BOUGAINVILLE CAMEOS

66. BOUGAINVILLE BLUES



Rabaul Harbour



The Sydney Sun evening “rag”, masquerading as a newspaper, on that evening in August 1969 was prophetic. In the most amazing photos splashed across the front pages, it shrieked of civil war in the copper- rich island of Bougainville. There were extra-terrestrial “thugs”, police with gas masks, and riot gear belting into bare-breasted local women who were spluttering and blinded by the tear gas. I stared disbelievingly. Was this the peaceful Bougainville where our Brothers had worked since the early forties-with a brief break while the Japanese military rampaged through the islands?

 The Australian government surely had not anticipated such a fury in its mandated territory. But these women were not going to tamely hand over their land (It’s a matrilineal society) for a big hole in the ground; even if millions, billions of dollars of precious copper would gush. How could they have any conception of the soft-talking Bougainville Copper men’s proposal? How could white people gain any concept of what LAND meant to these people? Of course, later on, they realised this crisis  could have been “better handled”. In yet other photos there were pathetic images of old men in near rags with bundles of dollars piled on their hands……A sort of modern snake oil salesmen again on the plunder trail.

By the time I arrived a few weeks later, it seemed that peace had descended. Little did I know, and still less did the government realise that this “ulcer” would fester and break out into outright war with huge casualties to the people of this beautiful island. That would be near twenty years down the track.



Laurie Chan with German missionary

 Air travel was slightly haphazard in the sixties in PNG. Well, it wasn’t an everyday schedule. In a trusty Fokker I had flown from Lae to Rabaul. I gaped at the view down below. A magnificent harbour ringed by ranges and mountains, and with two grumbling volcanoes as guardians of the town certainly impressed. As I had a few days stopover to connect with a flight to Kieta in Bougainville I enjoyed the hospitality of the Chan family. The patriarch, Laurie was a legend. He had returned “home” from St. Joseph’s College in the thirties, and with the traditional Chinese gifts of tenacity, clever organisation and sweat he had set up some small stores at different spots around the islands. In a small ship he would do the rounds in supplying and marketing.  It was  on one such trip that Laurie was the last one to see our three Marist Brothers: John William, Donatus and Augustine on the Japanese destroyer near Chabai in north Bougainville in August 1942. Like so many other missionaries they were murdered, shot at the stern of the vessel and left in the wake of a speeding warship.

.My experience gave me a huge admiration for the pioneering prowess of these Chinese traders with skills developed over centuries. Without them, the islands would surely have suffered without that commercial drive. Sadly, they were often the first victims of attack and rampage in any political upheaval.

It was an education for me as a guest of the family. Laurie’s business had thrived since the war. Along with many other Chinese they had set up large stores, general stores which bulged with merchandise. They might have been wealthy but lived so simply. Upstairs was a virtual warehouse. Around two or three sides there were living areas- bed rooms, bath facilities and a living room. Downstairs, attached to a thrumming store was the kitchen with dining room.  Some twelve or more Chans, ranging over three generations, from new babies to Laurie and his wife gathered around the table for meals.  Michael, the eldest son, had followed his dad through Joeys and was proud father of the first grandchild. It was a happening place, with delicious food.

Laurie had shown me the sights. Just around the harbour was a thriving Catholic Mission with the impressive name of VUNAPOPE. In English it meant THE POPE’S TOWN. And yes, by PNG standards it was surely a town. It boasted schools, hospital, farm with chooks, cattle, pigs etc, work shops which could produce most items needed, a ship building yard and slip, and of course, nunnery, missionary residences. And yes, an impressive cathedral with an equally impressive German Bishop! The Missionaries of the Sacred Heart had indeed built for the future.

Independence was still six years away but the “natives” were now permitted to drink alcohol, a new won “freedom”. Their ‘commitment’ surprised me. At a simple bar at Kokopo we stopped for a bottle of South Pacific, the local beer. I noted the locals were buying by the carton and then camping close by with a few mates or ‘wantoks’. When that carton was finished they would buy another.



Celebrating at the Openning of New Teachers' College

 I was blessed in my timing. An event of national importance was about to be launched. The Christian Brothers were to open a Teachers’ College at Vunakanau, some thirty minutes out of Rabaul, up on the heights. The Brothers had been a driving force in education with much emphasis on teacher training. In this project all the finance came from the West German government. Their ambassador was there, to take the credit, but it was some Duke from the UK who “cut the ribbon”. It was a day of marvellous colour and celebration with so many singing and dancing groups to display their culture. However, there was a shadow cast. The Mataungan Association, a kind of local union movement, had black balled the event. There were some awkward gaps in proceedings and much embarrassment It also accounted for the heavy presence of Australian plain clothed police. Maybe, the more intuitive would see this as an omen of problems to come.

Laurie farewelled me as I climbed up into an old DC3 for the run to B’ville. It wasn’t long before this lush island with its mountain range and 6,000 feet high volcanoes came into view. As we rolled to a stop on Wakunai air strip I got quite a shock. It was my first sight of a nun without wearing all that suffocating clobber but wearing a modified veil. And horror! I could see jet black hair and yes there were a few curves. The revolution of Vatican Two Council had hit in these distant islands. It would be another near decade before the bulk of Aussie nuns joined this missionary in something other than a medieval outfit.

A warm greeting from Br. Montfort Hickey at airstrip and a rough twenty minute drive to the pride of Marist Education in the island, at Rigu, just around the bay from Kieta. As the “capital” it boasted a few Chinese stores, a few administration buildings and a very, very basic hospital. The Brothers, with some lay volunteers ran a superb boarding school of near three hundred boys from all around the island. Over the next week or so I would learn much more. I even got to take a few lessons in the lower secondary. I kept it light and involving and I do think we both enjoyed it!!!



Sports Field at Rigu College

 An extraordinary highlight was the choir performance on the second night. Blessed with much musical talent and able to capitalise on the innate musical ability of the boys, Julian Quinlan could create magic and dazzle. No wonder he walked away with so many prizes. In a very warm night, with the Brothers and staff in easy chairs on the veranda, Jules and his boys turned on a stunning performance. With my brand new Philips cassette recorder I was able to capture for a decade and more to come. Nine part harmony, which I had not heard before, seemed to be a simple ask for this bunch of “Sistine Chapel” choristers. Making the night even more spectacular was the sight of these very dark boys, with dazzling teeth and wide eyes as they weaved their spell. Among them was a young star from Buka Island who would feature more memorably as a Marist Brother. His name was JULIAN HAKUMIN. (Sadly, he died this year of 2010).

Two incidents or events still bring smiles and astonishment to my mind all these years later. First there was an uneven soccer match. I’m not sure whether my reputation as a soccer star of Harry Kewell stardom had preceded me, but I do wish it hadn’t. In any event it was pure fantasy and that was to be revealed in a most humiliating way when the boys challenged the staff to a soccer match. Luckily, we couldn’t field a full team of eleven and so the German cook, a lady of some spunk joined us, with a few boys who really had some amazing skills. Well, it was a riot. I reckon the students had not enjoyed such a fiasco for years. The final scored could have been in the high twenties but thanks to some slight skill in our combined team as well as mercy and mirth displayed by the students we were not entirely annihilated. I recall forwards slicing through our feeble defence and as they were about to score yet another goal they would do a somersault or back flip with astonishing gymnastic ability. I also learnt just how unfit I was. I was to rue that in a few days.



Upwards Ever Upward

 The second image that comes to mind was down by the beach. As I was strolling along in the late afternoon, I noted the mission ship, skippered by the legend, Br. Aloysius had just returned and dropped anchor. Two Marist Missionary Sisters,quite solidly built and in voluminous white, were helped into the dinghy to be rowed ashore. “This could be interesting” I thought as I noted the waves of two feet or so, slapping noisily on the sand. Surely the sisters would take a ducking in scrambling to shore. I had not counted on the expertise and chivalry of two men. As the boat approached the shore, they waded out some distance up to their waists. Then boatswain with great skill steadied the dinghy. With cool precision and timing, as the boat rose on a wave and with sister poised, the waiting men swept up their precious cargo and carried to the shore. Brilliant!

A great challenge awaited me.  I had requested to visit one of the bush missions if there was any chance. Well, it was all arranged. Thankfully, Jules was my companion. One of the Rio Tinto Land rovers with Frank Poholski, an ex-student from Marist Broken Hill and engineer in the new project, picked us up early and we sped along the coast. It was amazing to see the town of Arawa arising as a new centre. It was here that those courageous woman had taken on the police and bulldozers. Soon, enough we’re climbing steeply on a road under construction. I had to admire the skills of the local driver as we slithered and spun and crabbed our way through some very sticky sections. We arrived at the mine, still in its experimental stage with crusher and other plant and staff accommodation. From here it would be all uphill.

I really wasn’t prepared for this challenge. It gave me some insight into the Kokoda track where those young Aussie Chockos had slowed the Japanese advance in 1942. At thirty six years of age I would not have made the first stages of the track, let alone fight.  We set out confidently enough. Upward ever upward. Jules was breezing along by comparison to me. I got a shock at one stage when a small group of men met us coming down. Each had a machete or a bush knife  twirling in hand, and I felt distinctly uncomfortable. It was much later, that I learnt that everybody carried one, almost like an extension of the hand as they cut and flicked their way through the jungle.



A Breather Near Village Gardens

 I tried the old trick of frequent stops to admire the view, but in reality, I was drawing breath. I know I lost a stone in sweat. But eventually, the track levelled and we burst though the bush to behold a lovely sight. On a cleared, green patch of land about the size of a football pitch there was a neat school and teachers’ houses. I thought I was hallucinating. Just behind I could see the missionary’s house. I stumbled on in great hope.

Fr. Willy Weemus, a very dynamic Dutchman was a great welcomer. I could not thank him enough as he shoved a cold beer into my hand. Divine! A shower, lunch and a kip and I was ready to take on the world again. We went to say hullo to the teachers, a fine bunch, some of them graduates of our “teachers’ college” trained so well by Br. Cornelius and Br. Ken. The kids were a lively, colourful bunch as they kicked around a soccer ball. I declined to give any kind of exhibition!!

Later, I had my first experience of modern communication among the scattered mission stations.



Such a Beautiful Sight



the Bishop ran the sched- a radio hook up in which news was passed, contacts with families in the district and orders of vital supplies. I would get to know more about this vital means of communication later in the Solomons.

It was a memorable night. If this was mission life, I thought, bring it on ! Well I could easily be fooled. Fr. Willy had gone to great lengths to treat us right royally. An excellent meal extended into the hours as we chatted and shared stories. Later, he brought out one of his treasures, a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. He then cranked up his hi-fi and on this mountain top, in the middle of the jungle we lifted at Handel’s Messiah cast a spell over the compound. Wonderful.



Our Host, Fr. Weemus and Teachers

 The return journey was a piece of cake!! We enjoyed a stopover in the staff quarters, enjoying a fine lunch before taking to the Land Rover again. It was my last night before flying out and so I decided to “treat” the Brothers. Along with Alistair, a Pommy volunteer I hit the two or three Chinese stores. How disappointing. There was so little. I found some white wine, some chocolates and suspect fruit. It was a small celebration. Next morning I was up at crack of dawn and Tom farewelled me as I left for the airstrip. But I had a marvellous souvenir: a cassette tape of that winning choir of students at Rigu.

It would be some twelve years before I would return to this fabulous island. That little chorister, Julian Hakumin would be a star again. But this time as a young Marist Brother, about to take his final vows on his home island of Buka. In the meantime he had completed schooling, gone to Fiji for his Marist training and teachers’ college. While I was at Tenaru in 1975 he had been appointed to the staff of St. Joseph’s where he became a super star!! It was wonderful to see the impact on the high school boys and girls to have “one of their own” teaching them. He had a magnetic personality, was a captivating teaching and with that high wattage smile and sparkling sense of humour he outshone Sydney Poitier in any of his movies.  I was able to feature him in the movie I made on the school. From there he returned to Rigu, his old school and again “walked on water” for his own people. In 1981 I flew from Honiara to represent the Solomon Brothers at Julian’s big day at the parish church of Hahela.

The Mass was memorable with wonderful singing and dancing to bring the liturgy to life. After Mass there was much feasting and dancing and general celebration on this rare occasion.

In the evening there was a shift of focus, to the family village of Nova. We bumped along on the back of a ute and then had a twenty minute walk through the bush to the village. From a distance I could hear loud music and it wasn’t jungle drums. Powered by a generator there were strung coloured lights, pop music was blaring and the smell of roasting pig was so enticing. The crowd of people gave us Brothers a grand welcome. This was the first time they had hosted such a group of VIPs. They were out to impress and they certainly did with style and a certain excess.



Br. Julian Hakumin



They had set out several tables and after introducing us to the “big men” of the village we sat down to enjoy ourselves. But there was a difference. In a short speech, Julian’s father welcomed us, and then instructed the men to share themselves around among the Brothers and then gave a most extraordinary direction “”And you will not just eat. You will talk with the Brothers.”

 I was used to such feasts around villages which follow a traditional pattern. The “chief” will call out the names of the guests in order and with direction as to how much food they can take. As they claim their share, they wrap in banana leaves and then take off to their houses. Or, they actually sit around the food along the leaves and then get about the business of eating. Nobody talks!!!

Well, our companions were admirable. In pidgin English we got on just marvellously, all the while the music pounding on. Oh, yes, there was beer, thank God. Also thank God we were not invited to partake of a deadly concoction over near the stage. As guests arrived with all kinds of liquor- whisky, brandy, soft drink, beer and any number of other brews they poured all into the great drum. Wow, what a PUNCH that delivered.

With a full belly and glowing contentedly, the real entertainment began. Dancing.  No, not the traditional style but “jiving” to the pop music.  We were not sure how we would be involved. Boys and girls, young men and women were shimmying and shaking out there under the lights without any contact of course. Then, one of these “dark eyed, skinned Suzans” approached and almost self consciously invited one of the Brothers to join in. Ken (or was it Bob?) leapt up and joined in with gusto. Soon, we were all up and making complete and happy idiots of ourselves.

And so it went on merrily for “hours”. Well, until we each knew we had reached our limit. But the star of the night was our most venerable sixty something Brother Alan Elliot.  As a near retiree he had come to Bougainville just a few years before and worked as an infirmarian at our new school at Buin. Blessed with a wise and pleasant nature he got new wings and relished his work mission. It was one of his most satisfying chapters in a most interesting life, including his early years as a boundary rider in the backblocks of South Australia.

Tragically, the seeds of injustice sown back in 1969 and the consequent despoiling of the country with too few of the profits going to the local people, reaped a whirlwind. Before the end of the decade the mine would be shut down, war would have broken out and years of violence and enduring bitterness would be launched. A “civil war” would be waged with the PNG Army heavily involved. The casualty count has not been confirmed but it was placed between 10,000 and 20,000 according to different sources. Our prize school at Rigu would be torched and a former headmaster and gallant guardian of the school, Br. Brian Leak would be lucky to make it to Solomon Islands to the south, despite a helicopter attack. It was a daring dash. He is sure that it was Mary, Our Good Mother who saw that flimsy outboard boat and terrorised passengers make it to safety.

It was our singer, Julian Hakumin, now the headmaster, had to try to steer through those last hazardous years. Along with other local Brothers they suffered the deprivations of blockade and a life sliding back into subsistence level. Even the bishop was reduced to silence as he returned to his home village to wait out the cyclone. It’s a tragic and complicated story.

Of course, the Brothers would return and be significant in restoring some hope to a shattered people after ten years of agony.

I have one enduring image of Julian which I treasure. Coming home on leave I found he was training over at Dundas, so I invited him out to lunch. We drove over to a favourite “watering hole” at Woolwich. It was midweek and a very sunny day. As we skipped across the road, I thought, I hope there are no racist yobbos in here. I need not have worried. I ordered two beers and one of the locals looked around at Jules with his satiny black.

“That’s a great suntan you’ve got there mate.”

Now, that might have “thrown” other people I know. Jules had the perfect response or riposte.

He laughed, with his face lit up with the humour and with his display of perfect white teeth.

“Yeah, you’re right mate. It’s the best.”

The whole bar joined in the fun.