcano swallowed it in 1994) is the most beautiful place in PNG. Oh yes, aside from the possibility of the volcano/es erupting...
Lesson 5: Kokopo is heaven on Earth. Apparently. But I will keep you posted. Or, I'll lie so you'll come visit me anyway.
My flight from BNE to POM was relatively peaceful. Aside from of course the air hostess burning holes into my skin at the sight of my somewhat cumbersome ukulele she now had to find space for in the overhead luggage compartment. Devising a colourful but fictional story as to why my treasured instrument could not be subjected to the under-carriage storage where other mere common-folk-instruments dwell, seemed to keep her satisfied. Or dumb-founded. Or simply annoyed. Either way Luke the Uke got to travel first-class.
My days last week were filled with Tok Pisin language training with a warm-hearted local from Simbu called Egma. Such a delight she was to be around that I wanted to take her with me to Kokopo. She might've just fit in my suitcase too! My fellow AVI volunteer Geoff (who will be working for the Media Council here in Moresby) and Egma sung me Happy Birthday in Tok Pisin and the Gods must've known it was my 'taim mama karim yu' because we got lamingtons for morning tea... and then ANZAC bikkies for arvo tea!
Visits to the bank (waiting in line for a total of two hours only to find I couldn't open an account anyway!), obtaining a PNG drivers licence, meeting officials at the Aus High Commission, having to buy ANOTHER mobile (both phones I bought don't accept PNG simcards) and learning the ins and outs of Cholera, AIDS, Malaria and other fun diseases plus other local sight visits kept me busy... And that was in the first 48 hours of being in Moresby!!
My first market visit was all but tame. I managed to thoroughly offend a local lady trying to sell me these sausages that can only be described as milk carton sized lumps of highly processed meat in a tight, almost fluorescent pink skin. Yum!? I guessed they were a close relative of the good ol' frankfurter and when I tried to explain in my broken Tok Pisin that in Australia that they are much smaller and are more of a red colour 'like your pants' she then huffed and crossed her arms. Luckily her two daughters giggled and explained to me that I in fact was referring to her under-pants not her trouser-pants...
Lesson 1: Avoid describing peoples 'pants'. Death by fluorescent pink sausage imminent.
The other thing I have learnt is that PNG-er's make a mean pizza! Yeah - go figure? On my second evening we ventured to this little Italian restaurant called Cipello's tucked in behind some dilapidated buildings (a description apt for a large number of structures in Moresby) and I went all out with a half-half prawn and something vego (can't remember because the prawns rocked my world!) pizza. De-lic-ious! Or delizioso if we're being technical. (The ten years I spent learning Italian has been unusually helpful learning Pidgin - I never learnt grammar at school so pronoun/verb/noun/preposition combinations have made much more sense.)
Leading up to my departure for my new island home, I hadn't given much thought about what I would do to celebrate my birthday. Admittedly it was probably an intentional avoidance more than anything. But after lamingtons, ANZAC bikkies and a free spin class at the Holiday Inn (my first cycle class ever - was thinking of you choc-chip cupcake, Pip) I thought my birthday couldn't have been any better. Oh, yes and a phone call from my Daddy. Who I had to remind that yes, today is the 25th Feb... But then Geoff, George, Kate, Meagan (the three latter also volunteers from Aus) and I went for dinner at The Point - a Japanese/Vietnamese/Chinese restaurant. Again, the food here was amazing - maybe even better than the Wembley Food Court... All for ~50 kina (~A$25) including drinks.
Lesson 2: Don't ever challenge a PNG local in a pizza-making comp. You'll lose. Especially if you don't have prawns the size of tennis balls.
My last day of language training actually began at the War History Museum. And with PNG-time coming into full effect (similar concept to Broome-time) the owner decided that yeah, he might open just a little later today. Or maybe not at all. Who knows. So instead we trundled up the road in our faithful taxi which resembled something like a car - they call it a car, but in Aus you might just pass it for scrap-metal. Coming up on the horizon like an oasis in the desert was Parliament House. Now, Larry look this one up! The architecture is AWEsome!! Designed encorporating the main regions in PNG it was visually very tasty indeed!
The only thing to eclipse this structural masterpiece was a gigantic long-beaked, Sulfur-crested Cockatoo by the name of Cocky at the Moresby Botanical Gardens. And I met a pukpuk (crocodile) and finally lay my eyes on a kumul (bird of paradise) after painstakingly following any bird noise on the Kokoda track. The only bird that came within even cooee of us on the trek was 'apparently' a rifle bird... Twist, I can see you mimicking Reginald as I type this. :)
Friday evening Geoff moved into his new residence and we celebrated by having, guess what - pizza! And red wine. A luxury I was certain I was leaving behind with the shores of Australia! Meeting Geoff's work colleagues was a laugh and a half. There being two other Liz's already in their midst, I was soon appropriately named 'Eli-tree' = Elizabeth Three. Lots of red wine was drunk, maybe too much in fact and promises to wake early to play in a sports carnival the next morning were made. My ears pricked and my eyes widened with the promise of Netball. In the end they were responding to me like a parent would respond to excited kid on Christmas eve - yes, Santa is coming and YES you CAN play Netball tomorrow. That was the end of me. I was dying to get to sleep so I could wake up and get out on court!
An 8:00am pick-up from my compound, the Comfort Inn - my home for the past week, couldn't come quick enough. Joggers on, water bottle packed and sunscreen lathered, we head for the Sports Stadium. Hundreds of nationals teem into this comparatively impressive building. If skin-colour wasn't going to be a giveaway that perhaps I was the odd one out, then the fact I was taller than the whole group (by easliy a foot) would be a dead giveway. A few official speeches into a microphone that surely must've worked at some point, but not today, the whole stadium were on the feet giggling to a group warm-up exercise to the Frère Jacques tune with a tropical, fruitty twist.
Before I knew it we had finally made it courtside and once I had clarified that no, bibs are not available (or seemingly necessary?) the whistle blew. The centre circle was possibly two meters wide and the goal circle was half its usual size. At this stage I hadn't quite figured out why it smelt like I was in a machinery shed until I looked at my joggers. Two things: 1, that I was wearing them (the only one on court not barefoot or running in thongs!?) and 2, the court lines were in fact marked with engine oil. De-lightful.
If the sun and heat were't enough to kill me, my little GA opponent probably would've. Her little oil-soaked feet were the culprits to my quickly blackened shoes. It crossed my mind that perhaps I should take off my shoes and get amongst but I didn't fancy stepping on the chunks of concrete from a nearby building which were scattered accross the semi-dirt, semi-grass court.
Lesson 3: Don't bring your ego to Netball. PNG girls can shoot. 100% accuracy from anywhere in the circle. And they don't mind letting you know who's boss either. Oh, and leave your shoes at home.
Never would I have thought that I would have been out nightclubbing Moresby. But, here I was meeting up with two other AYAD volunteers from Perth to head out to the prestigious Lamana Gold Club. And what an experience that was. The AYAD volunteers have two-way radio's with direct communications to security guards, who among other things, act as their chaffeurs - taxi's don't operate after 6pm because it is too dangerous for them to drive around. So as I clamber aboard this ultra-air-conditioned bus with equal number of guards to passengers we head away from town. Lamana was like nothing else in Moresby. Highly polished marble floors, beautiful wood reception counters, dazzling light fittings and a grand entrance to boot. The club is out the back, round the corner, down some stairs, through a narrow doorway, past the pokies, through all the nationals and quasi-national ex-pats out into an open-roof, multi-stages, pyrotechnics dream!
After being told it is the 'place to be', I was soon informed that the PM's daughter was standing right behind me and the captain of the national rugby team was only a conversation away - not that you could have missed the sheer mass of muscle. After witnessing (from a safe distance) three brawls, I counted my belongings and decided to turn it in for the night. The AYAD's hollered their guards and they came-a rocking up the hill to drop me back at my compound.
My hope for a sleep-in Sunday morning was disrupted when I couldn't quite figure out if that phone was ringing in my dreams or my reality. Either way, I drifted back into semi-sleep until my alarm buzzed at 8:00am - I didn't want to miss my Weet Bix fix which would be cut-off at 8:30am. (I have to admit though, Weet Bix just isn't the same in PNG. With real cows milk costing the equivalent of ~A$6, powdered milk is financially the only option.)
Looking at my phone I deciphed a message from Geoff saying don't worry I saved your clothes on the washing machine from the tsunami... I just thought I misread the message until I went downstairs to the commonroom packed full of people watching the breaking news. I had missed that at-the-time vital message from my in-country manager Shupiwe, stating the current tsunami warning.
The potential and pending arrival of this enlarged swell gave us extra reason to head into the hills to Sogeri for the afternoon, a beautiful rural village where I had my first PNG coconut during my initial PNG visit one Sunday in July 2009. Stopping off at a favourite watering hole for the ex-pats, I quneched the thirst with a soda water and satisfied the hunger with a pukpuk kebab... Yep, crocodile kebab! When in PNG...
Lesson 4: Guards with guns are the ONLY answer. Actually, so is powdered milk. That and savouring that latte shouted to you by your boss.
So, for the last few days of this current working week, I have been enjoying an air-conditioned environs at the Head Office of the PNG Tourism Promotion Authority in Moresby-town. The lifts are tempramental and the power gets cut of on average twice a day (three times today already) but everyone in the office is so lovely and welcoming. They've actually given me two desks to spread out in and read through their marketing plans and tourism projects. I had some really great feedback from my boss in Moresby - who I met for the first time yesterday, and my role out in Kokopo is looking even more exciting and amazing by the minute!
If I haven't convinced you to come live in PNG, then you are more than welcome to come visit me on my tropical island! Everyone I meet continues to tell me (it has actually become a personal joke now) that Kokopo (or Rabaul as it was known - before the volcano swallowed it in 1994) is the most beautiful place in PNG. Oh yes, aside from the possibility of the volcano/es erupting...
Lesson 5: Kokopo is heaven on Earth. Apparently. But I will keep you posted. Or, I'll lie so you'll come visit me anyway.
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