I'm with the band
‘Skin bilong mi em cookim long sun! Yumi go nau!!’ I ever-so-politely yelped through clenched teeth as we stopped for the fourth time mid-ocean during the heat of mid-day, mid-way between East New Britain and our final destination in Namatanai, New Ireland. I was not surprised when the engine spluttered to a halt 25 minutes into the two hour banana boat ride then having to precariously transfer to another boat in the height of rough seas. And I shouldn’t have been surprised either when accepting a boat ride over ‘with the band’ and their alcohol induced sea-legs. Which I’ve learnt is not so rare for before noon but I drew the line when the lead guitarist demanded the skipper to cut the engine so he wouldn’t have to compete for the stage when he rambled yet another dreadful story.
My skin was lobster red from the salty layer of rapidly evapourating ocean covering me with every wave of motion which only added insult to injury with my comparatively white skin sizzling in the pacific sun. I’d never been so grateful to make it ashore.
Lesson 23: Being a ‘groupie’ doesn’t work on the high seas.
With most of the boys I play touch rugby with being from Namatanai, they had strung together a network of contacts up the Boluminski Highway to pave my journey up the east coast to Kavieng. Against all odds (all bets always off in PNG) I managed to come ashore jump (sane) on a truck across the mountain ridge to the highway intersection then stumbling upon a familiar face, we joined forces to play catch-up with my intended bus already an hour into the journey. Luckily I had chosen a supportive bra that day because the corrugations in the road felt like we were driving along the islands spine, which I guess we kind of were.
With all the passengers having taken refuge under shade of palms along the roadside, it took a good while to repack all the supplies of rice, bananas, buai, babies and everything in between back onto the bus. As is often the case, they generously (and excessively) cleared me the front passenger’s seat which caused an even tighter bulge of boxes along the bus’ aisle. The young driver content that he now had a ‘white meri’ to call his own for the next five hours nearly burst with eagerness when I understood the request made in Pidgin to change the song on the radio. DJ Master I soon became.
(‘Master’ is often a term used to describe a white man, with ‘missus’ being the female equivalent – I must’ve even inherited an extra x chromosome that day!)
Lesson 24: Music is the universal language. It does help if you understand the local tongue a little though.
...to be continued.
My skin was lobster red from the salty layer of rapidly evapourating ocean covering me with every wave of motion which only added insult to injury with my comparatively white skin sizzling in the pacific sun. I’d never been so grateful to make it ashore.
Lesson 23: Being a ‘groupie’ doesn’t work on the high seas.
With most of the boys I play touch rugby with being from Namatanai, they had strung together a network of contacts up the Boluminski Highway to pave my journey up the east coast to Kavieng. Against all odds (all bets always off in PNG) I managed to come ashore jump (sane) on a truck across the mountain ridge to the highway intersection then stumbling upon a familiar face, we joined forces to play catch-up with my intended bus already an hour into the journey. Luckily I had chosen a supportive bra that day because the corrugations in the road felt like we were driving along the islands spine, which I guess we kind of were.
With all the passengers having taken refuge under shade of palms along the roadside, it took a good while to repack all the supplies of rice, bananas, buai, babies and everything in between back onto the bus. As is often the case, they generously (and excessively) cleared me the front passenger’s seat which caused an even tighter bulge of boxes along the bus’ aisle. The young driver content that he now had a ‘white meri’ to call his own for the next five hours nearly burst with eagerness when I understood the request made in Pidgin to change the song on the radio. DJ Master I soon became.
(‘Master’ is often a term used to describe a white man, with ‘missus’ being the female equivalent – I must’ve even inherited an extra x chromosome that day!)
Lesson 24: Music is the universal language. It does help if you understand the local tongue a little though.
...to be continued.
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