1 Tsimisan

Ni’han Island, Papua New Guinea

My interest in ethnomusicology was not always rewarded with discoveries that satisfied the purists. In 1974 I met a young lady on Bougainville (Noreen Morrison) who headed up the Bougainville Cultural Services office of the provincial government. At the time I was moonlighting from my psychological duties as a columnist for a local newspaper. My editor sent me to interview the new director. She proved to be a remarkable woman and she spoke for what seemed like hours about her passion: the culture of Bougainville.

I was set to impress her by offering to pass on to her my own recordings of traditional music that I had garnered during visits to various villages around Bougainville and Buka. She had many of her own so we agreed to exchange. I mentioned that I was off to Ni’han Island, an atoll to the north of Buka, the following week and maybe I could record some music there.

I duly flew off to Ni’han. The Marsden Matting strip was only the beginning. The island was a dumping ground for the detritus of the Second World War. Nissan huts, Quonset huts, wrecked vehicles, rusting landing barges, unexploded ordinances: it had the lot.

I visited the island’s priest, a German who had lived there since before the war and had been incarcerated during that conflict.

His presbytery, sensibly built with local materials including bits of ex WWII steel and scraped out bomb containers, stood next to the huge, ugly galvanized iron church, teetering over the lagoon.

His house had two main features, both impressive collections. One was his library. The other was an Everest of empty beer cans that reached from the veranda to the edge the lagoon. He would have a beer and flip the can over the side. The landslide of beer cans sloshed in and out of the lagoon on a daily basis.

I joined him for Mass that evening and, walking into the church, sat on the right hand side. He waddled up and said: ‘Sit on the left, Lansell. The right is only for women!’ So I did.

After ensuring I was correctly classified sexually, I dozed through the mass. After the charade was finished, I joined him for some more SP lagers. I had spent a few days interviewing and testing possible recruits for the mining company. He suggested we go along to a sing-sing the following evening.

‘Will there be traditional dancing and singing?’ I asked, excitedly, thinking: here is my big chance to impress Noreen.

He nodded. ‘We will have tsimisan!’

I nodded, impressed. Tsimisan! Wow: something new to add to the rich artistic traditions of this fascinating country.

I duly went along to enjoy the festivities and tucked in to a mumu: roast pig and taro. Delicious. Oh and I managed quite a few beers.

‘When is the music going to start?’ I asked and got my tape recorder ready.

Where was the traditional band? I looked around but saw nothing promising.

The music eventually started. Instead of a band of exotically dressed dancers in traditional costumes woven from coconut fibers, bomb fragments and the like, one of the men walked over to a 44-gallon drum carrying something wrapped in a cloth. He whipped off the cloth to reveal a wind up gramophone and a collection of old 78 records.

I contented myself with the thought that this must be the warm up music. They had three vinyl records which they played over and over again. The artist? Jimmy Shand and his band.

After what seemed seven hours, I gently enquired: ‘When am I going to hear tsimisan?’

They looked at me sadly.

‘You have been listening to him all night?’

Tsimisan? Jimmy Shand? My heart sank. Not only would I not be able to impress Noreen, Papua New Guinea’s ethnomusicology archives would not gain a major new discovery.

So I had another beer.