by Lucy Palmer
To have been loved and to love.
I pray for the grace to listen to truth,
To embrace the constantly flowing
Source of love within my heart.
I pray that I will live before I die.
26
I dreamed I was standing in a room surrounded by thousands
of tiny notes, tied together with spidery silver threads. A sign
on the blank wall said, These are all the moments, the
chances, and coincidences, every step that led you to Julian.
Quite a few eyebrows were raised when I announced we were going back to Papua New Guinea for a year and that George, Meg and Charlotte would be going to school there.
People asked me whether I was worried about the level of crime or the culture shock, but strangely enough I only ever experienced that sense of displacement when I returned to Australia, where so many aspects of life no longer made any sense.
I remember once taking Nina to see Ros Nougher who had just given birth to her first daughter. She had been home for a few weeks, and was adjusting to the enormous responsibility of having a brand-new tiny baby, April, and a partner who worked full time. When she opened the door, she had the look of many new mothers in the West: exhausted, overwhelmed and dishevelled. We tiptoed in and stayed for a couple of hours, just long enough to see her beautiful baby awake. As we stood at the doorway, saying our goodbyes, I felt enormously sad that I could not stay and help her more.
The same thought obviously occurred to Nina, because as we drove away, she said, ‘Ros is tired. Why is no-one helping her?’
I explained that her husband was working.
‘But where are her sisters, her aunties, her mother?’ Nina pressed.
I explained that they all lived in different parts of Australia and that this was quite normal for a woman in our society. Many new mothers were left to their own devices, and did not receive the tsunami of care and support that many women in Papua New Guinea would have been brought up to expect.
Nina gave a mild snort of disapproval. ‘Someone should be helping her,’ she said.
Like the hotel and hairdressers for dogs that had shocked Susannah Wamp when she visited England, there were moments when I felt ashamed and concerned for the humanity of my own culture. I found it hard to explain to Nina why a woman in such a vulnerable phase of her life had no family around to help her. It troubled me, too, that it did not trouble me; that I saw Ros’s circumstances as normal, and so too stories of post-partum depression and isolation, despite the obvious cost to the quality of a person’s life.
I privately longed to return to PNG, to bask in the support and affection of a caring community. That said, I wasn’t seeing the country entirely through rose-tinted glasses. Living there with Julian had been one thing, but returning alone with three young children presented greater potential risks. However, Madang was a much quieter coastal town than Port Moresby, I reasoned, and robberies and violence were much less common.
Health care was another issue. After my experiences in Port Moresby, I knew that in comparison with Australia the health services across PNG were rudimentary at best. If the children were seriously injured, we would be in trouble; I already knew from Ian that the local hospital in Madang regularly ran out of anaesthetics and had little or no resources for dealing with a life-threatening illness or emergency.
But the children were healthy and I felt confident that I could care for them. Nevertheless, I began to fill a small suitcase with medicines that might not be readily available once we were there.
Everything began to fall into place. Some family friends offered to stay at the farm for the first few months while their home in Robertson was undergoing renovations, and they would also take care of Stig. It was a perfect solution for everyone.
After several frustrating delays with visas and work permits, we finally left for Madang at the end of January 2005. A delighted Ian was at the airport to greet us and take us to our new house.
The university campus was on the edge of town. Like all the staff working there, we were allocated a tiny two-bedroom fibro house, fortunately for us at the heart of a bustling community.
The children started at Madang International School two days after we arrived so that I could begin work. This was not an ideal introduction to their new life, but I had little choice – and I had absolute faith that they would cope, as indeed they did.
I arrived at the office for my first day at my new job to be greeted by the department head, Valia Papoutsaki.
‘Wonderful to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you from Ian,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Okay, we have ten minutes until your first class on international news and research. Here’s the course outline and I’ll catch up with you at recess.’
The classrooms at the university were large, open rooms with louvred windows down each side and creaking fans. I soon learned that if the fans were left on, we could not hear one another, so the only option was to sweat our way through the class. The students wandered in and sat down at old-fashioned wooden desks, surprised by the sight of a new teacher.
I scanned the notes as they settled in. With no time to properly prepare, I was desperately scrambling for ideas. One student sitting near the front had carried with him a copy of that day’s Port Courier with a story on the front page about the war in Iraq. It was as good a subject as any, so I began by asking what they thought about the conflict.
There was an immediate chorus of support for the American-led invasion.
‘The Iraqis have weapons of mass destruction,’ one said.
‘Saddam Hussein is a terrorist,’ said another.
I already knew the political bias of the newspapers in the country from my days as a journalist. I also knew how easy it was to present a very one-sided view of any event. The internet was far from pervasive in PNG at the time, and was still expensive and cumbersome, so I would have to rely on common sense to challenge their strong views.
We started a discussion about who owned the newspapers, who wrote the news and how many war reporters were not being given free access to all sides of the conflict. In a culture where tribal fighting was still a fact of life and inter-clan relationships were bogged down in political complexity, the students immediately grasped that there might be far more to the Iraq war than they had realised.
‘Are you saying that every story is biased?’ one girl asked.
‘A lot of the time in war, yes it is,’ I replied. ‘One job of a journalist is to read as much as possible and to question everything. Don’t believe it just because it’s written down.’
‘Well, how do we know what we read is true?’
‘We don’t,’ I said. ‘But we’re going to try to work it out.’
•••
Returning to full-time work after several years of absence and being back in the realm of journalism, albeit in a role somewhat removed from the everyday news cycle, was exhilarating. It was stimulating to think about world events again and to be focused on something other than domestic life.
I was no longer surrounded by people who were wary of me, wondering whether I was about to burst into tears or nervous about what to say. Living in the centre of the campus, there was always someone dropping in for a chat or to play with the children. The community of students absolutely saved my sanity and, without a grand display, gave me all the support I needed.
•••
Life in PNG was such a far cry from the isolation of the farm and it was wonderful to spend so much time with Ian, my old friend and new neighbour. He was particularly solicitous towards the children, patiently playing chess with George and encouraging the students to do so as well.
I worked every day, teaching journalism and creative writing. I found an old room which could be used as an art studio, and with the help of friends like Stephen and Celeste I began to gather materials from Australia. I even launched a poetry competition with a $100 prize which was donated ‘from the est
ate of the late Julian Thirlwall’ – it was fantastic to see the outpouring of creativity among the students and I felt so privileged to be part of that.
When possible, I took the children travelling during the holidays. Papua New Guinea has so many extraordinary, unspoilt destinations and I was up for as many experiences as we could afford.
‘You took the children to so many dangerous places,’ someone commented later.
‘Well, I wanted some adventures,’ I said, ‘so they didn’t really have much choice.’
•••
Julian had often talked of exploring by dugout canoe the mighty Sepik River near PNG’s western border with Irian Jaya, but he never got there. After weeks of research – where to stay and what to do – the children and I boarded a tiny aircraft run by the Missionary Aviation Fellowship and headed into the wilds.
The river twisted beneath our tiny plane like a lazy brown serpent. Wisps of smoke, just discernible, rose up from the roofs of thatched village houses clustered along the water’s edge.
Our young pilot, Bartholomew, occasionally turned and grinned at the children in the seats behind, their small white faces already bathed in sweat as they gazed in fascination at the view below. Meg was clutching a small white bear.
‘Ambunti. Em I stap we? Where is Ambunti?’ I shouted into my mouthpiece.
Bartholomew pointed ahead and I could see the gleaming corrugated-iron roof of a church. As we descended I could see a lone man standing up in a long dugout canoe, like a gondolier.
Julian’s forgotten dreams.
‘Why are you crying, Mum?’ asked George.
‘Sorry, darling, I’m fine,’ I said, giving him a hug.
As the tiny mission station of Ambunti came into view, I began to look for the airstrip. On seeing a tiny strip of grass, I wondered how we could possibly land, but seconds later, with a lurching descent, we were bouncing over the runway in a blur of incredible noise.
I could already see several women with small children laying their woven mats under a huge rain tree next to the church – we were being treated to an impromptu market of shells, armbands and bracelets. The children immediately ran to see what they were selling.
Several treasures later, we moved to sit in the shade of the church porch and wait for our host, Robert, to arrive and take us to the guesthouse. Well, that’s what I had told the children. The truth was I had no idea where we were staying that night because, after buying some very expensive and non-refundable tickets, I was told that the Ambunti guesthouse had not been open for two years. I decided, perhaps somewhat recklessly, that we should go anyway.
Word of our arrival must have spread around the mission station because Robert soon arrived.
‘Hello, hello, welcome,’ he said, and shook hands with the children – not formally, like a Westerner, but fondly, enclosing their fingers in his large brown hands and continuing to hold them.
‘Are you from Australia?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is good, very good.’ His smile was infectious.
I asked about the guesthouse and Robert’s face suddenly clouded.
‘Oh, big problem,’ he said. ‘It’s empty, finished.’ He gestured towards a long building. Then he smiled again. ‘I will talk to my brother.’
None the wiser as to what any of this might mean, we walked behind Robert towards the dilapidated guesthouse, where we were ushered into a seemingly abandoned kitchen and offered some warm cans of fizzy lemonade. Crowds of laughing children hung around outside the door, occasionally peeping in.
After a short while Robert excused himself and suggested we might like to look around. We put on our hats and walked towards the river, passing an old man sitting on the front steps of a small house. His torso was covered in tattoos, neat scars which emulated the skin of a crocodile. He beckoned us over.
We sat down and started talking to him. He was interested in where we had come from and what we were doing in Ambunti.
‘And your husband, where is he?’
‘He died,’ I replied.
Without another word, he pulled George towards him and held him in a tight embrace. This complete stranger, whose name I did not even know, began to speak to my son with the most genuine and loving kindness I had ever seen.
‘Oh, sori,’ he crooned, stroking George’s hair. ‘Sori, sori, sori. Papa bilong yu em di pinis. Sori tru. Your father has died, I am truly sorry.’
Not long after, Robert returned with a younger man and asked us to follow him. As we walked around the corner of the building, I could see that the path had been strewn with vivid petals – orange, purple, and the deepest pink. Nearby a small crowd had gathered around the open door of a small leaf house. It was built on sturdy poles and the surrounding lawn had been carefully clipped. A woman stepped forward out of the shade.
‘Welkam,’ she said shyly and gestured for us to go inside.
Four woven sleeping mats had been arranged on the floor and there were more flowers where there should have been pillows.
Robert came in.
‘Whose house is this?’ I asked him.
‘This is my house,’ he said, with an enormous smile. ‘The new Ambunti guesthouse.’
•••
My new boss, Valia, was hard-working and disciplined. She soon dragged me, as she had with so many staff and students alike, into her vortex of energy, constantly encouraging us all to strive for the best we could achieve.
One evening I walked over her house and sat down while she brought me a cool drink.
‘It’s lovely of you to have me over,’ I said.
She looked at me hesitantly. ‘I don’t want to alarm you,’ she began, ‘but there is a very tall man with red hair who is kneeling on the floor beside your chair.’
I immediately felt a sensation of light breath near my face but could see nothing.
‘What’s he doing?’ I said.
‘He’s looking at you with enormous love.’
I sat for a few minutes, basking in this unexpected, invisible gift.
I had already sensed that Valia was no ordinary academic. Even in her everyday remarks about the students she had a rare sensibility and insight that was very refreshing. Unlike other expatriates living in Papua New Guinea, she really did intuitively understand a lot more about the cultural realities facing the students: the presence of sorcery, suspicion and the power of deep tribal connections. So her remark about Julian, while surprising, was not entirely a shock.
‘He’s just asking if it would be alright for him to sit here for a while,’ she said.
I hear your voice murmuring in the hollow of my shoulder, you say I must endure.
A few weeks later Valia invited the children and me for dinner. I went into the house ahead of the children, who were larking around in the garden. I said jokingly, ‘So, do you have my husband with you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he’s sitting there in that armchair.’
When the children came inside, the most extraordinary thing happened. They all ran to the chair she had gestured to and fought and tussled with one another.
‘Hey, there are plenty of chairs to sit in,’ I said, mildly embarrassed by their antics.
They ignored me. George, by far the biggest child, held his own for quite some time but eventually gave in to the more aggressive tactics of Charlotte and moved to sit on the arm of the chair, signalling his own private victory. Meg continued to wrestle with her sister for the coveted spot and, although stronger, gradually conceded defeat and sat on Charlotte’s lap instead. I can see them even now. Gentle George, who marched to the beat of his own drum, thoughtful Meg, who preferred to concede a hollow victory and Charlotte, always competitive and determined to win at any cost. They sat there grinning at me, all triumphant.
Dad’s here, I wanted to tell them. He hasn’t left us.
27
God staggered out of the pub holding a can of beer. ‘What can
I do for you, mate?’ he asked. ‘I wa
nt the town and everyone
that’s in it to be the same again, like it was before,’ I told him.
So God drew a door with his finger and on it, it said REALITY.
George, aged 9
Not long after we returned to Australia from Madang, my dear friend Ros, who had introduced me to Julian, was diagnosed with breast cancer and became very ill for three gruelling years as the disease metastasized into her bones.
Ros had married Kent by this time and had two young children, April and Meri. Every time I thought of going to Brisbane to see her, I dreaded the emotional pain it would inevitably bring. I often felt confronted by my own inadequacies; to remain open and loving while witnessing her suffering was terribly hard but nowhere near as difficult as the path she was on.
Reflecting on my own somewhat cowardly reaction, I also began to understand the fears that had driven people from my side or prompted them to make the same inadequate and insensitive remarks that I was now undoubtedly repeating myself.
I should know better, I told myself.
I knew the importance of spending time with someone who did not have long to live, not chatting about inanities and avoiding difficult subjects, but being truly present. I knew what I had missed in my encounters with people, and yet, at times I struggled to offer that same gift to Ros and her family.
•••
Eventually, with her health deteriorating, I summoned the courage to get on the plane to Queensland with my friends Jo and Meg. We had been talking for some time about recording her life story. Ros, who had been a wonderful journalist, said that she felt she might have done ‘a few interesting things’ that she would like her children to know about. She had wanted to write them a series of letters to open on their birthdays, but her physical pain due to the numerous lesions in her bones had made this task impossible.
The woman I saw before me that day bore little resemblance to the strong vibrant woman I had known and loved for more than twenty years. I sat on the floor at her feet, unable to speak.