Another Fool's Paradise

About Papua-New Guinea

The modern state of Papua New Guinea is the third largest island in the world and part of the Melanesian group in the south-west Pacific region. European traders and explorers had visited the islands since the sixteenth century. In 1884, Germany colonized the northern part; Britain did likewise for the southern part in the same year. In 1905, the south – then called the Territory of Papua – was transferred to the new Commonwealth of Australia as its own colony. Australia occupied the north during World War 1, after which the League of Nations granted a mandate to Australia to administer New Guinea; Papua, in contrast, was declared an External Territory of Australia. Between the world wars, Australia consolidated its colonial administration and introduced the patrol officer – known locally as the ‘kiap’ (pronounced KEY-APP) – as a crucial player in efforts to bring the indigenous population into the modern world. During World War II, some of those officers went to ground, remaining behind Japanese lines as coast watchers – Allied spies of another name. After the war, both areas continued under Australian administration until independence in 1975.

At the beginning of the 1960s – the period in which this narrative is placed – the world was on the cusp of fundamental geopolitical, economic and societal changes: the Cold War near its peak, rumours of new war in Vietnam, Elvis, feminism’s second wave, GATT in its fourth round, the Beatles ascendant, JFK, early indications of HIV-AIDS, black civil rights in USA, pervasive TV, and the so-called 'death' of cinema. Coincidentally, global colonialism was in its last gasps in far-away places: Kenya, Fiji, South Africa, Jamaica, Nauru, Belize, Tanganyika, Democratic Republic of Congo, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Singapore, Sarawak and North Borneo, to name just some. Closer to home and barely one hundred kilometers from Australia’s most northern point, our largest colony – the Territory of Papua-New Guinea (TPNG) – was soon to enter the same process.

At that time, the youth of Australia were becoming more aware of the world beyond their shores; and they were assisted by the current social media influences – Hollywood cinema, rock n’roll and TV. Within that mix, an idealistic and naïve nineteen- year-old (myself) decided to take up a job he’d never heard of before – Cadet Patrol Officer – in a country about which he knew almost nothing – the Territory of Papua-New Guinea.

Arguably, life is never easy anywhere. In TPNG, it was problematic then in ways most young Aussies couldn’t even dream about. Apart from a full range of exotic, deadly diseases and dangerous flora and fauna, by 1961 the country hosted and boasted an expatriate population (of about 20,000) who consumed alcohol at levels that grossly exceeded the total consumption of mainland Australia (then with a population of about 10,000,000). Clearly, it’s an understatement to suggest that such excess allowed greater opportunity and latitude for humanity’s collective temptations and frailties to flourish – in a country where the indigenous people were themselves prohibited by law from drinking alcohol and where the white population necessarily held the political, executive and commercial power.

Such an environment is fertile ground for enticing young men into arrogant, stupid and foolish behaviour; which helps to put the title – Another Fool’s Paradise – into context. In this story, TPNG was indeed a paradise for eager young men to show their mettle; it was also a trap for the unwary, the cocky and the imprudent. It is said that truth is stranger than fiction. Even so, the events and characters herein could have graced pages of classic fiction – particularly stories which exemplified the long history of colonial administrations’ blemishes in Africa, India, the East Indies and Asia.

About My Manuscript

During the twenty years to complete the narrative, I was assisted by the staff at the Queensland State Library with information about Papua-New Guinea, including maps, history, geography, geology, fauna, flora and other data. I finished a first draft in 2004; the second was completed in 2009 during my MA studies with Swinburne University, Melbourne. For two years, until mid-2011, I put it all aside: I’d pitched the story to every appropriate agent and publisher in Australia and the U.K. with no success. I was beginning to think the entire effort had been a waste of time and resources – a view sometimes shared by other aspiring writers about their efforts, no doubt.

Encouragement to continue came from three specific sources: first, my indefatigable partner and wife, Sherry, never doubted that my story was worthy, and should be available to read; moreover, she proofread the finished manuscript. Second, my associate and friend from my time at Swinburne, Nerina Jones, completed the editing of the entire narrative, a task she’d started in 2009. Finally, another Swinburne critical friend, Perry Gamsby, also proofread the manuscript, and provided guidance about online self-publishing. Without that combined help, this story would have never seen daylight.

Special mention goes to the staff of The National Archives and The National Library in Canberra for providing official reports about my time in New Guinea; and second, to those at The University of Queensland, Brisbane, for furnishing copies of all patrol reports I'd written. That data was crucial in ensuring the accuracy of the information about my patrols throughout East New Britain, where I spent most of my cadetship. Any errors and omissions are mine, naturally.

About Myself

After graduating in 1958 with my Leaving Certificate, I first unsuccessfully applied to the RAAF to be a pilot. I then dallied with the idea to study paleontology and archaeology at university but was stymied by the cost to pay for university study. So I took whatever jobs I could to earn a crust: retail, clerking, stuff like that. Dreams of achieving success in academia gradually faded – but were not forgotten – and replaced with a vague, passionate desire to do something different and daring. I knew only two certainties: I wanted to break away from my typically dysfunctional family and do something, well ... unique.

For years, I'd read adventure tales from classic writers such as H. Rider Haggard, Sapper, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, O. Henry, P. C. Wren, A.E.W. Mason, Edgar Rice Burroughs, W. Somerset Maugham and others – all grist for my imaginative mill to help shape my teenage dreams for adventure. Money, however, is always the great leveler. Without it, dreams and desires remain unfulfilled – unless something happens to change that tangle; which, in my case, came in the form of a chance suggestion from a close friend.

Like many young guys in Australia and elsewhere, I encountered many situations in my first real job that were so silly, stupid and embarrassing, I never wanted to think about them again after I resigned in 1966. For nearly twenty years, I effectively blocked it all from my mind. A news report about Papua-New Guinea in the mid 1980s, however, caused me to realize not only did I have unique experiences to write about, most of them were – with hindsight – humorous, even hilarious. On the other hand, some incidents were fraught with personal danger; and the fact I missed injury or death so often simply proved I was immeasurably lucky. I feel sure other cadets at that time had similar episodes during their time, wherever they completed their first terms. My failures and misfortunes were mine alone, however.

Naturally, I came into contact with many real people in colonial administration and commerce, beginning with the other twenty-one cadets recruited at the same time as I. Similarly, I met and mingled with indigenous people, many of whom I got to know as much as one could, given those times. I know that some within those two groups are now deceased. I know that some are still with us. Others are question marks. With that in mind, I decided it would be best to fictionalize all names of people who appear within, except one: Peter Hill, now deceased, a life-long friend and mentor I met in New Britain. This book is dedicated to his memory. All place and geographic names in the narrative, however, are real.

Every scene and event in this memoir is true, according to what I saw, said, heard and did. Some things have been withheld, however: events I couldn’t recall accurately, or those for which I had no notes, letters, photos, diary entries or reports. Moreover, not all recalled or recorded events have been included because that would have made the story too long. Only events that changed me, my thinking and my worldview are in this narrative. Some dialogue – particularly the coarse, abusive and racist language of that time – is verbatim, as much as it is humanly possible to accurately recall and express, after fifty years. Obviously, though, remaining dialogue is constructed in accordance with the event, the environment and the culture, all of which were part of my world at that time.

In sum, this is not a story or history about Papua-New Guinea. It's an accurate and revealing account of an awkward, idealistic youth attempting to adapt to and survive during his first three years as a stranger in a strange land. In doing so, my peers and I were lucky enough to witness, and participate in, the time when TPNG was on the threshold of becoming a nation in its own right. From that perspective, it was indeed a privilege to be associated with that process: we were all young cadets on a grand adventure, never to be repeated.

And so it was that, after a short stint at the (long defunct) Australian School of Pacific Administration (ASOPA) in Sydney, my world changed within a few minutes of landing at Port Moresby in August, 1961. By the end of that very first day, it was patently clear I must adjust to this new and dangerous environment or suffer the consequences.

My education in life had truly just begun.

Roger J Burke

Brisbane

March, 2014.

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

grile (grill-e): ringworm [tinea imbricata]; a dry, scaly skin infection.

haus kiap (house-key-app): a village rest house for any government official, usually patrol officers, medical officers and agricultural officers.

haus win (house-win): a type of gazebo made from local materials and with a thatched roof.

kiap (key-app): any cadet, patrol officer, or district officer.

kaikai (k'eye-k'eye) [or just kai]: a meal; any item of food.

kalabus (kala-boos): a jail or prison.

kulau (kool-ow): a green coconut from which one can obtain a refreshing, clear drink.

laplap (lap-lap): any cloth material; a length of cloth worn around the waist.

luluai (loo-loo-eye): the headman of a village.

mankimasta (marn-key-marstah): a personal servant/cook.

masta (marstah): a white man; an employer; Mr.

tultul (tool-tool): village interpreter.

wantok (one-tock): any relative/family member.

PART ONE: INTO THE CULTURE

CHAPTER ONE

GENESIS

I dare to take on a job in New Guinea; and discover that racism exists in unexpected places. (May-June, 1961)

Well, what d'you think?

As I spoke, I looked at Mum, but she didn't give much of a response. Just sat there, looking perplexed. Dad – small, rotund, balding and florid-faced – was so excited he was doing a credible impression of a Mexican jumping bean.

Oh, what an opportunity, he said, jigging around, this is just the sort of thing I wish I could've done when I was your age. Yes, yes. Go for it. You'll have a terrific time. He glanced at Mum, all smiles, his cigarette smoke illuminated by the late afternoon sun filtering through the old lace curtains.

D'you mean ... nearly two years? Mum looked at me, the realization of what I'd just explained finally hitting.

I nodded.

Her lips turned down somewhat and her face crumpled. She turned her face away. But, why so long a time? What will you be doing? Why ... well ... I just wish you didn't have to go. She looked at me again; her tone was plaintive.

Dad sat and squirmed a bit in his chair. Now, now....

Mum’s look skewered him. Oh, yes. You'd love to go too, wouldn't you? Anything to get away – then you could play chess all day, every day, couldn't you? Aaahhh, sometimes I think you're worse than your father.

I knew Mum never got on with my grandfather; neither did I when he was alive.

Dad flushed a bit as he began to get peeved again, with Mum’s tiresome tirades about his side of the family.

I stepped in verbally to cut off the argument before it started.

Now, look, don’t worry, all of the recruits are about the same age. And, it's not like we're going t'be chucked in by ourselves, all alone. There'll be lots of older, experienced people there too, y'know.

Well, yes … but still .... She didn't look convinced at all. I'll just be so worried about you all the time.

Dad displayed a fleeting exasperation: eyes rolled up, lips down, brow furrowed. Now, dear ... look ... it'll be okay ... RJ will write often, won't you? His gaze flicked to me for confirmation.

I nodded. Look, Mum, this has nothing to do with you or Dad, really. There’s no need for you two to worry about anything; or to fight. Just think of it as an extended holiday for me. Maybe with me away, it'll be a bit of a holiday for you too? I tried to look as cheerful as possible, but Mum's face didn’t respond.

But, you're only just nineteen, she said.

I tried to look manlier, but it didn’t work, not with my slight frame.

Can't you see everything will be alright? said Dad.

She glared at him sourly, got up from the dining table and ‘hrummpfed’ her way back to the kitchen. Dad's eyes followed her, thoughtfully, but he stayed with his cup of tea.

I went into the kitchen where Mum was crying softly into her hanky. Fortunately, none of my brothers or sisters was around, so I gave her a big hug.

She clung to me and fiercely whispered, Oh, please, please be careful. Please come home, RJ. You're such a good boy, she sniffled.

Everybody called me RJ, because when I was old enough to figure out I didn't like my names, I insisted that only the initials be used.

Why do you have to go? Why do you want to go, RJ? Mum's question was insistent and I thought back to how this started. She looked up at me, her eyes and voice pleading.

I hugged her again and considered the twist of circumstances which had brought me to this decision to go and work in Papua-New Guinea. Not long ago, I hadn't even been sure about its location, let alone what it contained. I had a vague idea it was somewhere north, but so are Canada and a lot of other countries. My friends and I had often talked about going abroad, especially Sam who only ever wanted to go to America and who thought anything and everything about America was just the best, but most of the time we talked about going to Africa or India and becoming a big game hunter, or wildlife photographer, or lead safaris into the jungle and make pots of dough off all the idle rich who had nothing better to do. Fred was almost fanatical about Africa, and we kidded him about it a lot. We kidded Sam more about America, actually, and called him Uncle Sam in a sort of nicely derogatory way, sometimes. Papua-New Guinea never came into our conversations as such, although occasionally Fred would talk about a place called Rabaul – which I thought was an island somewhere – where his older brother had worked, at some time, I don't know when. I was slightly interested but that's about all.

So, when Fred grabbed me that afternoon when we were all sitting around at his place, drinking and smoking, and shoved the newspaper in front of my face and practically shouted at me, There, look at that, you should think about doing something like this, it's in Papua-New Guinea!, I didn’t realize I’d reached a turning point in my life.

I wasn't particularly interested, at first. I was still clerking at the Department of Labour and, just a few days ago, I'd turned down a job in a media production agency, one that had a lot to do with the TV and radio business. I was still wondering whether I had made the right decision about that and now Fred wants me to look at some other job in some Godforsaken place that is maybe somewhere on this planet and he expects me to be interested? I dragged on my cigarette and blew a smoke ring towards him. He thrust a finger through it, in a lewd fashion.

So, what's it say, huh? I asked.

Read it for yourself. There! He stabbed with his finger at the job advertisement. A tendril of the smoke ring still clung to the same finger. Cadet Patrol Officer, public administration, and all that sort of stuff, you know, he continued.

What the hell is a Cadet Patrol Officer? I thought. While Fred started to stuff his favorite Meerschaum pipe with some of his sickly, aromatic tobacco, I got up with the paper in my hand, walked to the window and opened it. I flicked my cigarette out onto the footpath and began to read carefully. Fred lit his pipe and pretty soon the room started to smell like a hairdressing salon. I wasn't so much interested in what the advert said about the job, at first; what really caught my eye was the large starting salary and also the standout words which stated I’d pay much less tax, probably less than half the rate for Australia.

Now, being a fairly normal, avaricious type of young guy, I began to think of the possibilities. So, I went over the advert again: twenty-one month term, three months leave, fat salary, miniscule tax, almost free housing, air fare paid to and from, and so on. Well, yes, there was also the small matter of patrolling in the bush, public administration, law and order and such like, but I figured that shouldn't be too difficult. I looked out of the window, into the distance and thought for a few minutes. Being somewhat of an idealist and especially at this time – 1961 – I felt maybe here is a chance to make a difference. John F. Kennedy was every young person's hero – or so it seemed – the noise from Vietnam was still a long way off, America's Peace Corps was on the move, Australia was a backwater and, candidly, I was just plain bored.

And, I can make a lot of money....

Well, what d'you think? You'd probably like it. Maybe you'd be able to see Rabaul, y'know, the place my brother went to, a few years ago?

Fred's questions brought me back. I turned to face him, the paper in my hand. Yeah, maybe you're right, Fred. I dunno ... maybe it has possibilities. At least, I could send this in to apply, you never know, I might be lucky. But, I probably won't get it; probably bloody hundreds will apply. Gawd, can't you stop smoking that bloody stuff!

It wasn’t a question. His room now looked like the proverbial London fog, but he remained unmoved, merely puffed harder, the bugger. All this while, Sam had not said anything, too busy reading his Time magazine; Ginger, as usual, was idly flicking through the latest issue of Sports Cars, ogling the cars and the girls adorning the cars, of course. He looked up, started to say something smart, I guess, but his stutter got in the way. He opted to light another fag, instead, give himself time to calm down. I waited patiently.

Ginger's lower lip quivered up and down, stopped, quivered again and as he lent forward, he finally blurted out, L … lis … listen, Burke, why don't you just c … cut the crap and d ... d ... do it. Ginger was the only one who nearly always called me by my surname, I don't know why.

At that, Sam piped up, Hey, yeah, c'mon RJ, put your money where your mouth is. You've always said you've wanted excitement.

I glared at him. So, that's it, I thought, now I have to do it; now these buggers are daring me. I shrugged, as nonchalantly as I could.

Excitement? So what – I’m after the money. Much better than anything you guys could get. So, just watch me, I finished.

I tore the advertisement from the paper and stuffed in into my pants. I wanted to break this up, give myself some time to think.

Hey, this room stinks, I'm going down to the coffee shop, get a short black, y'wanna come, anybody?

As I started to leave the room, Fred knocked the ash from his pipe and dropped it in his ashtray. Hey, Sam, gimme a Chesterfield, willya, he begged.

Ginger stretched as he stood up, tossed his longish hair from his eyes and sauntered out while Sam threw the packet to Fred.

"And, leave your damn Time here," I shouted back to Sam.

*

Well, as it turned out, I did send in the application and got a reply fairly quickly, I thought, inviting me to attend an interview. I hadn't said anything to Mum or Dad as yet, because what was the point? I may not be successful.

So, after a few weeks, I went to some Government office block in the city, one of those ancient, crusty old buildings with dust and pigeon droppings all over. I found the office for the Department of Territories and went in. There was a sparse, dull reception area, with a woman sitting at the inevitable typewriter, banging away at her job. I gave her my invitation and she checked my name in a file and then asked me to sit down. I went to the window and sat down on a long bench near it, in the sun. There were only the two of us in the room. It was warm, even in June, so I moved down a bit into the shade and waited. I was sweating a bit and feeling a bit nervous. Maybe both showed because the woman looked up from her work and gave me a smile. I didn't feel reassured. After a while, I'm not sure how long, she got up with some files and went through to the inner office, and closed the door behind her.

I started to pick up one of the dog-eared magazines when she opened the door and called out, Won't you come this way, please, Mr Burke?

I dropped the magazine hurriedly, and went through the entrance, hoping my tie was straight and feeling a bit flustered. As I went in, she deftly slipped by, and gently closed the door as she went out. I was left facing a long table with two men sitting at it; one looked up and motioned me forward, indicating a chair.

Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. He was thin, freckle-faced and had a pleasant smile. His hair was sort of reddish and somewhat curly while his eyes sparkled a bright blue. He was in his shirtsleeves and puffing on a pipe, the smoke making fantastic whorls in the sunlight slanting across the desk. The other man, dark hair, pale face, dark suit, and sitting in the shade, said nothing. He just looked at me, unsmiling.

My name's East, Hank East. I'm the District Commissioner for New Britain and I'm conducting all of the interviews for cadet patrol officers. He half stood up and shook my hand across the desk as I was sitting down. He didn't bother to introduce Pale Face at the end of the table, and didn't even seem to acknowledge he was there. I decided to ignore him too. I said something back to Mr East, I forget what, and sat down.

He looked at me coolly, the easy smile still there, as he continued to puff away.

I leaned back in the chair and tried to look at ease, started to cross my legs, decided against it, leaned forward to cover my leg movement, tried to decide what to do with my hands, finally gave up and leaned back with my hands clasped. I must have looked like a jerk, the typical nervous interviewee.

Well, why? Hank East raised his eyebrows as he asked the question.

Pardon me ... what ... why ... I'm not s....

I didn't immediately know what he wanted, but he interrupted me with Yes, WHY? Why d’you want to go to New Guinea? Why d'you want to be a patrol officer? He took the pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem at me as he talked.

I glanced to my right; Pale Face's eyes bored into me. I felt like a bug on a microscope slide.

I looked back at Mr East who wasn't smiling now. Oh, well, here goes nothing, I thought and started. I hadn't prepared anything. I suppose I should've thought about some sort of plan or had some sort of speech ready, but I didn't. Everything I said over the next quarter-hour was off the cuff and I don't recall much of it. I do remember I said how much I admired President Kennedy and how I wanted to be part of something really useful and not just a small cog in the big wheel of business, and how I felt the need to be active, and how I wanted to help people improve their lives, and that I liked languages, and liked learning new things and so on. It just gushed out, and at the time, I really did believe all I was saying. Not that I told any lies, it's just I probably sounded overly idealistic and maybe even unrealistic. From time to time, Mr East would ask me a question or get me to clarify something; all the while, Pale Face sat unmoving. Eventually, I ran out of words and stopped. Mr East sat stuffing some more tobacco into his pipe as I finished up.

He began to light up and turned towards Pale Face, for the first time, who still gave no indication there was anybody else on his planet. Their eyes met briefly and then Mr East turned back to me.

Well, thank you, Roger, for telling us all about yourself and your motivations. Perhaps you'd like to know a bit about what it's like in TPNG.

I nodded. And for the next twenty minutes or so, he talked about the history, geography, politics, culture and population of those mysterious islands.

I listened but I can't say I took much in to keep; it was all too new and I was feeling relieved I’d made it this far without any major blunders. Or, at least, I hoped so. At the end of his talk, Mr East asked me if there was anything I wanted to say or ask. He said that as he was standing up, obviously signifying the interview was coming to a close. I racked my brains for something pertinent and quick, but nothing useful came to mind.

So I said something like No, thank you very much for your time blah, blah, blah, and your consideration, blah, blah etc as I stood up also to shake his hand. Pale Face looked up from his writing pad, a thin, insincere smile briefly flickering across his face; he said nothing, merely looked at me, almost through me, it seemed. I shook hands, once again across the table, with Mr East and turned to leave the room. As I turned, he said I should hear something about my application in the next few weeks and smiled broadly as he said it. I felt encouraged, but I wasn't sure whether I deserved to feel that way. Maybe just wishful thinking on my part? As I left the room, I had an almost irresistible urge to look back and catch Pale Face's eyes boring into me, but I didn't. I closed the door, smiled weakly at the receptionist who murmured Goodbye, Mr Burke, went through the outer door, hurriedly down the stairs – I hate waiting for lifts – and out into the bright sunshine and cold air.

I sucked in a few deep breaths. Damn, I'm glad that's over with, I thought.

The weeks went by.

I told Fred and the others I’d gone for an interview and they were suitably impressed. They asked me about it and I told them as much as I could remember. They were interested to hear about Pale Face, and we all agreed he must have been some kind of psychologist or psychiatrist who was there to assess my personality, that seemed pretty obvious. Considering my personality, they all agreed I would definitely fail to get the job. I ignored their barbs, their pathetic attempts to get on my goat.

I still said nothing to any of my family, particularly Mum and Dad; from their perspective, I was still happy – sort of – in my work at the Labour office. It was there, however, I came across one of the realities of working in the colonial service from one of the senior employment officers, Don White, who’d worked in Papua some years before. I needed somebody to discuss the pros and cons of my job application and prospects in Papua-New Guinea. So, while walking towards the train station after work one day, I told Don, in confidence, about my plans and asked for any advice he might have.

I wasn’t prepared for the savagery of his response.

Well, it’s okay, I suppose, but you have to be careful, you know. He paused. It’s not what you think it is. He looked into the distance and muttered something that sounded like, Arpinoon, tabada, arpinoon and shook his head, then said again to himself, Arpinoon be damned, ya bastard.

I was puzzled and it must have shown on my face.

Don looked at me squarely now, clapped me on my shoulder with his open hand and continued, Just watch out for yourself, Roger. Then his face cracked into a crooked smile. And, watch out for those New Guinea rock apes, okay!

Blankly, I said, Huh? Wha … wha … what d’you mean, Don?

He shook his head, still with that awful grin of his face. Oh, you’ll know them when you see ‘em. They’re everywhere…. With that, he sauntered off without a backward glance.

I went in another direction to catch my bus, unable to fully comprehend the implications of Don’s remarks and, now also, with a sense of disquiet about what the future might hold for me in New Guinea. I made no further mention of it to Don or anybody else at the office; and still nothing to my parents.

Because I’d already decided to remain silent until I was sure I had the job; moreover, I felt doubly certain I should say nothing about Don’s comments. To me, the job was so important I really wanted to surprise them – if I was successful, that is. What I didn't want to do was cause unhappiness for Dad or Mum; and certainly not to the point of crying about it, for Pete's sake….

Which is what Mum continued to do softly as I gave her another squeeze.

Aw ... gee ... Mum, please stop. Please. You know me ... I'll be all right. And, it's not as though I'll be going off tomorrow, y'know. The letter says I have to attend a course at Mosman ... two weeks at the ... ah ... where's the letter...?

I looked around as Dad brought it to me from the dining room. Ah, here ... there…. I pointed for Mum to see: The Australian School of Pacific Administration, sounds impressive, hey?

Mum took off her glasses and wiped her eyes, then wiped her glasses as I looked at her, hopefully.

So, you won't get rid of me for at least another four weeks anyway, you'll see, there'll be plenty of time to do things, pack, get ready, you know, say goodbye, all that ... ah, well.....

She regarded me levelly. You will be careful, won't you?

What, me? pointing to myself, now, you know me, Mum ... I'm al….

She cut me off. And, you will write, won't you, I have to know how you are getting on.

I hugged her again. Yeah, Mum, don't worry, I'll probably bore you to death.

Dad clapped me on the back. Congratulations, RJ! We're both really proud of you. He looked at Mum who now had a small soft smile for me.

I beamed. Hurrah! I thought: New Guinea ... here I come!

*

CHAPTER TWO

INDUCTION

I attend ASOPA and learn about: diseases in New Guinea; the drinking prowess of expatriates; the dangers of inoculations; and why you should never look directly at a cigarette lighter – especially when drunk. (July-August 1961)

Next day, I sent back a signed copy of the letter of offer, signifying my acceptance. I felt excited, uncertain, and impatient all at the same time; and a bit nervous. I wanted to get going, to get moving with the induction course I had to attend in about two weeks, together with the other cadets who would be there. I had no idea how many in all there would be, but I would soon find out.

The two weeks dragged. I saw Fred, and the others, told them about my acceptance and Fred said he would come to visit me wherever I was. I was quite astonished when Sam also said he would come; I thought the only place he would ever want to go was USA. Wonders will never cease, I suppose. Ginger didn't seem inclined to join in, but his eyes twinkled as he stammered his best wishes. He was more caught up with his girl friend, anyway. Not much chance of that where I'm going, I thought. Ah, well, the things we do for country….

Eventually, the day came for me to start at ASOPA, as it was usually called. Fortunately, I was able to borrow a car from one of my brothers to use for the two weeks; but it was a bugger to get to, driving right across the city to the north side. The fact I managed to do it, without smashing up his car, was almost a miracle in itself, as I had already done that a few years earlier, when I was fifteen.

Without a licence, I’d gone for a joyride in Terry’s – that’s the brother a year older than I – Hillman one afternoon when the whole family was out. I thought I was quite daring when I drove down the main street of the suburb, and then crisscrossed through and around some back streets, barely able to peer over the dash. I couldn't understand why some people looked at me rather oddly as I passed by. Everything went according to plan until I got back home: not a scratch on the car until I reversed to straighten up but failed to remember the tree behind which bent the thin bumper bar, crushed the boot lid and finished off with a low branch piercing the rear window.

I sat there stunned and mortified for what seemed like eternity, but was only a few minutes. Finally, I forced myself out of the car to survey the damage. I think my face must have looked like the boot lid.

The neighbours across the road leaned on their fence, just looking at me, like a couple of old cows chewing the cud, I thought.

Ignoring them, I sat on the front steps to await my fate and tried to think of some plausible stories, but nothing came. Just my luck, I thought, as Dad's Pontiac came down the road to park behind the tree, so that my brother's car, hanging off the tree, was in full view. Amazingly, Terry didn't say much to me; he looked at the damage, glared at me, but didn't attack – happily for me. I explained as best as I could what had happened and then Dad said, Well, that's your allowance for quite a few months gone, understand?

Now I was older and maybe wiser, I thought, as I drove across town towards ASOPA; nothing's going to happen to the car this time – I can't afford it. It took about forty minutes to get there, which wasn't too bad in rush-hour traffic.

The day was clear, windy and dry, pretty standard for July, as I parked in the lot in front of the main administration building. There were about a dozen other cars already parked. As I got out, another car came down the long drive from the main gate and swung into the parking lot, and came to stop beside me. The young fellow grinned, showing enormous, brilliant teeth, and practically jumped out of his car, a low slung MG Midget. He was about my height, which was around five feet ten, thin build, blond hair, big blue eyes, and like I said, a smile that seemed to split his face in half. His eyeteeth seemed excessive, reminding me of a vampire, almost. His hair fell about his head, in an untidy tangle.

G'day, mate, he said, sticking out his hand, The name's Dan McDougall, from sunny Queensland. He jerked his head back to get his hair out of his eyes.

How yer goin', I replied, Call me RJ ... most people do. I live here, across town. I pumped his hand vigorously, and waved vaguely with the other towards the south side.

We grinned at each other. Well, I reckon we'd better find out where we're supposed to go, I continued.

Dan nodded. Yeah, I reckon.

We both looked around at the rows of cream-coloured wooden buildings, wondering where to go. More cars were coming down the drive and pulling up. More young men were beginning to mill about, making introductions, looking around and generally trying to look nonchalant. An enormous fellow, almost a moving mountain, came towards Dan and me, a friendly smile sliding along his lips.

Hello there, how are you? My name's Neville Van Egmund. And, don't worry, I'm really harmless. His smile widened as we both looked up, I mean truly up, at him. He must have been six-five or six-six and probably weighed in at seventeen stone; his shoulders were broad and his waist was narrow.

This is not a guy to get angry with, I thought.

He took off his sunglasses and ran his hand back over his short black hair then reseated his glasses.

We shook hands and thankfully my hands were not crushed. Nice to meet yer, Neville, I said, Burke's the name, Roger Burke, but you can call me RJ.

Hi, Dan McDougall, glad to know yer, Neville. Let's always be friends, eh? Dan's smile got even wider, it seemed.

Neville laughed, Okay, okay, and finally gave Dan's hand back to him.

Others were now getting closer, and introductions began to fly thick and fast.

Hey, I'm Yves D'Aguillier. Who else is from Victoria?

Jeremy Sykes is the name. Originally from the UK, y'know, and not just another Pom.

Hey, Bruce, Bruce Lawnton, how the hell did you get picked?

Dennis? I don't believe it, as they punched each other on the shoulder.

G'day, I'm Gerry Wickham, I need a cuppa, where's the canteen?

Pappy ... hey, Pappy, over here, this from a tanned, blue eyed fellow who then turned to me, Stuart Jensen, hi, how are yer. The person to whom he shouted looked around, waved, and came towards us.

Nigel Brooks, from Tasmania. Everybody calls me Pappy. He turned to Stuart. Now I know New Guinea has had it, now you're here. He grinned.

Others were now showing up.

Tony Samson, that's my car over there, the original MG TC. Did I hear somebody else from Victoria?

Dennis Smythe, pleased to meetcha. This is my mate Bruce Lawnton. All the way from South Australia. We all exchanged handshakes. It was getting a bit hectic and cramped, trying to release your hand only to be snatched up by another.

A freckle-faced, curly haired type sauntered up from his decrepit looking Holden and grinned at us gathered around. Well, I might as well join the herd – Steve Wilkes is the name, hi there. He had slightly thicker lips than you would expect and his voice sounded a bit nasally, almost as though he had a bad cold; but he seemed like a good bloke, right from the start.

Roger Burke’s the name, I said, but you can call me RJ, everybody else does.

We all took off to follow Gerry Wickham who, as we entered the canteen, was busily slurping up his cuppa. The next few minutes were spent getting our drinks and exchanging information; the hubbub soon grew as we took in our surroundings and wondered what was going to happen next. By the time the last cadet arrived, the total was twenty-one. There were other groups sitting around in the canteen, but we had no idea who they were. We were finishing our teas when an older woman entered and introduced herself as the registrar.

She pointed through the windows to one of the buildings. All cadets please proceed to Lecture Hall A. A slight pause in her voice then: Now!

Amazing effect what a commanding voice can have, I thought.

She turned and left the room and we all trooped behind, like so many sheep, but still trying to look as though we knew what we were doing. Hall A was reminiscent of classrooms I’d seen as a boy – long, narrow windows, dark painted wooden walls, rows of desks and chairs, a line of bare electric bulbs hanging from the ceiling centre. At the front, there was a podium with a lectern; a tall, grey-haired man, in a grey suit and tie, stood beside it, smiling benignly at us as we entered and sat down. Behind him there were other people sitting in a row of chairs. One looked as though he was asleep I noticed, as I sat down, while the others looked suitably officious and impassive. Eventually, the noise of our seating subsided, and the man in the grey suit began to speak.

Good morning and welcome to the Australian School of Pacific Administration. My name is Roundtree and I am the principal of the school.

I can’t recall the speech verbatim, but the guts of it was that we, as Cadet Patrol Officers, were privileged to serve in Australia’s colonial administration and we should jolly well remember that at all times. He droned on to outline ground-rules for behaviour at the school and then introduced the other members of the faculty, each of whom stood up and gave a nod, as each of the disciplines of Law, Government, Geography, History and Anthropology were announced. Mr Roundtree finished up – by this time he had been speaking for around half an hour – by pointing out another, much older man, who was sitting off to one side, looking quite disheveled and unkempt, lank grey hair spilling down over his face, a twisted smile on his face showing off-colour teeth as he also puffed away furiously on a pipe. And, this is Dr Brown, who will lecture you upon all aspects of tropical medicine. Dr Brown is one of the leading experts in this field, perhaps the leading expert in Australasia. Prior to your departure, you will be under the doctor’s care while you are receiving all of your necessary vaccinations or booster shots. Roundtree continued to smile at us, while Dr Brown quietly chuckled through his teeth and pipe, as though he knew something awful, something we didn’t know.

We were all soon to find out.

Well then, Roundtree glanced at the clock, let’s adjourn for a tea break where we can all get to know each other a bit better. Please reconvene here at ten-thirty with Dr Brown.

We spent the next twenty minutes or so in the canteen where I did manage to say a few words to the Legal man, who still looked to be asleep even though he was standing up and drinking a coffee, and to the woman in charge of Anthropology, who acted as though she had a mild case of Saint Vitus’ dance all the time, her staccato conversation punctuated by little jigs of her feet, back and forth, side to side, as her hands also moved continuously, more or less in unison with her feet – if that was even possible. Ten-thirty crept around, so we all began to move back to Hall A, where we found Dr Brown waiting for us, still puffing away.

The next two hours were concerned with the different tropical diseases that we could or might encounter. With pictures and diagrams, Dr Brown described – with gusto – malaria, diarrhea, dysentery, filariasis, cholera, typhoid, typhus, tetanus, yaws, yellow fever, dengue fever and even the plague. His description of the pain and discomfort caused by tropical ulcers was particularly vivid. We learnt about the symptoms, the effects, the cure – if any – and the likelihood of any one of us contracting any one of those afflictions. The way he described it, it was possible to get them all quite easily, so that didn’t make me and maybe others feel comfortable. Perhaps he didn’t say cleanliness is next to Godliness, but he did make the point that dirt is death in the tropics: if you’re not prepared to keep clean, you’ll pay the price.

I made a mental note to stock up on strong soap.

One of the cadets asked the doctor about the most prevalent disease in TPNG.

With that, the good doctor chuckled aloud, showing off his mangled teeth and then proceeded to snort with deep guffaws.

Oh my, oh my, he chortled, there’s no doubt about that: pregnancy, black and white, and all the other diseases that go with it, eh!

I, for one, must have looked a mite puzzled. Was that meant to be a joke, or was he serious? I couldn’t be sure.

Mmmm, yes, y’know you can fit all of the virgins in Rabaul into a phone booth. He puffed some more on his pipe and continued to chuckle, as though he was making a huge joke. Diarrhea’s probably the next and you get that by eating someone’s shit, so … don’t eat SHIT! He shouted the last, his shoulders shaking as he laughed.

Some of the fellows were grinning foolishly; I just wished he’d get on with it all.

The lecture came to a close when he announced that after lunch, we would all be receiving initial vaccinations for typhoid, cholera, and tetanus and also an initial dosage of a prophylactic to counter the effects of malaria. His grin was almost malicious, as he spoke. And, with a wave of his hand, we were dismissed.

*

After a liquid lunch – at the local pub – the inoculations proceeded as scheduled. We all gathered in a different building, much like Hall A, but this one was set up with some tables, white table cloths, medical dishes, rows of different bottles, pans with hypodermic needles, sterilizing equipment, quite a few chairs scattered about and some low beds, something like camp beds in a line, with the bed heads against one wall.

Almost began to look like a real barracks after all, I mused.

The doctor stood there beaming at us as we filed in; close by, a female nurse was getting equipment ready, ferreting through the stuff on the tables.

Gentlemen, Nurse Jackson will be assisting me this afternoon. She smiled and nodded to us as the doctor spoke. And she will also be assisting anyone who may feel unduly overcome by the effects of this afternoon’s inoculations, to wit, and he pointed to the cots, the beds are there for anybody who needs to rest a while, to recover as it were. He smiled his toothy grin again, his shoulders almost starting to shake with mirth also.

I looked at the cots sourly and gazed around for Steve, but couldn’t see him anywhere.

We went alphabetically, so I was up first, almost. From what I had heard, it looked like three shots and you’re out, so to speak. For a few seconds, I felt quite okay, this isn’t much, what are these guys complaining about? I walked away from the table and then it hit me: a truck had never hit me yet, but this must be what it feels like. I could not lift my arm at all; it felt as though it was not part of me. I must have looked a bit desperate, as the nurse started to guide me to a cot, but I fell onto a chair.

I’m okay, I’m okay, thank you, I managed, as I flopped.

She smiled ever so sweetly and then scurried back to help the next case.

While recovering, I managed to gulp down the antimalarial tablets with a mouthful of water. At least that wasn’t too bad, as long as you didn’t suck on the damn things.

Some of the other cadets had to sit down also, nursing their arms, sorry expressions on their faces as they received their shot. The nurse assisted a couple of cadets to cots, and judging by their expressions, they didn’t give a shit about what anybody thought – although we were all grinning at their discomfort.

When the last cadet had received his due, Dr Brown surveyed the damage and obviously felt he’d done a good job, if the continuous toothy smile was any indication.

Right, you can all have the rest of the day off. By now it was midafternoon. So get going and have a good night’s rest, he chuckled. And, don’t get too drunk tonight, either. You might regret it, he added.

We all started back to our cars, and I looked around again for Steve but couldn’t see him. Idly, I wondered what had happened, as I waved to Neville and a few others. My right arm felt a bit better by the time I drove off and with a firm desire to ignore the good doctor’s advice.

*

The rest of the first week was taken up with lectures on the other topics. We were issued with a lot of reading material; but I didn’t pay much attention to most of it actually.

I did however read, with great interest, some of the Native Administration Regulations (NAR) for TPNG which covered all of the offences with which the indigenous population could be charged. It was sobering to discover that, not only could they be charged with ‘normal’ criminal offences such as murder, robbery, rape and the like, but also offences like adultery, burying your dead father (or mother) in your house or defecating on the ground.

When I thought about it, I figured I could get arrested in Sydney if I went around defecating here and there. However, I thought adultery was pushing it a bit.

Each day, we attended lectures in succession: Law, Geography, History, Government and Anthropology. Our mentor in Law continued to do a worthwhile impression of a ‘sleeptalker’, droning on and on about legal definitions, court procedures, our responsibilities as ex officio police officers, rules of evidence etc, smiling benignly from time to time. All the time, I could not determine whether his eyes were truly open. It was an interesting performance and one that kept me guessing. Anything that would lighten up his delivery was worth thinking about.

Anthropology was a riot. Professor Miranda, as I said, either suffered from St Vitus’ Dance or had a chronic case of ants in the pants. Most probably, I guess, she was just hyperactive. Weaving, bobbing, sliding, dodging, moving, gesturing, pointing, turning, she turned the podium into cornucopia of jerky movements, all the while punctuated by her staccato monologue which was actually quite interesting – when I wasn’t distracted by her confounded bodily gyrations. Again, we were given a mountain of definitions, most of which didn’t mean much at the time; discovered that TPNG had over seven hundred distinct languages; and, contrary to what we all thought, there were no actual tribes in the territory, only clans. She gave us many books as references and also, like our Legal friend, introduced us to the requirements for our correspondence course syllabus while in the field. Many groans from all concerned, of course, when we found out we had to complete an analysis of the clan structure of a typical area, with full genealogical documentation.

The lectures on History and Geography were bearable, full of facts of course, and delivered in semi-bored fashion by the parties concerned. That never helps. However, as I had to sit there, I did find out Australia had an eighth state. Well, actually, Papua wasn’t a state as such, but the whole area was legally part of Australia