Poem: a trilingual experiment by Ruth Kamasungua & Irene Kawakami Gashu

                                                        

THE LEARNER (English Australia)

Tall, short, thin, fat

Young and old

They come in all sizes and shapes

They swarm this place

In the sea of busybodies

Books, books, books

They sink (bury) their heads

In the quick sand

Of knowledge

With great determination

Their thirst never quenched

Nor does knowledge ever end

MAN I KISIM SAVE (Tok Pisin Papua New Guinea)

Longpela, sotpela, bunatin na fetpela

Yangpela na lapun

Ol i kam long kainkain seip

Ol pulimapim dispela ples olsem bi

Buk buk buk

Ol i painim het bilong ol

Long wasan

Bilong kisim save

Wantaim strongpela tingting

Hangere long dringim dispel wara bilong save ino save pinis

Na save tui no save pinis

(Tr: Ruth Kamasungua)

EL ESTUDIANTE (Spanish Argentina)

Alto, bajo, Delgado, gordo

Joven y Viejo

Vienen en todo tipo de tamaños y formas

Arrebozan este lugar

En el mar de ocupación

Libros, libros, libros

Sumergen sus cabezas

En la arena movediza

Del conocimiento

Con gran determinación

Su sed no se apaga nunca                                                                    

Ni el conocimiento termina

(Tr: Irene Kawakami Gashu)

                                                         

The above poem THE LEARNER was written by Ruth Kamasungua.

Exile and the kingdom recalled

Mr. Mike Kuta at the Waigani Campus.

When Albert Camus wrote about the phenomenon of “exile and the kingdom” in the fifties of the twentieth century, he had in mind the plight of individuals ensnared somewhat in the sentiments of obligation on whether to serve the self or the establishment of which they were part. There is a strange sort of pull in this, towards the philosophical arena of whether one is part of a group or not.

But Camus did offer some options for the mind that may be curious. Either serve the kingdom or be done with it all.

That philosophical brooding, looked at closely, simply means that one can either be part of that crowd that believes (for example, in the existence of a nominated deity) or does not. Thus, the endless debates on whether there is God or there is not, whether one is a scriptural being or a scientifically evolved one, and so on.

Whatever the situation, and in the final analysis, and this is where Camus excels as a literary artist and philosopher, the choice is absolutely that of an individual’s. We are free to make choices for ourselves.

On the subject of freedom of choice, Camus’ contemporary, Monsieur Jean-Paul Sartre, had this to offer. Feel free to choose what you want to do. But do so with commitment and responsibility. Here, of course, we are reminded of that oft-quoted Sartrean phrase, “Man is condemned to be free.”

And so the philosophical rigmarole of the hours drones on, as endless as time itself can contain it. Now when we translate all that Western philosophical jargon into our own PNG setting what do we have? Choices abound. Indeed they do. Our PMV driver, for example, can change course right in the middle of thick traffic any time he wants to and at will. And we as his faithful clients or passengers render support because that is the PNG way of doing things, especially in cities or predominantly urban areas. 

No so in the rural areas. There they think differently. Thus, if our PMV driver (and assuming by PMV we mean personal mind valuation) along with us, his faithfully and worthy clients, found himself conducting similar antics in the village of which we would all be familiar, the reprimanding encountered by the villagers there would be enormous. The driver along with his passengers would be posing as total strangers to that environment, more as intruders than guests or visitors. When that feeling of difference became visible we would automatically consider ourselves as “outsiders” in Camus’ sense of the word, albeit the same sort of meaning as the word “exile”.

A feeling of “exile” comes about when one feels unwelcome, isolated and abandoned simply because one’s conduct and behaviour differs considerably from the norms accepted by the majority. It is the same sort of feeling that enables man to take a different direction once in a life time. And in that change of direction he finds himself doing great things, achieving so much which he would not have done in his former setting. But all that has to start somewhere, such as learning and adapting to new rules, new codes of conduct and most importantly making new friends along the way.

Thus, an isolated geographical setting such as Paiamanda or Kepa villages somewhere in the outskirts of Kikori, Erave and generally the southern higher altitude parts of our country, would certainly be the areas where we would feel all the more isolated and exiled. There would be nothing unwelcoming about the people of that area but that our presence and unusual modes of human conduct and behaviour would prove reproachful to them. There things are so well organized, particularly in traditional settings, that our city conduct and manners would warrant rebuke and amendment on the first day of our arrival there. But we would have to conform to such a setting in order to share that wonderful moment of exile with them.

And here’s storyboard’s point for mentioning that area of our country. Imagine finding yourself as a teacher somewhere there. City born and bred what would your reactions be? How would you feel? Exiled, of course.

When a colourful personality like Mike Kuta who comes from that same general area describes life in that part of the world we are awed as much as moved. And as he explains the setting of each village, the location of schools and the simple ways of the people there we get that general feeling that this particular area can be considered one of the most exiled in our country. Some reflections on his life as a simple school teacher serving that area for almost 20 years reveal to us the meanings of the words exile, abandon, isolation and neglect. In his classrooms or what appear to be so we see images of traditionally attired adults having just interrupted themselves from work at their kaukau gardens to listen to this man tell them about school. Some come with offerings of kaukau and kumu and that seems to be all: you cannot find tea or sugar, rice or tinned protein there. But they are all happy, content. And yet so much isolated and exiled.

Mr. Kuta has certainly done a lot for that are and he must be commended. One of his touching anecdotes is the one about how, at a school close to the Porgera area, which is supposed to be one of the richest areas of our country, he and his pupils are honoured by the presence of a district school inspector who comes to visit but only for a few minutes by helicopter. Amazing. That simply aggravates our sentiments of exile and we have reasons enough to hear our teeth gritting at the thought of this. How can Papua New Guinea do this to us, the simple teachers of the rural areas?

In the end, of course, Mr. Kuta would make a choice of a lifetime for himself. Go to university and that way try to gain enough knowledge and experience to return and start re-building what he had started. There are various schools around that area which had been successfully helped with permanent buildings through his negotiations and hard work.

Mr. Kuta is currently undertaking studies at the Open College, NCD Campus, of the University of Papua New Guinea. During seminars and tutorials of the various courses that he participates in he stands out as the most colourful and wise member of the university community whose populace is dominated by a very young generation of scholars.

Recent graduates of UPNG.

                                                                      

Some finer moments of writing

This article marks a year of storyboard’s appearance as a column in the National Weekender (excluding these blogs). This would certainly call for celebration but as storyboard looks around, the world rather appears grim and desolate.

There are several things that make storyboard feel this way.

First, the loss we feel when we see all our privileges get undone. In literary terms, this means unlearning all that we have learnt throughout the year for no other purpose than to better ourselves in order to look at the world from a fresher perspective. It also means getting rid of the past in order to assume a new meaning in existence. All that, looked at seriously and from a philosophical angle, means precisely our sure progression towards that which needs to be understood and accepted.

Second, the need we see of re-orienting ourselves after that process of unlearning. This simply means accepting things as they are but doing something else more, like explaining these to the minds that are curious.

Third, making do with the new ideas we have adapted and treating them as our tangible moments of reality. These become our points of reference, our goals to strive towards.

Thus, and coming to the point of this article, the very idea of putting thought onto paper.

Now if we have been paying attention to the sentences above we would have noticed that none of the ideas expressed therein are storyboard’s own. They are merely repetitions of ideas first expressed by post-colonial/literary critics such as Spivak and her followers. They believe sincerely that we should do away with what we have learnt such as in the craft of writing and adapt new ways of representing thought and opinion on paper. What they are asking for there is this sentiment of originality. So now you get storyboard’s point.

He has been contributing views and opinions to this column for over a year now and even so does not seem content with what he has done. He sees no point in celebrating anything. And that is the true value and meaning of wanting to be a writer. To be a writer you must be prepared to accept that what you have produced so far is still left wanting in so many ways. And you must never give up trying even if you have no followers at all.

Here are some reasons why storyboard does not feel content with what he had been offering through this column for over a year.

Firstly, we have not succeeded in establishing a writer’s association even though the prospects looked good. It is true that over the years we have talked about such an organization, but that it was often difficult to find the necessary manpower which would commit itself to becoming that organization’s office bearers. This does not mean that we are not capable of forming an association. Point is that we are not committed enough.

Secondly, we lack that self-publishing drive. This means simply coming up with a good manuscript, soliciting the necessary funds to cover editorial and associated costs and then of course finding the publisher to print the finished product. Now there are many who may argue that this not be an encouraging practice in Papua New Guinea. But storyboard will insist that this is the only way to get published in our country. The question of distribution and marketability will have to come later.

Thirdly, we have conducted too few if not no workshops at all in writing which would help us re-charge the batteries for creativity in our chosen fields of vocation: feature writing, poetries and fictions, all modes of writing. Malum Nalu of The National newspaper and storyboard considered this possibility for the young writer (particularly around selected work environments) but this did not eventuate.

Finally, and because we lack that sense of originality as noted earlier, what we write now and which we regard as creative literature, are merely borrowed ideas. We have become stereotypes more than creative writers and that is sad. The list of our shortcomings would go on.

And now to look at the bright side of what storyboard has been offering throughout the last twelve months or so. The reader will probably realize that following storyboard week by week meant that we have indeed been learning the craft of writing all this time. Your best teacher in literature and creative writing is the one who lives and writes by example. Here, let us give storyboard a bow.

However, rather than elevate the man to the point of self-submersion and all that stuff (some people do get carried away), let us pin point those areas where storyboard might have posed as a source of influence on the young writer. The first and obvious one noted is the way language itself has changed in the life of that young writer. The writer became simpler in his choice of words and whatever it was that he wanted to say was clear enough to be understood. Do not try to be difficult. No one will be pleased with you if you do that. If you feel you are an academic then say so in the language that can be best understood by the layman. Otherwise he won’t follow you.

The writer also learnt the dangers of the cut and paste syndrome. Never copy another’s work. This is an important point. Last Friday’s editorial of The National Weekender carried that warning.

The writer, as well, learnt what it means to believe in oneself, to accept that he can write and that he can be marketable. On the subject of marketability a lot of those groomed by storyboard as students of literature and creative writing in their time now boast of being themselves in demand for jobs here and there. That is good to see. But the point worth noting here is that all those lessons learnt were not entirely restricted to the classroom environment. Some of those young journalists outside, we are aware, cannot do without the pages/page views of storyboard nowadays.

But enough palaver. The last twelve months have been good for storyboard. And we do believe that he has proven himself to be a living example of what finer poetry there is, what finer prose there is and what finer moment of writing can be for a Papua New Guinean willing to become a writer. It was worth the trouble after all, those last twelve or so months. And we do, of course, acknowledge our stakeholders for making storyboard ever accessible to that reader who wants to become a writer.

Sandra Kwafen, a third year political science major at UPNG, spares a moment for a few thoughts on paper.

                           

Publish or bust

The bust of John Gunther, the first Vice-Chancellor of the University of Papua New Guinea.

It is always nice to serve one’s society as a chronicler of events, day after day – all that accumulating into several volumes to be stored away in the libraries and archives for the future generations. No matter how small and insignificant a certain occurrence may be, these need to be recorded.

Then you come across that problem or should we rather say that phenomenon of “publish or perish”, but in our case and for this article, at least, “publish or bust.”

Of course, it is not at all annoying or insulting to “bust” somebody – some important personality, for example. In many respects this is always the most fashionable and worthy thing to do.

By “busting” somebody we mean creating a portrait of that important personality through a sculpture representing his head and shoulders. The bust is then placed at a special location where it will serve as a reminder that a given environment we find ourselves in must carry with it a certain air of sanctity about it. We treat such a place with respect and reverence.

Last Thursday 14^th April storyboard had a pleasant conversation with the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Papua New Guinea, Professor Ross Hynes, about the need there is of beautifying the university with, among other items, statues, busts and plaques, all commemorating personalities of importance who have lived and served this important place of higher learning in our country.

In that conversation the following were noted. If there is a statue visible around the campus grounds then the chances are that the onlooker may know who that statue represents without the necessity of going to a library to check for details. That statue may remind a student, for example, how much contribution to the university that personality had done in his or her time. It may also enable a stranger to realize that the place being visited is indeed an important place to be in. It will also help humble that mind which might want to doubt the existence of the university as a place of higher learning at all. But above all, the statue or bust may enable an individual to come up with a thought that he or she is also an important person present there at the same grounds of the university campus.

                                                                     

What prompted storyboard to seek that conference with the Vice-Chancellor was the way we at the university community might be lagging behind in the areas of properly honouring those who have served the university since its inception in their capacity as vice-chancellors, professors, prominent academics and men and women of renown, once upon a time, and at that campus. Surely these men and women deserve some gesture of commendation: a plaque in their honour, a bust or a statue.

                                                                      

The other and much pressing thing that made storyboard want to seek that conference was the way we reacted, as a community, to the passing of Professor Ulli Beier. Perhaps we did not respond quick and timely enough and in a noticeable way. Or perhaps some of us felt that just a few exchanges of emails when first hearing of the news was not enough. But it is true: something more needed to be done, both on short and long term basis.

At the moment all the university can boast of are the portraits of all the previous vice-chancellors displayed in the council room. But even that space will be filled up shortly. And when that happens we shall have that pleasant opportunity of turning to the overwhelming significance of busts and statues around the campus.

Aside from the portraits of the vice-chancellors in the council room the only bust that the university can pride itself in is one of John Gunther, the first Vice-Chancellor. This is displayed at the counter of the periodicals section of the Michael Somare Library. From that convenient spot the bust keeps vigil somewhat on the students poring over books a few metres away. It also poses as an overwhelming presence of the mind that helped start up the university. Other than John Gunther’s none seem to be seen or, speaking fearfully, forthcoming.

But the Vice-Chancellor said something in that conversation that now sets storyboard’s mind at rest. It is part and parcel of university policy that important men and women who have served the university over the years will be honoured with such little items of art work, within buildings and all around the campus, including the botanical gardens, if possible. By which remark we understand and appreciate the fact that this area of both academic and leisurely preoccupation will be included in the university’s current and future budgetary allocations. It will mean a lot of work for the artistic crowd at the campus. But it will be a gracious one at that, where families such as those of John Gunther or Ulli Beier will feel rewarded with the thought that the efforts those who have gone before them were not in vain.

As a result of that conference with the Vice-Chancellor and considering the historical significance of artistic activity such as these storyboard proposed to some of his colleagues last week that a committee be set up to take care of this side of the university’s work. The response received was enthusiastic and it is hoped that membership will extend to those outside the university community as well.

The task of this committee envisioned will be similar to the National Events Council once set up by Peter Barter, but limited to the activities of the academia. However, as storyboard types this he hears a few grunts here and there that such committees usually work in isolation for a while and then dwindle away. But listen again to the drone of the very number coming over to join us.

                            HAPPY EASTER WEEKEND!

Corruption: where it all began

We seem to mislead ourselves with the thought that corruption must be defined in an intelligent manner; and then, once sure what it is, tackled head on.

That mistake we hold strong leanings to when we believe that the word “corruption” is a separate entity altogether and not an inborn thing. We forget that it has been present in our lives the moment we left certain things undone and then found it difficult to undo them – in order to free ourselves from the scrutiny of the authority that approves or disapproves. When we fear the word “corruption” we succumb to its very power of control. Under that spell we find it extremely difficult to redeem ourselves.

So where does corruption really begin?

Let storyboard do a bit of illustration here. When he was seven years old he was sent by his mother to fetch two water melons at a garden house about two hundred yards from the main village. Having collected the melons (and they were heavy) he had to struggle over a wooden fence with them. He could not let go of either one of them nor leave them on the ground while climbing over the fence for the fear of hungry pigs grunting close by. He did what was correct: nurse them and deliver them intact to his mother.

In the process of struggling over the fence one fell and broke much to the pleasure of the pigs. So he was able to take only one home. His mother sliced the melon to the required number of delicate pieces and these were then served to the elders by storyboard’s sisters.

Now the moment of judgement arrived soon after the visiting elders left the village. His mother asked what happened to the other melon. She had to ask that when she noticed that storyboard was not making a move to go back to the garden house to collect the other one, if they were both too heavy to be carried in one trip. So storyboard explained what really happened.

But the crime in all this was the time it took for storyboard to come up with some justifiable explanation of why he was able to manage one when he was indeed asked to produce two. Worse, the explanation came after the mother’s prompting; not before that.

Thus, the moral lesson. When in all our undoing we fall into the habit of needing time before providing an explanation of our mistakes, the mind that needs to be rightfully informed of our weaknesses feels vanquished. And if that mind happens to be someone we love then that little moment of misgiving on our part becomes unforgivable. It will thenceforth take years to undo.

This illustration we can regard as the origin of the word “corruption”. You will be mindful of a seven year-old’s inability to manage two heavy objects over a wooden fence. You will also be mindful of a mother’s anxiety in seeing just one melon provided when she had previously prepared two at the garden house for the guests. Wherever the scales of justice finally fall there is no denying that corruption had seeped its way in, into the consciousness of these two individuals. The demands of accountability, therefore, rule the day – for both parties.

Papua New Guinea as a young country went through a similar process from the sixties and seventies, trying to inch its way into the arena of global politics that demanded self-rule. There were rules in place; requests hinted upon; and activities carried out to warrant its status as a community of a people ready to govern itself. Its public service apparatus in particular was a worthy tool which a new and independent government would depend upon in order to implement and execute new policies.

What all that meant was a faithful translation and if need be re-wording of rules, freshly thought up or borrowed, that would help keep the new nation afloat for several years, at least until the country itself reached some stage of maturity. Within the sixties and seventies, for any government to come into power, it would need an efficient public service which would carry out its orders. When Michael Somare started serving the new nation in his capacity as Chief Minister and later the Prime Minister the demand on the efficiency and workability of that public service machinery was heavy. The Grand Chief himself was particularly vocal about the usefulness of the public service: that without it pulling up its socks the new and independent nation could go astray. And he was right. So where was there room for this new visitor called “corruption”? Even the chief himself would walk to work some mornings to save fuel and energy.

And then, and then, things began going wrong. Everyone was lending a hand in this business of government. An ordinary clerk in this great public service machinery became wiser than expected, most times overnight. Mr. Jones of George Orwell’s Animal Farm went missing suddenly. So who was there left to fear? A new elite was born. And this elite was no longer just attending to the chores of translating the laws word for word for the benefit of the masses but also re-writing the clauses of those laws wherever possible for its own benefit. Now we know very well that in Animal Farm no animal is allowed to sleep on a bed once enjoyed by humans. That would be uncouth. Until, of course, there is a select number that crawls into the mansion in the late hours of the night to rest a tired pot belly on one.

That select number would now go down, correctly, in our chronicles as a fine example of our attempt to define this word “corruption”. Never mind about the troublesome nakimi or tambu lewa (in-law) who comes loitering around your workplace each pay day. He ain’t corrupt. He’s doing the right thing. Nakimi madi, na narimu (Ah, beloved in-law, I’m here to wait for you), etc. Consider the seven year-old boy with the water melons. If he hasn’t yet started promising a pay rise for the whole of the public service for the next decade (because the elections are just around the corner), then he is the one planning a strategy by taking his time to explain where things have really gone wrong. Says his colleague, the well-respected lawyer and academic, “Alas, we are but our own worst enemy.”

A delightful place to be

It’s over three years now since storyboard last taught Literature and Politics. When he did those three years ago, he was standing in for Dr. Steven Winduo who was on a semester’s visiting appointment at the University of Minnesota (US academic year 2007/08). This year, the arrangement is repeated with Winduo on yet another teaching appointment overseas, this time at the Manoa campus of the University of Hawaii.

Every time storyboard takes up this course so many exciting things happen to student and lecturer alike. Both parties find themselves learning something new, something fresh.

But these new experiences happen to be history revisited once all over again. For example, when last storyboard took that course an assortment of recommended reading material from various literary journals revealed that criticisms levelled against Barrack Obama were heavy, that he might never have made it to the White House. But storyboard insisted there and then, in that course, that “Obama will make a fine President”, and this was printed in the pages of the National Weekender that very year (semester one, 2007). Today such criticisms against the US President remain just as heavy, mainly those stemming from the “deal to extend the Bush tax cuts” and the passing of health care laws – but what matter, if, in the final analysis, it is noted that the main purpose of courses such as these is to see the realities that surround the two different entities, namely literature and politics, in their peculiar moments of collaboration that enable men and women either gain power and control or lose them. 

Further, what seems so exciting about these literature courses is their inevitable venture into the territories of other courses and academic disciplines for no other purpose than to form alliances and partnerships with them in an endeavour to better explain the complex world that surrounds us. And that they do so quite often successfully.

But Obama and global politics aside, we come back home to our own environment, to the arena of the realization that our versions of the terms literature and politics do not differ in as much as retain their significance as worthy partners in achieving those goals that will remain unsurpassable. Was literature really responsible in Papua New Guinea’s fight for political independence from Australia? That question asked today remains as resoundingly significant as when it was first asked over forty years ago. Of course both teacher and student will agree that Papua New Guinea would be one of the few countries in the world that gained its political independence from a colonial power through the influence of the written word.

By the influence of the written word we mean those little things we call poems, plays, short stories, myths and legends, oral histories, proverbs, anecdotes, jokes and cartoons, and even novels, autobiographies/biographies and memoirs. Then of course there is the requirement of not dwelling so much on what the lecturer says in the classroom but also going out to see, to listen to, witness and record, then come back and talk about it all. These also form the main areas of enquiry in courses such as Literature and Politics.

That said, within a few weeks of familiarizations with this course, a second year major in Literature and English Communication had this to say by way of first impressions:

“Apart from books [and reading material prescribed and recommended for us we notice as a point of relevance that] the media also, especially Post Courier and National, [has] given space for writers to comment or criticise strategic people in the government to do the right thing. The whole point of this is because they know there is more to this land than what meets the eye. If PNG is an island floating on a sea of oil and yet the standard of living is not improved then there seriously needs to be some outcry; but the question is, can Literature and Politics really be a place of influence? Does it have the power and influence that is stronger than [anything else] in this twenty first century? If it is then it’s a delightful place to be.”

And so on, back and forth, in their first essay, trying to work out what the course is about. Towards the end of the semester it is envisaged that the student will have picked up enough material by way of knowledge that will enable him or her, upon graduation, to get a job in the outside world. But the emphasis to this course, as with the other literature courses, lies in the amount of written material read in a given semester.

Here, we turn to the availability or lack of reading material. Now the University of Papua New Guinea, with its limited resources, suffers enormously from lack of reading material. Part of the fault lies in the way the student population handles its own sense of privileges. Books borrowed from the library grow legs and walk off, and that sort of thing. The other and perhaps serious fault lies in the hands of the stakeholders. With the University itself being one of them it probably has some good excuses to offer; that it suffers immensely from severe budget cuts or not enough of it, year in year out. Or that it has so little of it not much is left to spare for the library’s acquisition department to send out orders for more books that are vital for the student population. A literature course usually needs 10 to 15 titles in a given semester to deal with. Those titles are given, certainly; but are there enough copies for ten or so students in a class?

So where or to whom do we turn regarding this particular lack that prevents courses such as Literature and Politics becoming the “delightful places to be”? Just the other day storyboard stood admiring a stone slab that was laid down some 46 years ago and serving as the foundation of the premier university. A few metres down from there is the Michael Somare Library, looking as grim and lonely as ever. Later, in the classroom, a couple of students remarked: “You know, the old man can well afford those expensive lawyers from overseas to take care of him at the court houses. What about us? When will he pay us a visit again?”

                                                                  

Prospects of a high school for Tufi

A man who wants to see a high school established for the Tufi area is Max Forman, the current headmaster of Tufi Primary School. He’s is not quite a dream. It is a need that not only the Kotofu of that area but the education department of Papua New Guinea government must consider.

Tufi is conveniently located between Dogura in the Milne Bay Province and Popondetta in the Oro Province. We say conveniently because it lacks the influences of fringe ideals of modernity in lifestyle and creature comforts such as the two mentioned locations are used to. There, at those locations, the temptation for the young people to go astray is enormous. Access to drugs and manufacture of steam are cultural influences that a new generation can easily succumb to. And again both locations are too far for Tufi to send its children there in order for them to progress further to higher secondary and tertiary schools. Yet it has the potential in producing the best for future generations by way of manpower.

This has been Max Forman’s concern for many years. Tufi does need a high school. It has the population to warrant such an establishment and it proposes to answer the educational needs of itself and its immediate surroundings such as the Wanigela and Maisin areas further south and the Musa and Ewage areas of Oro Bay area, if need be. It has several well established primary schools strewn across and along its most enchanting fjords and idyllic coastline. Schools as much as Church stations remain as clean as when the Anglicans left the shores of Tufi at Independence. But its resort and guest house market for the tourist thrives. Only it sadly lacks a high school.

When a pupil passes primary school the prospects of progressing further to high school look grim and somewhat discouraging because the locations to which these children are required to go might not successfully answer their intellectual aspirations. They need better environment to work in. This, the parents are well aware of. Hence, the choice there often is when only a select few of their sons are given the liberty of going to Popondetta or the Milne Bay Province to pursue higher education while the girls are not.

Max Forman and John Wesley Vaso, along with a few of the pupils at Siu village, contemplating the need of a high school for Tufi.

Max Forman believes that that problem can be overcome. Almost all his colleagues at the surrounding primary and elementary schools and villages agree with him. There must be a high school for Tufi, they insist. His colleagues, both teachers and villagers, include John Wesley Vaso of Uiaku, Jackson Borime of Orotoaba village, Gladstone Javira and Gladstone Aguba of Siu village, Joe Daubi of Jebo E/School, and so on. Aside from talks on the need of a high school for the area, they also mull over a few obstacles that anyone anywhere, parent and pupil alike, would be well aware of. In the end, they conclude, a bargain has to be reached between parent and child: the parent keeps his end of the bargain by paying the school fees while the child agrees to attend to that by going to school.

But they are not alone, this little group of intellectual aspirants anxious to get things done for Tufi and more particularly the children. They have friends who visit them often; friends such as Drusilla Modjeska the writer and Hilary McPhee the publisher. These friends get together once in a while and actually plan the establishment of such an educational institution. They believe in doing things and watching them take shape, even if these will take the next one hundred years. But they are definite plans. Plans the parents of the area must be aware of. Plans the Kotofu of Tufi must agree to and approve of.

One of the positive strategies put forward by this group of friends is raising funds here and overseas which can cater for scholarships for children who pass primary or who are still at primary. With these opportunities made available the need for a high school closer to home becomes urgent. This also enables potential stakeholders to join in and participate. By stakeholders one would have in mind AusAID, the PNG Education Department, Oro Provincial Government and so on. Then of course an eye cast at the tourist presence for the region would not only appear enchanting but enlightening as well.

By way of an illustration: at the dinner table at Tufi resort one evening a young tourist, an Australian, became particularly vocal about his status as a real estate agent able to move anywhere in the world, and he could well afford to, snorkelling, scuba-diving, fishing, sun bathing, you name it. He’s just come in to Tufi from a brief stopover at the Kimbe resort, on his way home from Thailand and all the other places you name them wow!  Whether it’s Brazil or the Mediterranean he’s been everywhere. Again wow! Question: who pays for all that expensive trip year in year out? And who are the young man’s biggest clients if it is not the Government of Papua New Guinea? After all he’s the real estate agent, ain’t he?

Ever thought of helping people of your own age who are not as fortunate as you are? The tourist pauses, considers the question a bit, and realizes it makes sense. In a moment, and in the company at that table of friends like Modjeska, McPhee, Max Forman, storyboard and John Wesley Vaso he knows he has a certain sense of duty to attend to for places like Tufi. When storyboard along with Hilary McPhee (who has just come to Tufi from Egypt) point out the amount of money wasted in Egypt which should have gone to scholarships and not luxurious indoor swimming pools the young man realizes what is being asked of him: a sense of wisdom.

But you see the glint of hope. The young man might have been looking at the world from the other end of the periscope. When he looks again from our end things will turn out better. Especially for places like Tufi which need a high school.