The New Order In Papua

Can Mr. Ward Make a Silk Purse Out of the Ear of an Educated Hanuabadan?

By Arthur L. ETHELL, until recently an Assistant District Officer in the Papua- New Guinea Administration

WHEN will somebody wake up to the fact that this so called “democracy” the present Government is trying to force on the native is false, and the very antithesis of the laws of nature as understood by the Papuans themselves?

When will somebody who knows what he is talking about make the Minister understand that his dream of a Demo cratic Papua in this century is all cock eyed?

When will somebody see that the present School of Administration, in Sydney, is doing far more damage than good, by turning loose in Papua and New Guinea a bunch of men who are either obsessed with the peculiar dogmas of the Minister for Territories, or who are merely using the Government as a means of getting into Papua?

FIRST about education. Who are we to say that the Papuan should be educated? The Administration has a Director of Education, who, though he. has a long range vision, and is undoubtedly a learned man, has much to learn about the Papuans—not from his text books, but from the natives themselves. His scheme appears to be to bring about the education of the Papuans in a relatively short space of time which can only mean one thing—compulsory education, the raising of the school leaving age, and con tinued village strife.

Why should any man, anybody, or any Government for that matter, take from

the native the freedom he enjoys and force him to attend a school to Idarn an ABC when he is far better off learning how to make and sail a canoe, catch his fish (without dynamite), and all the other crafts which have stood his fathers in such good stead for centuries?

The worthy Director backed up by un limited funds paid into revenue by the Australian taxpayer, plans to educate the Papuan in a relatively short lime to a high state of mental activity. But he seems to have overlooked the fact while he is educating the Papuans, he is also destroying them, and will have nothing better than a race of people proficient at adding two and two, and saying simple nursery rhymes, but who, unfortunately have so far forgotten the lores and tra ditions of their forebears that they find themselves dependent upon the white man for the wherewithal to keep body and soul together.

To buy stores, the native must have money, and plenty of it. But to get it he must work; and, unfortunately, the Papuan is averse to any manual labour other than is absolutely necessary to pro vide for his simple heeds. Result? I leave that for your own imagination.

By now, anthropologists, critics and school-teachers will be smiling to them selves and crying “Piffle.” Of course, I have only been in Papua a mere ten years; and, not having been to a “School,” or read books on Colonial Administration, J cannot be expected to be very well versed in the matter of which I write. The only

school I have attended is that of Practical Experience, with men like Sir Hubert Murray, Charles Karius and Sydney 1 Chance as my tutors. In that school I met and lived among' native who had never before seen a white man—have sat among them, eaten their food, and even taken part in some of their ceremonies.

I speak only one dialect, and have a smattering of two more, which is one of the reasons why I think “black.” That is why I am trying to put onto paper, here, the thoughts which are current among the Papuans to-day. I’m sure the Director of Education will appreciate this point.

But I do know enough to give a concrete example of what 1 say,

The Lesson Of Hanuabada

GO back 47 years, and trace the history of Hanuabada, Although unable to say how the Hanuabadans lived in 1900, I do know that to-day they are de pendent upon the white man for a living.

Before the Europeans came, the Hanuabadans managed pretty well, I imagine. But then came the stores, and a benevolent government. The natives saw an easy living, dropped their im plements of agriculture, and using a dry spell as their excuse, hied themselves off to the local Resident Magistrate and wailed “we are hungry.” Instead of kick ing them in the ramis, the Government

fed them on rice and bully—and, what’s more, are still doing it.

They have been educated to the stage where they can read and write, and they have used their education to suit their own ends, to scheme and pit their wits against the white-man and extract from him as much as they can—for as little a« possible During the war they were fed, housed and mollycoddled, and to-day they are a degenerate, fleabitten tribe—thanks to their education and the influence of the white man.

It is said that a high official’s chauffeur recently died of alcoholic poisoning.

Knowing something of the imbibing capacity of many Hanuabadans, 1 can credit the story.

By devious means, they managed to dodge the dirty work during the war. T doubt whether half a dozen full-blooded Hanuabadans even reached the foot of the “Golden Staircase,” at the Moresby end of the Kokoda Road.

They are a plausible bunch, and filthy

in their habits. If anyone cares to con tradict this statement, I would have him know something of the prostitution and brothels in Hanuabada, long before the first bombs fell on Port Moresby. In 1941, whilst then a comparatively Junior Patroi Officer, I carried on a lone battle, trying to get these places closed down—but I was told to minu my own buisness—doubtless because it was feared that I might uncover too much with an unsavoury taste.

And, for their part in the war, these people of Hanuabada are to be rewarded with a model village costing £118,000!

What was their part?, you ask. As far as I can remember, it amounted to little more than nothing in service and a pile of rations eaten at the Army’s expense.

Plere then, is the classic example of a tribe whose initiative has been destroyed by education and the influence of the white man.

Incident At Milne Bay

WHILE on the subject of this model village, let me add my chuckles to the already loud laughter at the scheme. In Papua, to-day, there is not one man who, knowing something of Hanuabada and its history, does not damn the scheme with all his heart. Mr. Ward is to have his dream village built at Hanuabada, and the people who bludged during those grim years, and made thous ands of pounds out of gullible servicemen, are to live in this Utopia.

But what about the people of Milne Bay, where every village was either smashed by the enemy or destroyed by our own and Allied troops to make way for camps, metalled roads and hardstand ings, and where gardening land has suf fered irreparable damage? Are they to receive similar treatment to the natives of Hanuabada, In the words of the irre pressible heroine from “Pygmalion,” “Not bloody likely!”

In May, 1946, I took over, as Asst.

District Officer, Milne Bay. At that time, two houses were raising their heads above the ruins of a once prosperous community, and the people were waiting for a lead. in June, I put into operation what I called Rehabilitation Plan “A,” and started to build villages, thieving the material I wanted from Army camps and dumps, because the Administration damned my scheme and refused to recognise it. . .

In spite of opposition, I had over three hundred houses either completed or under construction inside six months.

It is well for my peace of mind that I do not look for praise or recognition, because all I got for my efforts was a hearty kick in the pants from Port Mores by Officialdom, and a memo to the effect that the people were to be allowed to build how, where and when they wanted to: If such is the case, why should the people of Hanuabada be plagued with modern cottages which they don’t deserve, while the Administration withheld from the people of Milne Bay, who lost their all, unlimited second-hand timber and iron. I tried to give these people some thing in return for what they had losr. but instead I got nothing but a beautiful reprimand.

Let any Doubting Thomas come to Milne Bay, and view the work of one man, operating mainly single-handed, who built a string of villages, and then, incensed and frustrated, turned to coconuts for solace. While Port Moresby continues to fool round with their new £llB,OOO project.

I have practically rebuilt Milne Bay, and I don’t think Moresby knows about it yet.

Papuans Don’T Want Work

ON the subject of Post War Reconstruc tion; Some time ago a lengthy screed was put out, calling for trainees ex-ANGAU, RPC and PIB, and Labour imits, inviting them to learn simple trades, such as boot-making etc.

I sent my PO out on patrol, armed with about a hundred of the blank appli cation forms. He returned, two weeks later, with the forms still blank the natives weren’t interested. PWR to them meant just another kind of work, and they didn’t want to work. Strange, isn’t it, that these people don’t want to work even for the Government!

I was asked, while in office, to recruit young lads for the RPC band. A mild interest was shown, but not a boy volun teered. I was also asked to recruit tele phone linesmen. No takers. Next came a request for power-house trainees. Again no takers. The natives did not want to learn to make and mend the white man’s boots, nor to lay his telephone lines, or make his electricity. They did not want to blow a bugle or thump a drum.

But when I called for recruits to learn to drive a motor car I was rushed.

Finally, a wail came from the Director of Native Labour. The Administration, finding themselves hoist with their own petard and compelled to return their labourers to their villages at the end of a year, called for more. I passed the word on and got—. Yes you’ve guessed it! Not one volunteer in 6,000 people!

And trade stores? In Milne Bay, a number of white traders operate. One will buy a box of fish hooks at 3/- per 100, and retails them for 3d. each, making -22- profit on one box of hooks. He won’t sell many more at that price, be cause I reckon that if I make 10 per cent, on cost it’s a fair deal.

Another of them recently sold a 25 lb. bag of flour for £2/10/-.

If the caps fit, traders, wear them!

I can produce the native who paid the price, and if the trader in question has the intestinal capacity to come forward and ask me to substantiate the statement, I will do so very willingly. A third buys a caddy of tobacco for £l3 odd and retails it for £l7 to £lB. Profit made by these traders is up to 200 per cent.

Which all adds up to the fact that although Mr. Ward and his henchmen in Canberra talk a lot about exploitation, and what-have-you, and what they in tend to do to help the native rehabilitate himself, the exploitation of Brown Brother goes on under the nose of the Adminis tration —unchecked.

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Invitation To Mr. Ward

THE sentiments herein expressed are only a fraction of what is being said in the Territory to-day. I ask: “Is there one man in the whole of Papua with the fortitude to back me up in what I am saying, or is everyone content to sit back and watch this money-spending farce continue.” I challenge anyone to refute what I have written, especially those in the present Public Service.

I again invite the present Minister for External Territories to come to Papua incognito and stay with me for one month, to come alone, and not armed with steno graphers, and political secretaries and hangers on.

I dare him publicly to visit his Terri tories as plain Bill Smith, to talk to the natives themselves, and men who know the ropes, and find out for himself what goes on in Papua.

It is high time this political back scratching and leg-pulling came to an end, and the millions being wasted in Papua put to a more profitable use in Australia.

In short, give us back Leonard Murray, a man who Territorians, both brown and white, know and respect, and who can be trusted to head a sane Government.