Beyond the Coral Sea: Travels in the Old Empires of the South-West Pacific. Michael Moran

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      ‘No, but I almost ended up under the wharf. That disabled boy tried to push me in.’

      ‘Oh, he’s harmless, a sweet child really. Tomorrow you go to Kwato. The pastor is coming in the morning to take you over.’

      ‘Great. Look, I’ve bought a few beers, Wallace. Let’s have one and you can tell me about that Englishman.’

      ‘Oh, him! Not much to tell.’ He grimaced as if I had prodded a painful injury.

      ‘He came to Samarai like they all do for a few days, but stayed on. He decided we could restore the guesthouse and went back to England to get the money. Work began and the scaffolding was put up. I built a dancing area in the traditional style.’

      ‘Yes, I saw it. Beautiful local carving on the posts and boards under the roof.’

      ‘Beautiful, yes. But I only used it once. He was an alcoholic and ran up debts everywhere.’

      ‘I had an Irish business partner like that. He drank all the profits.’

      ‘Well, then he left, disappeared into thin air taking what was left of the money with him. I had huge bills to pay. Electricity, workmen. It broke me.’ I began to understand why the whole building was surrounded by old, bleached scaffolding. Time had stopped for Wallace as it had for Mrs Havisham.

      ‘Did you tell the police?’ The moment I asked the question I realised it was ridiculous out here.

      ‘The police? They aren’t interested in things like that.’

      ‘Yes, but …’

      ‘He’s being sought in London. He’s thought to be in Thailand.’ The story had the faded, melancholic glamour of a sepia print.

      ‘He sounds a typical predator. Islands attract them.’

      Dinah was preparing dinner and the table had been set with more bright green cordial and chicken, taro and pineapple. I poured a glass of pure, chilled rainwater.

‘Is there any local music?’ Mercifully, I had not heard any recorded music in the villages of East Cape, just distant garamut¹ drumming. The silence was inspiring.

      ‘Oh, yes! Music! That’s what I should be playing during the dinner.’

      Depression had caused him to forget the past pleasures of hosting guests. Standards had slipped following the Englishman’s betrayal years ago.

      ‘My daughter is a singer. She’s made lots of tapes. I’ll get the recorder.’

      He returned with an old recorder that had suffered the ravages of high humidity. The volume was either deafening or scarcely a whisper. Only one speaker was working. The songs were commercial and South Pacific in flavour, but professionally produced. The voice was very musical.

      ‘She calls herself “Salima”, which in Suau language means “canoe float”.’

      ‘Does she live on Samarai?’

      ‘No. She’s in Port Moresby now. All the young people leave the island to find work. My wife left too.’

      Again he appeared to be wrestling with terrible dejection and unseen demons. The light went out of his eyes. He returned to playing patience. I battled with the volume control, not wishing to destroy the silence of the island night.

      I had almost finished dinner when the two government officials returned from their seminar. They nodded towards me and padded upstairs. I had noticed with surprise their tiny travelling cases on the chairs of their open rooms. They rapidly caught up to my stage of dinner and introduced themselves as Napoleon and Noah. One was from the Sepik, the other from Morobe Province.

      ‘What’s the subject of your seminar to the councillors?’

      ‘Standing Orders. We need to explain the basis of the Westminster parliamentary procedure.’

      ‘My goodness, that must be quite a task.’

      They glanced at each other suspiciously, sensing criticism.

      ‘They’re intelligent men. Serious men. The problem is just one of language. You know there are over eight hundred languages in our country. Explaining the concepts behind the English procedure is most difficult. Old English is a strange language for us. Standing Orders are supposed to make parliamentary business easier but in our culture … more difficult … some concepts mean nothing to these people even in Tok Pisin. Independence came before we understood how the system worked.’

      They both looked dark and fierce with an almost excessive masculinity, as if it was my fault, then they smiled. Such extremes.

      ‘We’re having a party to celebrate the end of our mission tomorrow night at the Women’s House on the hill. You’re invited. And you, too, of course, Wallace!’

      He was gathering in the flaccid cards as he thanked them, pleasure struggling up to the surface. The officials rose quite suddenly from the table and headed off to the evening session at the hall. Another hand of cards fluttered down. Wallace turned to me.

      ‘They always stay here, the ministers. Soon I will redecorate the entire hotel.’

      He looked around the flyblown walls, the stump of his arm more than symbolic over the cards.

      ‘I plan a stylish refurbishment here. God will bring the cruise ships. Thousands of tourists will visit Samarai. You’re just the first of a great wave.’

      I switched off his daughter’s music. Mass tourism on the scale of Fiji or Vanuatu is an impossible, even undesirable dream on Samarai. The situation seemed ineffably melancholic.

      ‘I’m sure you’re right. Well, I think I might go to bed, Wallace. Could you switch on the water pump?’

      ‘The pastor will be here in the morning. Everything will be fine.’ His voice trailed away as I climbed the bare stairs.

      The air in the bedroom was hot and thick. Garish streetlamps lit the window covered by a thin curtain printed with a tropical landscape hung upside down. I switched on the fan and went for a shower. Huge cockroaches crawled up from the drain but fled as the water fell. I pulled the string that promised hot water but with no result. A blessed coolness bathed me, the effect remaining for a full two minutes. I was slightly worried about being unable to lock the door and decided to sleep with my passport and wallet under my pillow.

      I had felt insecure about my personal safety and possessions ever since my arrival in Papua New Guinea. There is something in the air that combines with the menacing expression in the male Melanesian face that is unsettling to a European. The dark and brooding sensibility of the men in particular, creates an ever-present feeling of threat. I felt my presence was tolerated but deeply resented. Smiles shielded a deeper animosity; an ancient impenetrable psyche lay behind those dark eyes. I was not wanted here, the past was resented and there was jealousy of my imagined riches. Covetous glances settled on my belongings. Serious health risks could not be avoided. So came upon me the first temptation to abandon the whole enterprise and return to Sydney. This was to become a common feeling I was forced to fight. Only the СКАЧАТЬ