Rascals

Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea

Port Moresby has a bad reputation. This is sad. I lived there twice from 1970 to 1972 and then for three years from 1980. We were aware of the problems, but nonetheless we enjoyed our stay there. Artistically, musically, theatre wise, it was great for us.

My son Robin started school at Ela Beach Primary School and you could not fault the school for quality. We had good friends. We went out into the country: Sogeri, Kokoda Trail, Loloata and further afield to some of the villages along the coast both east to Kwikila and west to Hood Bay and Lee Lee. In the rural areas we were relatively safe. It was in the city itself that we had to be careful.

Most people I have spoken to over the years think that there is something inherently intimidating about Papua New Guinea’s capital. They have good reason. The city is amongst the top five in the world for murder rate per population, in line with Caracas and Cape Town. Everyone blames the rascals, and again, with good reason.

These rascal gangs began operating in Port Moresby in the mid 1960s as loose groups of poor young men involved in harassment, vandalism, and petty theft. The early gangs aim was to get access to food, beer and cash. By the late 1960's, the gangs became more permanent and engaged in more complex activities.

In the 1970's, the gangs focused on robbery in residential areas. Many more youths—mainly those not wanted in the village—migrated to Port Moresby to join the gangs. It became a calling. Over the years the same pattern emerged in other cities and towns such as Lae and Goroka

In the early 1980's when I returned to Moresby with my family, inter-gang violence was rampant. The similarities between mafia and turf wars were apparent. Some gangs ran black market beer operations, other focused on car theft while yet others gradually involved themselves in drugs.

People continued to pour in to the capital from all over the country. Sadly, employment opportunities for the untrained and often ill educated poor are almost non-existent. Unfortunately people do not ‘make it’. Unemployment exceeds 70%.

What to do? Many joined the gangs. They turned petty crime. They steal your car: mine was stolen twice—once with my son Robin in it. That horrific event occurred one weekend when friends visited. We needed ice cream for afternoon tea. I offered to drive down to the Steamships store in Ela Beach which was very near our house in Koki. Robin wanted to come with me.

I fixed him in to his safety seat and we drove off. When I arrived at the store I drove into the car park and parked the car right at the entrance steps. I turned to Robin.

‘I’ll leave the air conditioner and just pop in for the ice cream. I will only be a minute.’

He nodded. I was longer than a minute. I got the ice cream. When I came out, the car was gone. I was dumbfounded. I was also stricken with the greatest dread one can have: the car—and my son—had been stolen and it was my stupid fault.

How could an old hand be so idiotic as to leave the car running, with keys in it—and a four year old—and expect that, in Port Moresby—all would be well?

As luck would have it, a taxi pulled up. People—all locals, bless them--had seen what had happened and were pointing towards Boroko.

‘They went that way’.

One offered to come with me. He was an off duty policeman, or so he said. We got into the taxi. The road outside Steamships was one way. The policeman ordered the driver to drive against the traffic as quickly as he could. That saved a kilometer of road and I appreciated it. There were hardly traffic jams in those days. As we drove, I prayed desperately and promised god that if I found Robin safe I would never drink again.

We had driven only to the next intersection when we saw a crowd spilling on to the road. We pulled up. There was the car. The driver’s door was open. A body lay on the road, beaten to death.

Robin? I looked frantically around. The crowd opened and an old meri (Papua New Guinean lady) walked out smiling and holding my son. He was nonchalantly nibbling on a packet of Twisties that someone in the crowd had given him.

You can imagine how I felt. We were surrounded by hundreds of smiling, whooping people all glad to have foiled what could have turned into something tragic.

‘We saw the car spin out of control on the corner, saw the white baby in the back and knew something was wrong, so we rushed the car as the driver was trying to start it again. And we killed him.’

‘Thank you for what you did,’ I said, and I meant every word.

Robin was fine. We had many Papua New Guinean friends and for him there was nothing unusual in being surrounded by them. I debated whether to tell my wife the exact details, but as I walked through the door of our home, I broke down.

‘Have a gin and tonic,’ said John thrusting one into my hand.

My promise to the gods was forgotten. We were lucky. Our best friend’s husband and Robin’s godfather (a Papua New Guinean) was held at knifepoint when intruders broke into his house and raped his daughter in front of him, his Australian wife and their three other daughters. Rape was endemic. Horrific. Car theft? You could buy a new car, but if my thief had gotten away? I still turn cold when I think of it.

With all this going on around us, security was tight. All hotels, businesses and ‘upper class’ houses and compounds have high walls with razor wire, electronic security alarms and regular security patrols: the city’s biggest industry.

It sounds terrible, does it not?  Yet those of us who lived there enjoyed it. It is like living with a volcano. You are aware of the danger so you are constantly on the lookout. Heightened tension? A little. More common sense. It is not really as bad as it sounds. Indeed, the violence was more serious for the locals. With locals, serious violence usually accompanied the robbery. Locals tended to resist. With the expatriate, there was more of a sense of: here you are, now piss off! If you robbed an expat and did not harm them, the police did nothing.

They would get involved if there was injury, so the rascals and the expats played a live and let live game. As for the locals, the issue was: police? What police?