2. The Eye of the Eagle

      Final approach to Port Moresby in the dry season is over arid, brown hills bereft of vegetation and a polished turquoise sea. The colonial terminal at Jacksons airport has faded lettering on the fibro huts, the modern terminal a bland feel, new paint already peeling in the heat. An Air Force Dakota without engines lies abandoned on one side of the runway, a reminder of the first commercial flights. The blast of desiccated air as you disembark is like a physical punch, gusts of the south-east trades dry the mouth. Certainly you are no longer referred to as masta as your bags are unloaded. Only one officer is on duty at passport control to process the entire jetload of passengers. Welcome to modern Papua New Guinea, ‘land of the unexpected’.

      Captain John Moresby may have been the first white man the native people had ever seen when he sailed into the harbour aboard the HMS Basilisk in 1873. He spent some time trading with the villagers of the local Motu tribe. He wrote that civilisation seemed to have little to offer this culture. The London Missionary Society were settling in a year later and by 1883 there were five resident Europeans in Port Moresby including the Reverend James Chalmers, a gregarious character who was eventually murdered and eaten by cannibals on Goaribari Island in Western New Guinea. Despite its isolation and absence of road connections, Moresby has remained the capital.

      The taxi driver informed me that the bullet hole in the corner of the cracked windscreen was from raskols – a misleadingly benign Pidgin word meaning ‘violent criminal’. They had attempted to hold him up on the way to ‘Town’, the centre of the city. He was a Highlander with an ambiguous smile somewhere between a welcome and a nasty threat. I began to glance anxiously at passing cars.

‘Wanpela sutim mi nogut tru lon hia. Olgeta bakarap.’¹

      ‘Were you hurt? Did they take your money?’

‘Took everything but I drive away quick. Back at work next day. Mosby em gutpela ples.’²

      This made no logical sense at all to me so I fell silent until we reached the hotel. It was a dusty drive with colourful children and resentful adults crowding the roadsides. There had been a drought for the last seven months. The usual Western corporate signage had been bleached by the savage sun. A car had collided with a truck bearing the company name ‘Active Demolition’. I glimpsed the original Motuan stilt village of Hanuabada, fibro huts replacing the traditional bush materials. A few cargo ships lay becalmed in the port.

A midday stroll among the sterile office blocks, slavering guard dogs and confectioner’s nightmares thrown up by financial institutions did not appeal, so I headed south for Ela Beach, an inviting stretch of sand facing Walter Bay. Trucks cranked past with men crammed like sardines in the back and small PMV³ buses smoked happily by like toys. Seaweed, cans and other detritus marred the shore, but kiosks gaily painted in Jamaican style lifted the spirits. A rugby side were training on the sand, running forward through a line of plastic traffic cones and then suddenly reversing through them. Many who were overweight fell over during the difficult backward manoeuvre but there was no laughter, just embarrassment. Papua New Guinea is the only country in the world that has rugby as its national sport and every aspect of it is taken seriously. Training was interrupted by the capture of a turtle on the breakwater. A long time was spent inspecting and discussing the prize. Some of the boys scribbled graffiti on its shell in luminous paint and then released it back into the bay, fins flapping, neck craning. Training resumed.

      Palm trees with slender trunks curved over the bay in front of international high-rise apartments. I walked past a group of suspicious-looking youths sitting under some trees outside a café and strolled out onto the disintegrating breakwater. A family were competing with each other, skimming pebbles across the surface of the water. The five children, father and mother were screaming with delight at this simple game that seemed to bond them so intimately.

      Visitors are warned by expatriates not to approach, in fact to walk away from groups of youths but I decided to wander over to the cluster beneath the casuarina trees. They were chewing betel nut and spitting the blood-red juice in carefully-aimed jets. They were shocked when I greeted them, but smiled almost immediately. The smile on a Melanesian face is like the unexpected appearance of a new actor on the stage.

‘Monin tru, ol mangi. Yupela iorait?’¹

‘Orait tasol, bikman.² Where do you come from?’ They stood up, even respectfully I thought.

      ‘England. I live in London. My name’s Michael.’ I held out my hand which was shaken softly. They shuffled about looking at the ground, showing signs of amazement by spitting fast red gobbets in the dust.

      ‘And you’ve come here! Do you like our country?’

      ‘Everyone seems pretty friendly to me. What’s your name?’ I asked a boy with the most intense black skin I had ever seen – it was almost blue. He had dreadlocks, perfect white teeth and eyes like an eagle. He appeared highly intelligent, but melancholic shadows fleetingly crossed his features.

      ‘Gideon. I’m from Buka.’ His open face smiled engagingly.

      ‘Really! I hope to go there. I’m visiting the islands.’

      ‘It’s beautiful on Buka, but no work. The Bougainville war destroyed everything. I came to Moresby but can’t get a job. I’ve got my electrician’s certificate.’ The shadows were well established.

‘Mipela ino inap lon bikpela skul,’¹ said a fierce lad with broken, heavily-stained teeth. It looked as though a bomb had gone off in his mouth. He was angry.

      ‘I come from the Sepik. I have no parents and no money.’ He looked savagely at the ground and started violently peeling a new nut.

      ‘Are you all unemployed?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

      They nodded dreamily.

      ‘Don’t you miss your family?’

      Silence.

      ‘I’ve heard that some boys break into houses and steal. Is that true?’ I was living dangerously, considering it was my first afternoon.

      ‘Yes, but they’re not bad boys, sir. We’re not raskols! We need the money to eat. We want to work but we can’t get a job.’

      ‘That’s not really a good reason to steal. You could go to prison. Ruin your life.’

      ‘Corrupt politicians have ruined our country. You don’t see them going to prison.’ Gideon offered this as a challenge for me to refute.

      ‘No one gives us a chance. We’re on the outside looking in.’

      ‘Where are you from?’

      ‘Chimbu.’ The older man seemed to stand apart from the rest and was more deeply resentful.

      ‘Where do you live in Moresby?’

      ‘Are you a priest?’ It was an aggressive answer. ‘Ragamuga. Six-Mile