Part 2 Tracking the Sun, My life in New Guinea
We had been there about a week. I had already settled into the “boys” bedroom that was blue and had anchors and life preserver curtains, my parents had taken the master bedroom with the air conditioning. I set up a table in the spare room that my mom was using for storage and her sewing. I pulled out the art supplies I had brought and realized that I had no straight razor's to sharpen my pencils. I went down to the chemist shop (drugstore) and asked after straight razors-I was pointed at a small 5” x 6” square box on one of the shelves. I figured that I'd save time and buy the whole box. Little did I know that this would be the event to lead me to meet most of the expat community in Arawa and hook me up to the Wontok code. See, I had managed to buy the island's entire supply of Straight razors. When living on an Island one learns to depend on the 3-4 times a year when the “ship comes in” bearing the supplies that make life less of a drag, When one sought something one did not see on the shelves, one would hear the term (In Pidgin, usually from a local working the cash register) “He gon finish” which literally translates to “its gone for good.” When my sister came for Christmas she brought three suitcases, 2 ½ were filled with the stuff that my family couldn't get there or was gone finish. I would get visitors damn near every day asking if I was the “Yank that bought all the razors?” I answered I was, well they needed one or two-what did I want for them, I said 'hell her just take a couple'. This put them in my debt. I thought nothing of it however It had some surprising consequences.
After about a week on the job, the other employee came into the yard and unloaded his crew and their supplies. I was just waiting for somebody to drop me off at the post office, about half a mile from my folks house. When he looked at me and asked “Yank, could you use a cold beer?” I said yeah, actually I had needed one for about a week. He invited me into his truck and we drove about a mile up the road and parked in front of the Loloho Sports and Social Club. I was led through the bar proper to the open air Veranda in the back that faced the ocean. This sported three long tables, this is where single men drank, Single woman sat at the bar. Tables in the bar were for married couples ( I guess this arrangement kept the confusion of who was sleeping with whom that night down to a minimum.) and I was offered a seat. ThenI was told to pay Homage. I found out that this was a “game” of sorts. The first one to sit at the table was dubbed the King. He bought himself a beer. The next one to sit had to buy himself and the king a beer, the third had to buy himself, the first guy and the king a beer. Etc. We were the 5th and 6th to arrive. I ended up buying about 7 beers that night, and drank hundreds. I was introduced to many of the people that worked under and with my dad, and many of the people that work in the other professions dealing with the mine and everything not involved with trucks. I was told that L.S.S.C. was a private club and if I wished to join I would have to fill out an application. I did. I had a swell time and was poured into the seat of the truck that brought me and delivered to my front door. I staggered in and went immediately to bed. Needless to say the next day I awoke feeling like I'd spent the time in a tub of frogs that possessed hammers and spent their leisurely evening beating me over the head with them and pissing in my mouth. I was picked up to go to work and was obviously hung over, so Robbie told me to take it easy and let the job handle itself today. It was then I discovered something about Aussies. IF you have dysentery and are throwing up because of the drinking water that has things living in it the Aussies will call you all sort of names and make fun of you, however if you've been “on the piss” as they call it the night before your obviously sick and should take care of yourself. I got three hang over cures that I've employed over the years, the best one was orange Popsicle s and mydol. Anyway, I learned later in the week that I had been turned down as a full member of the the LSSC, A. cause I wasn't officially on contract by the mine, and B. because I didn't own a boat. I guess that living on an Island where it rains every day, had earthquakes regularly, and an active Volcano one doesn't socialize with anyone who doesn't own a boat. However I was given special permission to drink there, come to movie night, and socialize with the members as long “as I didn't prove to be too much of a bloody c*nt.” and folks that was how it was put in writing to me. I was given an anchor shaped bottle opener at the end of a chain for all social occasions I was to attend and instructed to have this opener with me. I still have it on my key chain. I fell in with the Single men at their table, and made friends with a couple of my father's apprentices. After we'd been there for about a month or two all these guys that worked with my dad came up to me en mass while I drank my beer and surrounded me. Okay, guys what's up? I was just sure I had offended somebody...No they said, They wanted to talk to me over here in the corner...we want you to bring your dad down to have a beer with us. I assured them that they should ask him themselves, and they looked at each other and stated that No, they wouldn't dare. They wanted me to do it. And to have me bring him the following Wednesday night. I assured them he wouldn't bite them, They just looked at their shoes and said they wanted me to ask him. OK, I'd ask but I warned them that dad wasn't a drinker...he might drink half a beer if he decided to come at all. They looked at each other and said that would be fine, but they were depending on me. When I got home Dad was sitting at the dinner table looking over a some paper work associated with performance of the trucks he was there to maintain. I sat down and said “I'm coming directly home next Wednesday and taking you to the bar with me. Your people have requested your company and sent me to deliver the invitation. They're afraid they'd offend you by asking you themselves.” He shook his head and said “I don't have time to go to a bar and drink...” I said, “You don't understand, You are coming. You will sit at the table with them and you will drink beer with them, and don't be surprised if they lay palm fronds down for you to walk on.” He looked at me wondering if I was serious, I nodded that yes I was serious and so were they. So the following Wednesday my father accompanied me to the LSSC and I delivered him to his people. I guess they had a hell of a good time because from that day on I wasn't their “friend the yank” I was Their Mate and Wontok. I've used that word twice now, I suppose it needs an explanation. New Guinea has about 2/3 the worlds separate and distinct languages. A “place tok” can only be good for about ½ a mile from any given village. This is why they developed Pidgin, as a trade language. A “Wontok” {one talk} is somebody from your village, probably a member of the family not your brother or father. Somebody you've know since childhood and trust implicitly. For the Aussies on Bougainville it meant a mate, somebody they could trust to steal something that they needed in exchange for them stealing something for you. As I was now Wontok to the guys that worked for my dad I got hooked up to the social scene, what little there was. One guy who was a Kiwi (From New Zealand) even hooked me up for a date with his sister. Single white women were rare on an island of men doing little but drinking and working, a date with his sister without getting on a weird sorta waiting list was an honor I didn't fathom at the time. Needless to say this girl was 18 and a real handful...however...It was an interesting evening, that led to a few others.
I began drawing the locals. A few of the drawings that I still have can be found on my “New Guinea Page” of my website. This came to the attention of the population soon after my work was seen by people outside my family. I'd spend 2-3 nights a week drawing, 2 nights at the bar, and 2-3 nights a week reading and studying for when I began college. I read every bit of “literature” I could get my hands on, I had my sister bring a copy of Gray's anatomy for me to study and draw from when she came for Xmas about 3 months later. During this time I'd go to the beach occasionally on the weekends, did movie night at the LSSC on Saturday nights, and spent the rest of my weekends drawing. I actually got quite good, but I knew I needed to be better. There were some artists there who swapped me art supplies and materials that I could use for straight razors or “a six pack of beer” or to see what I do with them. Soon everybody knew that I was the “yank Artist”. My father would have to occasionally report that no, he wasn't the Albert Kauslick who was the artist, that was his son. And yes it would be OK for the person inquiring to stop by the house and me him. On one occasion while we were eating dinner my father was on a tirade about why in the hell I was going to waste my time getting a degree in art, after all how in the hell was I going to make a living doing that? When there was a knock at the door. A guy was there to meet the artist. I shook his hand. He wanted to see my work. I took him in the back room and showed him what I had done. He would comment about each piece I showed him, and after every few drawings take one to look at and hold onto it. After about looking at about the 50 or so drawings that I had done and the 8 he had in his hand, he said “OK, how much?” How much for what? How much for these that I have in my hand? I did some quick math and told him some ridiculous figure like 500 Kina ( a Kina is the currency in Papua New Guinea, and at the time was worth about $1.60 ) he said fine and wrote me a check. The whole thing took 20 minutes. When I showed him out with the bundle under his arm he apologized to my folks for interrupting their dinner. As I returned to eating my dinner my father asked “What the hell did he want?” I said he wanted to see my work. Then I took the check from my pocket and handed it to my mother and said “could you deposit this for me?” my mother took the check and read it and looked at my father, “Whats that?” he asked. I answered “ A check for 500 Kina, what was it you were saying before we were interrupted?” My father had nothing to say for the rest of the evening.
It was during this time that my mother saw a carving of birds siting in a tree that was done in a certain village in New Britain, My mother had to have one, so it was decided we would go there for New Years to indulge my fathers instantaneous interest in the WWII things that surrounded us, and allow my mother to shop. My sister would be there over Christmas so this would provide a nice vacation for all of us.
As we were quickly approaching Christmas my mother went into over drive. Since Xmas trees don't grow on Bougainville her friends told her of a bush that looked sorta like a Xmas tree that was available if she knew where to get it, My mother approached the manager of Morgan Equipment, which was her source for anything unusual or from the outside world. He said yes he knew the guy and would order her one. Then the race was on to acquire Christmas tree decorations. She frequented the Chinese stores (trade stores that handled every form of junk you can imagine) the supermarkets both there and in Panguna, talking to the various friends she'd made, talking to people who were “going finish” meaning their contracts were up and they were heading back to wherever in the world they came from. In the 8 weeks that proceeded it until a week before Christmas my mother had everything she would need to decorate the tree, Except one thing. She had no Angel for the top of the tree. As hard as she hunted this was the one thing that eluded her. She got more and more worked up about this one thing...thus driving my father crazy. About a week before Xmas it got to the point of obsession, and my father was at a point where he was just about ready to have one flown in from Australia, which would have cost him a mint. I decided that I needed to intervene. I sat my mom down and told her that since it was so important to her, I'd make her one for the top of the tree. She lit right up. “OH, that would be nice...you'd make it nice right?” I nodded and told her I'd make her anything she liked. OK so what would I need? I went around to the different trash cans, rescued tin foil, paper tubes, thread, little pieces of colored paper, small scraps of cloth and I got some scissors and some glue and got to work. It took me three days, but I made her an angel that belonged in a Baroque Painting. She was ecstatic. My father admitted that bringing me along on this venture might not have been a bad idea, and we celebrated Xmas with my sister who couldn't believe the desolation that awaited her on her trip there from Boston. Christmas came. We went to mass, and by that time I was pretty handy with Pidgin. The mass was done in Pidgin, and I have to admit I was giggling like a school kid looking at a comic book. The reason it was funny would be lost in translation, leave it at I needed a good laugh and I got one during that mass. While in New Guinea was the first and last time I actually enjoyed doing mass during my whole life. What was beautiful about doing mass there is that the walls were perforated with cross shaped holes going outside, thus allowing the birds to fly in and out at will. One got a little bit of bird shit on ones clothes (which drove my folks nuts) but I enjoyed it. On the 28th of December we got on the plane to go to Rabaul on the island of New Britain. The first stop for my mother was the open market to deal with the Carvers. We had these guys show up at the door pretty regularly and I bought a few choice carvings, but my mother was seeking a particular carving. She wanted the one with the birds in the tree. As I was interpreter I explained to the guy what we were looking for. I had a plan. The next day he showed up with just the carving my mother wanted. I thanked him, paid for it and carried it off. My mother reached for it so she could see it. I let her handle it and look at it. And she announced that she knew just the place she would put it. I said that was nice, she would have to get one of her own and put it there, but this one was mine. She gave me a look that said quit kidding around, I gave her one that said I wasn't. She got mad and started giving me the guilt trip, which didn't work. I told her that I had asked for it, I had paid for it, it was mine. Well after a few hours she enlisted my father's help. He came up to me and told me in no uncertain terms that I was to give my mother that carving. I looked at him and said “You know how seriously that woman takes Mother's Day. I don't know about you but I've got my present for her.” he nodded and went back to her and told her that she'd end up with it eventually, so we were able to move on with our holiday. I bought some Dolphin carvings from the guy that had sold me the bird to say thank you and that was all he needed. He followed us damn near everywhere trying to sell us more. It seems Rabaul was a Japanese strong hold during the war of the Pacific. We saw the Japanese caves that held the abandoned boats stored them, [we had a few of these caves on Bougainville, and the girl who I was dating once in a while found one with the ceiling caved in and she used it to grow Marijuana, which if caught would have landed her in a New Guinea prison for 20 years and the life expectancy in prison was 5. I told you she was a handful.] We saw ammunition dumps that were abandoned. We saw the small “museum” of Japanese occupation things, heard about the Coast Watchers and how brutal the Japanese were on the locals. It was at this time that my father decided come Hell or high water he was going to make the trip into the bush of Bougainville and visit the wreck of the Yamamoto airplane. The Airplane that had Admiral Yamamoto in it was shot down over Bougainville in a very daring mission, seems these guys had enough gas to linger over BOugainville for about 15 minutes. The site that was maintained by the people that owned the property was a sort of Shrine for Japanese Tourists. My father felt is was kismet that had him visit the Japanese homeland and then visit the grave of their greatest WWII hero. My father got pretty worked up about all the WWII stuff he was looking at. So on December 31 in the middle of the night when the siren's went off my father jumped out of bed and yelled “AIR RAID!!!!” and woke us up to get out into the courtyard of the hotel we were staying at....as we stumbled onto the veranda that led to the stairs downstairs the natives in the courtyard below looked up at my dad who was still yelling “Air Raid!” and said quite matter of factly “Happy New Year.”
When we returned we took down the Xmas tree and my mother made a pact that she would use the angel I had made every Christmas from then on. Needless to say The angel didn't survive the trip back to the states, being one of the first things she put in the box. So when I came home the following Xmas she talked me into making her a new one, and then that one didn't survive to the next year etc. so every year I had to make my mother a new angel using stuff I rescued from the trash. One year we did Renaissance, one year we did Riccoco ( I tied into some Gold foil that had come with some poinsettia's) one year we did something Romantic, then Pre Raphaelite...What could I say, My mom knew what she wanted and knew how to get it.
Right after we returned from Rabaul my father got on the Yamamoto thing. There were people that did the trip regularly, One had gotten one of the engine serial number plates. My dad decided he must own this item. The person that told him this told him the name of the individual that owned it. I recognized the name but said nothing. My dad got this guy on the phone and promised him cash or whatever he wanted to put this item in my dad's possession. The guy said no, it wasn't for sale. My dad asked if he could at least come and see it. The guy agreed. I asked to go along. My dad agreed but told me to keep my mouth shut, that he'd do all the talking. I agreed. We went to this individuals house and I followed my dad in. The guy in question was the equipment manger for the mine. He and I did business regularly while I was in the yard. He always wanted us to drop everything and do his stuff now so that he could have it back in place asap. I sometimes relented and sometimes I refused-showing him the yard of things that needed to be blasted and painted that had shown up days before him, and that I had responsibility to take care of all the customers that brought things to be blasted and painted. We drank together pretty regularly, Yes this guy and I knew each other well. I stood there and let my dad do all the talking and just smiled at the owner of what my father wanted. The guy we'd come to visit looked at me, smiled, and said to me while my father was trying to convince him into selling the engine plate to him “This is your father?” I nodded “You weren't exaggerating were you?” I shook my head. He smiled and said, “ Damn Pommy Yank, if I give this to him will my stuff move up in the line to get blasted and painted?” I shrugged . “...and I don't mean once in a while, I mean regularly.: I shook my head, but let him know it was in his best interest to give my dad what he wanted. It was at this moment my father realized that the guy wasn't hearing anything that he was saying, that the owner of the precious engine plate was talking to me. “You know this guy Alb?” I turned to my dad and said “oh yeah, we see each other at least once a week, don't we?” The guy just swore and handed the engine plate to my father saying “take the damn thing, bloody yank. Albert and I are wontoks...right?” I nodded. And we left. My father questioned me at length about all this and I reminded him that I hadn't said anything. Lets just say When this guy showed up with his stuff he got took care of as soon as I could squeeze him in. Power is a wonderful thing.
Now might be a good time to discuss an incident that on the surface seemed trite and an exercise in the ridiculous however when one examines it becomes the nut of the human condition. As you've probably gathered by now, My father is from another time and another place. In his mind there is black and white, importance and foolishness and order and chaos. One of his few Romantic passions is WW I. To this day at 2 pm, there is a ongoing program on the “war” cable channel that concerns “the great war” as it is known-especially the Air war, and my father is fixated like a 6 year old watching cartoons. Long before we reached New Guinea my father found a decal of the German “Iron Cross” that had other implications to the Biker community which is the reason I'm sure the decal was manufactured, however my father placed this on his Hard hat as the Medal that the original designers had meant it to represent. While in New Guinea this decal marked my father, and his attitude, stubbornness, his almost mythical understanding of the Trucks that he was there to maintain, his ability to think on his feet such as when the actual part to make the machine whole again was unavailable to be able to improvise and put the machine back on its feet became legend. I've already told of how my father's apprentices regarded him. He was like a god to them. ( I don't exaggerate the facts here) but his peers and the executives of the mine felt similarly. In November my father asked my sister to chase down some more Iron Cross decals, he needed between a dozen and 20. My sister wrote back after a month that she could only find about 6. I made the suggestion that she Contact the Monogram Model Company and order about 8 decal sets from their model “The Red Baron” a car model I had built when I was younger. This was accomplished and when she came for Christmas my sister presented my father with His decals. The following Friday after lunch my father assembled his Mechanics and the other service people associated with Morgan equipment. He pulled out a tape recorder that had a cassette Of German WW I tunes, all of them of a Military vein. He explained to the assembled Aussie and Kiwi crew the significance of the Iron Cross in the German Army. Or at least his version of it I'm sure. He commented that it was given for valor. It was given as more then a good conduct medal but to an individual that has served the Fatherland in a capacity above and beyond ones' Duty. My father pushed the button on the tape recorder and began calling out names. Beginning with the smallest of the decals for the lesser of the heroic deeds that were performed in the maintaining and repairing the Euclid trucks that they were all there to do, leading up to the larger decals like the one he sported. These Guys were every inch men. They drank, they fought, the loved and they came to work. However there wasn't a dry eye in the house. At this point it could be said that my dad was establishing his own cult and these, his followers would have done anything he asked of them. A man will spend the money he earns and think well of the person who gave it to him, however give a man a medal and he belongs to you.
It wasn't long after the holidays had come and gone that the damnedest thing that I have ever seen happened. My head “boy” was a guy in his early 40's named Clabus He was considered 'Lapoon' (old). There was something about Clabus that wasn't like the other guys. He always walked in front, he always sat in the front of the truck not in the back. He ate first, he called “Kai!” (Lunch) and the guys paid him as much respect as they did Robbie. When Clabus spoke the boys listened, and I don't think it was because he was head boy, I think there was more to it then that. They sorta respected me but only cause I was the same color as Robbie. I guess I didn't carry myself that way. I think they saw me as one of them cause I worked along side them and didn't just point and tell them to do it.
One day just before Lunch Clabus was feeding the sand hopper and the Diesel Air compressor we were using was making one hell of a racket about 5' away. I was facing the jungle and Clabus was facing me and the compressor. I was yelling to be heard over the compressor to him what I wanted to blast next while I got the other guys to paint what was being blasted now. He instantly got stiff, put his fingers up to his lips to silence me. He slowly reached down and picked up a stone about the size of a tennis ball and in one motion stood and threw it into the jungle behind him. At that second a flying fox was gliding from one tree to the next. Clabus nailed him in mid flight. There was absolutely no chance that Clabus could have seen him, hell I didn't see him and I was facing that way. With the racket that the compressor was making he couldn't have heard it. He dropped the shovel and went to retrieve it and yelled “KAI!” and brought the large bat like creature to the guys who proceeded to clean it and build a fire to cook it. When I asked him how he knew where the flying fox was he told me that his ancestors had told him. And that was the end of the conversation. I ate the piece I was offered. It tasted a little gamier the chicken.
IF you can tell me how this occurred without some form of mysticism I'd love to hear it.
While I worked the yard, the guys taught me all kinds of things. How to find Sugar cane. How to roast a plantain. How to husk a coconut with nothing more then a screwdriver and if you have a machete how to make you a spoon from the husk to eat it. I learned how to pick a banana bunch and ripen it in a sack in a dark room. I learned how to Pick fruit at the market. I once picked up a pineapple that was over 20” tall with the stalk. It was the color of light walnut on the outside and was so sweet you could smell it 10' away- it cost me the total of about .35. I got pretty good with a pot gun and could tear one down and clean it and reassemble it in about 5 minutes. Robbie and I had our moments. I was loading a crew to take to a job and half of them were dragging their feet. He told me to get on the road and to hell with the guys who weren't ready yet. When I tried to argue with him, he just told me to get on the road. SO I did. He was about 5 minutes behind me with the rest of my crew, madder then hell at me because I had left with only half of them. It was pointless to point out to him that I had just done what he told me. I didn't mind the job.
My drawing was making serious progress, I was developing a style that marked me as different from anybody else. I was beginning to get a name for myself. The Island provided many distractions for me. Sometimes I and my family would be invited to a picnic on Pok-Pok, a small Island about a mile off of Kieta's coast. It looked like an alligator in the water thus the name Pok-Pok (crocodile). It was during one of these Picnics that I got on an inner tube and swam out to the reef, I was about 20 yards away from the actual reef when I was joined by one of my 'Wontok''s who swam out to use the bottle opener I had around my neck. As we sat and chatted while he treaded water and drank his beer (a skill that all Ausies seem to have) a black fin broke the surface about 15 yards off. This fin was about 20" out of the water and I saw it and said "Oh cool, a whale" The Ausie stated that it wasn't a whale, It was a great white, and a big one too. I have never swam that fast in my life again. I had made friends with one of the Island's Matriarch figures who happened to be the wife of the manager of Morgan equipment, I had a brief crush on her. She was a Berkeley Graduate who listened to classical music and some Grateful Dead. She became a social source for me introducing me to other people of the management status on the Island. My social life didn't suffer. I saw my friend's sister a few times and I think she cared for me all the more cause I let her know that I really didn't care what she did or said, that I was on this Island for a short while and would leave with no regrets. However we did enjoy each others company occasionally.
In March My Father's Boss came for a visit. He liked me, I always got him a drink when he came to visit and I entertained him with stories of my life. This time was no exception. I met him at the door with a glass of scotch from the bottle I'd bought from the LSSC. They didn't usually sell liquor but I told them it was an emergency so they sold it to me. “So, how's it going here, lad?” I showed him the pictures that I had drawn and told him of my job. He seemed to be entertained so when he was finished with his drink I got him another and broached the subject that I had been thinking on since I got there. I started out with the conversation that my drawing would be of great help to me when I started school in the fall. That I was really looking forward to starting at the Institute. He nodded and said that he was glad that I would be so close to the factory that my dad could visit when he came into Cleveland for meetings. I swung it back to the point. I suggested that it would be of great benefit if instead of following the contract to the letter, IE returning via Japan and the west coast it would be great if I could just continue West and see Asia, Egypt, Europe and all the Museums there. He suddenly understood my point. He sighed and said that it would probably help me in my school work. I nodded. He said “OK, how much is this going to cost me? I reminded him that the contract stipulated that I make the trip back to American soil 1st class. IF I went coach the other way it would cost him as much maybe less. He smiled and said “yeah, do it, send me postcards of the stuff you see and I want to hear how this helped you in school.” I was suddenly elated. I would be seeing Art in person rather then in books. I thanked him profusely and got him another drink. I also signed one of the drawings he'd especially liked and gave it to him as a gift.
During this whole time I had achieved a great respect for the mosquito's there. They make the tiger mosquito's we are bothered by here look like simple pests. The ones there are about 1/2” long and swarm in clouds that are about 20' across. Those little bastards will indeed carry you off. Our greatest fear was Malaria and we took our quinine regularly. Malaria was rampant on the island amongst the Aussies. One morning the guy who Robbie had hired to do the storage station for the ore slush coming down from the mine came down with a case. It had gotten into his spinal column, this was usually crippling and sometimes fatal, (he and my mother had come to logger heads when he claimed he could buy her some buka baskets (actually they're made by a family in Buin, and he spent the money on beer. My mother got her money back from him and went and got her own baskets.) So I Volunteered to take his job. Running the yard was important, but this job had to have somebody on site. Clabus could run the yard in a pinch with Robbie checking in every couple of hours, It was agreed that I would take over the Slush station. That gave me a vehicle to use. It was an Isuzu 5 speed diesel dump truck. I took the crew to the site and oversaw the work. Although I was there mostly as a babysitter the guys knew what to do. I missed the yard but I knew that I had to be doing what I was doing so I spent the rest of my time while employed at Bougainville Protective Coatings Pty. Ltd. Working on site as a babysitter. The time flew by. It was coming on time for me to plan my exit from New Guinea and plan the stops I would make on my journey west towards home.
After about a week on the job, the other employee came into the yard and unloaded his crew and their supplies. I was just waiting for somebody to drop me off at the post office, about half a mile from my folks house. When he looked at me and asked “Yank, could you use a cold beer?” I said yeah, actually I had needed one for about a week. He invited me into his truck and we drove about a mile up the road and parked in front of the Loloho Sports and Social Club. I was led through the bar proper to the open air Veranda in the back that faced the ocean. This sported three long tables, this is where single men drank, Single woman sat at the bar. Tables in the bar were for married couples ( I guess this arrangement kept the confusion of who was sleeping with whom that night down to a minimum.) and I was offered a seat. ThenI was told to pay Homage. I found out that this was a “game” of sorts. The first one to sit at the table was dubbed the King. He bought himself a beer. The next one to sit had to buy himself and the king a beer, the third had to buy himself, the first guy and the king a beer. Etc. We were the 5th and 6th to arrive. I ended up buying about 7 beers that night, and drank hundreds. I was introduced to many of the people that worked under and with my dad, and many of the people that work in the other professions dealing with the mine and everything not involved with trucks. I was told that L.S.S.C. was a private club and if I wished to join I would have to fill out an application. I did. I had a swell time and was poured into the seat of the truck that brought me and delivered to my front door. I staggered in and went immediately to bed. Needless to say the next day I awoke feeling like I'd spent the time in a tub of frogs that possessed hammers and spent their leisurely evening beating me over the head with them and pissing in my mouth. I was picked up to go to work and was obviously hung over, so Robbie told me to take it easy and let the job handle itself today. It was then I discovered something about Aussies. IF you have dysentery and are throwing up because of the drinking water that has things living in it the Aussies will call you all sort of names and make fun of you, however if you've been “on the piss” as they call it the night before your obviously sick and should take care of yourself. I got three hang over cures that I've employed over the years, the best one was orange Popsicle s and mydol. Anyway, I learned later in the week that I had been turned down as a full member of the the LSSC, A. cause I wasn't officially on contract by the mine, and B. because I didn't own a boat. I guess that living on an Island where it rains every day, had earthquakes regularly, and an active Volcano one doesn't socialize with anyone who doesn't own a boat. However I was given special permission to drink there, come to movie night, and socialize with the members as long “as I didn't prove to be too much of a bloody c*nt.” and folks that was how it was put in writing to me. I was given an anchor shaped bottle opener at the end of a chain for all social occasions I was to attend and instructed to have this opener with me. I still have it on my key chain. I fell in with the Single men at their table, and made friends with a couple of my father's apprentices. After we'd been there for about a month or two all these guys that worked with my dad came up to me en mass while I drank my beer and surrounded me. Okay, guys what's up? I was just sure I had offended somebody...No they said, They wanted to talk to me over here in the corner...we want you to bring your dad down to have a beer with us. I assured them that they should ask him themselves, and they looked at each other and stated that No, they wouldn't dare. They wanted me to do it. And to have me bring him the following Wednesday night. I assured them he wouldn't bite them, They just looked at their shoes and said they wanted me to ask him. OK, I'd ask but I warned them that dad wasn't a drinker...he might drink half a beer if he decided to come at all. They looked at each other and said that would be fine, but they were depending on me. When I got home Dad was sitting at the dinner table looking over a some paper work associated with performance of the trucks he was there to maintain. I sat down and said “I'm coming directly home next Wednesday and taking you to the bar with me. Your people have requested your company and sent me to deliver the invitation. They're afraid they'd offend you by asking you themselves.” He shook his head and said “I don't have time to go to a bar and drink...” I said, “You don't understand, You are coming. You will sit at the table with them and you will drink beer with them, and don't be surprised if they lay palm fronds down for you to walk on.” He looked at me wondering if I was serious, I nodded that yes I was serious and so were they. So the following Wednesday my father accompanied me to the LSSC and I delivered him to his people. I guess they had a hell of a good time because from that day on I wasn't their “friend the yank” I was Their Mate and Wontok. I've used that word twice now, I suppose it needs an explanation. New Guinea has about 2/3 the worlds separate and distinct languages. A “place tok” can only be good for about ½ a mile from any given village. This is why they developed Pidgin, as a trade language. A “Wontok” {one talk} is somebody from your village, probably a member of the family not your brother or father. Somebody you've know since childhood and trust implicitly. For the Aussies on Bougainville it meant a mate, somebody they could trust to steal something that they needed in exchange for them stealing something for you. As I was now Wontok to the guys that worked for my dad I got hooked up to the social scene, what little there was. One guy who was a Kiwi (From New Zealand) even hooked me up for a date with his sister. Single white women were rare on an island of men doing little but drinking and working, a date with his sister without getting on a weird sorta waiting list was an honor I didn't fathom at the time. Needless to say this girl was 18 and a real handful...however...It was an interesting evening, that led to a few others.
I began drawing the locals. A few of the drawings that I still have can be found on my “New Guinea Page” of my website. This came to the attention of the population soon after my work was seen by people outside my family. I'd spend 2-3 nights a week drawing, 2 nights at the bar, and 2-3 nights a week reading and studying for when I began college. I read every bit of “literature” I could get my hands on, I had my sister bring a copy of Gray's anatomy for me to study and draw from when she came for Xmas about 3 months later. During this time I'd go to the beach occasionally on the weekends, did movie night at the LSSC on Saturday nights, and spent the rest of my weekends drawing. I actually got quite good, but I knew I needed to be better. There were some artists there who swapped me art supplies and materials that I could use for straight razors or “a six pack of beer” or to see what I do with them. Soon everybody knew that I was the “yank Artist”. My father would have to occasionally report that no, he wasn't the Albert Kauslick who was the artist, that was his son. And yes it would be OK for the person inquiring to stop by the house and me him. On one occasion while we were eating dinner my father was on a tirade about why in the hell I was going to waste my time getting a degree in art, after all how in the hell was I going to make a living doing that? When there was a knock at the door. A guy was there to meet the artist. I shook his hand. He wanted to see my work. I took him in the back room and showed him what I had done. He would comment about each piece I showed him, and after every few drawings take one to look at and hold onto it. After about looking at about the 50 or so drawings that I had done and the 8 he had in his hand, he said “OK, how much?” How much for what? How much for these that I have in my hand? I did some quick math and told him some ridiculous figure like 500 Kina ( a Kina is the currency in Papua New Guinea, and at the time was worth about $1.60 ) he said fine and wrote me a check. The whole thing took 20 minutes. When I showed him out with the bundle under his arm he apologized to my folks for interrupting their dinner. As I returned to eating my dinner my father asked “What the hell did he want?” I said he wanted to see my work. Then I took the check from my pocket and handed it to my mother and said “could you deposit this for me?” my mother took the check and read it and looked at my father, “Whats that?” he asked. I answered “ A check for 500 Kina, what was it you were saying before we were interrupted?” My father had nothing to say for the rest of the evening.
It was during this time that my mother saw a carving of birds siting in a tree that was done in a certain village in New Britain, My mother had to have one, so it was decided we would go there for New Years to indulge my fathers instantaneous interest in the WWII things that surrounded us, and allow my mother to shop. My sister would be there over Christmas so this would provide a nice vacation for all of us.
As we were quickly approaching Christmas my mother went into over drive. Since Xmas trees don't grow on Bougainville her friends told her of a bush that looked sorta like a Xmas tree that was available if she knew where to get it, My mother approached the manager of Morgan Equipment, which was her source for anything unusual or from the outside world. He said yes he knew the guy and would order her one. Then the race was on to acquire Christmas tree decorations. She frequented the Chinese stores (trade stores that handled every form of junk you can imagine) the supermarkets both there and in Panguna, talking to the various friends she'd made, talking to people who were “going finish” meaning their contracts were up and they were heading back to wherever in the world they came from. In the 8 weeks that proceeded it until a week before Christmas my mother had everything she would need to decorate the tree, Except one thing. She had no Angel for the top of the tree. As hard as she hunted this was the one thing that eluded her. She got more and more worked up about this one thing...thus driving my father crazy. About a week before Xmas it got to the point of obsession, and my father was at a point where he was just about ready to have one flown in from Australia, which would have cost him a mint. I decided that I needed to intervene. I sat my mom down and told her that since it was so important to her, I'd make her one for the top of the tree. She lit right up. “OH, that would be nice...you'd make it nice right?” I nodded and told her I'd make her anything she liked. OK so what would I need? I went around to the different trash cans, rescued tin foil, paper tubes, thread, little pieces of colored paper, small scraps of cloth and I got some scissors and some glue and got to work. It took me three days, but I made her an angel that belonged in a Baroque Painting. She was ecstatic. My father admitted that bringing me along on this venture might not have been a bad idea, and we celebrated Xmas with my sister who couldn't believe the desolation that awaited her on her trip there from Boston. Christmas came. We went to mass, and by that time I was pretty handy with Pidgin. The mass was done in Pidgin, and I have to admit I was giggling like a school kid looking at a comic book. The reason it was funny would be lost in translation, leave it at I needed a good laugh and I got one during that mass. While in New Guinea was the first and last time I actually enjoyed doing mass during my whole life. What was beautiful about doing mass there is that the walls were perforated with cross shaped holes going outside, thus allowing the birds to fly in and out at will. One got a little bit of bird shit on ones clothes (which drove my folks nuts) but I enjoyed it. On the 28th of December we got on the plane to go to Rabaul on the island of New Britain. The first stop for my mother was the open market to deal with the Carvers. We had these guys show up at the door pretty regularly and I bought a few choice carvings, but my mother was seeking a particular carving. She wanted the one with the birds in the tree. As I was interpreter I explained to the guy what we were looking for. I had a plan. The next day he showed up with just the carving my mother wanted. I thanked him, paid for it and carried it off. My mother reached for it so she could see it. I let her handle it and look at it. And she announced that she knew just the place she would put it. I said that was nice, she would have to get one of her own and put it there, but this one was mine. She gave me a look that said quit kidding around, I gave her one that said I wasn't. She got mad and started giving me the guilt trip, which didn't work. I told her that I had asked for it, I had paid for it, it was mine. Well after a few hours she enlisted my father's help. He came up to me and told me in no uncertain terms that I was to give my mother that carving. I looked at him and said “You know how seriously that woman takes Mother's Day. I don't know about you but I've got my present for her.” he nodded and went back to her and told her that she'd end up with it eventually, so we were able to move on with our holiday. I bought some Dolphin carvings from the guy that had sold me the bird to say thank you and that was all he needed. He followed us damn near everywhere trying to sell us more. It seems Rabaul was a Japanese strong hold during the war of the Pacific. We saw the Japanese caves that held the abandoned boats stored them, [we had a few of these caves on Bougainville, and the girl who I was dating once in a while found one with the ceiling caved in and she used it to grow Marijuana, which if caught would have landed her in a New Guinea prison for 20 years and the life expectancy in prison was 5. I told you she was a handful.] We saw ammunition dumps that were abandoned. We saw the small “museum” of Japanese occupation things, heard about the Coast Watchers and how brutal the Japanese were on the locals. It was at this time that my father decided come Hell or high water he was going to make the trip into the bush of Bougainville and visit the wreck of the Yamamoto airplane. The Airplane that had Admiral Yamamoto in it was shot down over Bougainville in a very daring mission, seems these guys had enough gas to linger over BOugainville for about 15 minutes. The site that was maintained by the people that owned the property was a sort of Shrine for Japanese Tourists. My father felt is was kismet that had him visit the Japanese homeland and then visit the grave of their greatest WWII hero. My father got pretty worked up about all the WWII stuff he was looking at. So on December 31 in the middle of the night when the siren's went off my father jumped out of bed and yelled “AIR RAID!!!!” and woke us up to get out into the courtyard of the hotel we were staying at....as we stumbled onto the veranda that led to the stairs downstairs the natives in the courtyard below looked up at my dad who was still yelling “Air Raid!” and said quite matter of factly “Happy New Year.”
When we returned we took down the Xmas tree and my mother made a pact that she would use the angel I had made every Christmas from then on. Needless to say The angel didn't survive the trip back to the states, being one of the first things she put in the box. So when I came home the following Xmas she talked me into making her a new one, and then that one didn't survive to the next year etc. so every year I had to make my mother a new angel using stuff I rescued from the trash. One year we did Renaissance, one year we did Riccoco ( I tied into some Gold foil that had come with some poinsettia's) one year we did something Romantic, then Pre Raphaelite...What could I say, My mom knew what she wanted and knew how to get it.
Right after we returned from Rabaul my father got on the Yamamoto thing. There were people that did the trip regularly, One had gotten one of the engine serial number plates. My dad decided he must own this item. The person that told him this told him the name of the individual that owned it. I recognized the name but said nothing. My dad got this guy on the phone and promised him cash or whatever he wanted to put this item in my dad's possession. The guy said no, it wasn't for sale. My dad asked if he could at least come and see it. The guy agreed. I asked to go along. My dad agreed but told me to keep my mouth shut, that he'd do all the talking. I agreed. We went to this individuals house and I followed my dad in. The guy in question was the equipment manger for the mine. He and I did business regularly while I was in the yard. He always wanted us to drop everything and do his stuff now so that he could have it back in place asap. I sometimes relented and sometimes I refused-showing him the yard of things that needed to be blasted and painted that had shown up days before him, and that I had responsibility to take care of all the customers that brought things to be blasted and painted. We drank together pretty regularly, Yes this guy and I knew each other well. I stood there and let my dad do all the talking and just smiled at the owner of what my father wanted. The guy we'd come to visit looked at me, smiled, and said to me while my father was trying to convince him into selling the engine plate to him “This is your father?” I nodded “You weren't exaggerating were you?” I shook my head. He smiled and said, “ Damn Pommy Yank, if I give this to him will my stuff move up in the line to get blasted and painted?” I shrugged . “...and I don't mean once in a while, I mean regularly.: I shook my head, but let him know it was in his best interest to give my dad what he wanted. It was at this moment my father realized that the guy wasn't hearing anything that he was saying, that the owner of the precious engine plate was talking to me. “You know this guy Alb?” I turned to my dad and said “oh yeah, we see each other at least once a week, don't we?” The guy just swore and handed the engine plate to my father saying “take the damn thing, bloody yank. Albert and I are wontoks...right?” I nodded. And we left. My father questioned me at length about all this and I reminded him that I hadn't said anything. Lets just say When this guy showed up with his stuff he got took care of as soon as I could squeeze him in. Power is a wonderful thing.
Now might be a good time to discuss an incident that on the surface seemed trite and an exercise in the ridiculous however when one examines it becomes the nut of the human condition. As you've probably gathered by now, My father is from another time and another place. In his mind there is black and white, importance and foolishness and order and chaos. One of his few Romantic passions is WW I. To this day at 2 pm, there is a ongoing program on the “war” cable channel that concerns “the great war” as it is known-especially the Air war, and my father is fixated like a 6 year old watching cartoons. Long before we reached New Guinea my father found a decal of the German “Iron Cross” that had other implications to the Biker community which is the reason I'm sure the decal was manufactured, however my father placed this on his Hard hat as the Medal that the original designers had meant it to represent. While in New Guinea this decal marked my father, and his attitude, stubbornness, his almost mythical understanding of the Trucks that he was there to maintain, his ability to think on his feet such as when the actual part to make the machine whole again was unavailable to be able to improvise and put the machine back on its feet became legend. I've already told of how my father's apprentices regarded him. He was like a god to them. ( I don't exaggerate the facts here) but his peers and the executives of the mine felt similarly. In November my father asked my sister to chase down some more Iron Cross decals, he needed between a dozen and 20. My sister wrote back after a month that she could only find about 6. I made the suggestion that she Contact the Monogram Model Company and order about 8 decal sets from their model “The Red Baron” a car model I had built when I was younger. This was accomplished and when she came for Christmas my sister presented my father with His decals. The following Friday after lunch my father assembled his Mechanics and the other service people associated with Morgan equipment. He pulled out a tape recorder that had a cassette Of German WW I tunes, all of them of a Military vein. He explained to the assembled Aussie and Kiwi crew the significance of the Iron Cross in the German Army. Or at least his version of it I'm sure. He commented that it was given for valor. It was given as more then a good conduct medal but to an individual that has served the Fatherland in a capacity above and beyond ones' Duty. My father pushed the button on the tape recorder and began calling out names. Beginning with the smallest of the decals for the lesser of the heroic deeds that were performed in the maintaining and repairing the Euclid trucks that they were all there to do, leading up to the larger decals like the one he sported. These Guys were every inch men. They drank, they fought, the loved and they came to work. However there wasn't a dry eye in the house. At this point it could be said that my dad was establishing his own cult and these, his followers would have done anything he asked of them. A man will spend the money he earns and think well of the person who gave it to him, however give a man a medal and he belongs to you.
It wasn't long after the holidays had come and gone that the damnedest thing that I have ever seen happened. My head “boy” was a guy in his early 40's named Clabus He was considered 'Lapoon' (old). There was something about Clabus that wasn't like the other guys. He always walked in front, he always sat in the front of the truck not in the back. He ate first, he called “Kai!” (Lunch) and the guys paid him as much respect as they did Robbie. When Clabus spoke the boys listened, and I don't think it was because he was head boy, I think there was more to it then that. They sorta respected me but only cause I was the same color as Robbie. I guess I didn't carry myself that way. I think they saw me as one of them cause I worked along side them and didn't just point and tell them to do it.
One day just before Lunch Clabus was feeding the sand hopper and the Diesel Air compressor we were using was making one hell of a racket about 5' away. I was facing the jungle and Clabus was facing me and the compressor. I was yelling to be heard over the compressor to him what I wanted to blast next while I got the other guys to paint what was being blasted now. He instantly got stiff, put his fingers up to his lips to silence me. He slowly reached down and picked up a stone about the size of a tennis ball and in one motion stood and threw it into the jungle behind him. At that second a flying fox was gliding from one tree to the next. Clabus nailed him in mid flight. There was absolutely no chance that Clabus could have seen him, hell I didn't see him and I was facing that way. With the racket that the compressor was making he couldn't have heard it. He dropped the shovel and went to retrieve it and yelled “KAI!” and brought the large bat like creature to the guys who proceeded to clean it and build a fire to cook it. When I asked him how he knew where the flying fox was he told me that his ancestors had told him. And that was the end of the conversation. I ate the piece I was offered. It tasted a little gamier the chicken.
IF you can tell me how this occurred without some form of mysticism I'd love to hear it.
While I worked the yard, the guys taught me all kinds of things. How to find Sugar cane. How to roast a plantain. How to husk a coconut with nothing more then a screwdriver and if you have a machete how to make you a spoon from the husk to eat it. I learned how to pick a banana bunch and ripen it in a sack in a dark room. I learned how to Pick fruit at the market. I once picked up a pineapple that was over 20” tall with the stalk. It was the color of light walnut on the outside and was so sweet you could smell it 10' away- it cost me the total of about .35. I got pretty good with a pot gun and could tear one down and clean it and reassemble it in about 5 minutes. Robbie and I had our moments. I was loading a crew to take to a job and half of them were dragging their feet. He told me to get on the road and to hell with the guys who weren't ready yet. When I tried to argue with him, he just told me to get on the road. SO I did. He was about 5 minutes behind me with the rest of my crew, madder then hell at me because I had left with only half of them. It was pointless to point out to him that I had just done what he told me. I didn't mind the job.
My drawing was making serious progress, I was developing a style that marked me as different from anybody else. I was beginning to get a name for myself. The Island provided many distractions for me. Sometimes I and my family would be invited to a picnic on Pok-Pok, a small Island about a mile off of Kieta's coast. It looked like an alligator in the water thus the name Pok-Pok (crocodile). It was during one of these Picnics that I got on an inner tube and swam out to the reef, I was about 20 yards away from the actual reef when I was joined by one of my 'Wontok''s who swam out to use the bottle opener I had around my neck. As we sat and chatted while he treaded water and drank his beer (a skill that all Ausies seem to have) a black fin broke the surface about 15 yards off. This fin was about 20" out of the water and I saw it and said "Oh cool, a whale" The Ausie stated that it wasn't a whale, It was a great white, and a big one too. I have never swam that fast in my life again. I had made friends with one of the Island's Matriarch figures who happened to be the wife of the manager of Morgan equipment, I had a brief crush on her. She was a Berkeley Graduate who listened to classical music and some Grateful Dead. She became a social source for me introducing me to other people of the management status on the Island. My social life didn't suffer. I saw my friend's sister a few times and I think she cared for me all the more cause I let her know that I really didn't care what she did or said, that I was on this Island for a short while and would leave with no regrets. However we did enjoy each others company occasionally.
In March My Father's Boss came for a visit. He liked me, I always got him a drink when he came to visit and I entertained him with stories of my life. This time was no exception. I met him at the door with a glass of scotch from the bottle I'd bought from the LSSC. They didn't usually sell liquor but I told them it was an emergency so they sold it to me. “So, how's it going here, lad?” I showed him the pictures that I had drawn and told him of my job. He seemed to be entertained so when he was finished with his drink I got him another and broached the subject that I had been thinking on since I got there. I started out with the conversation that my drawing would be of great help to me when I started school in the fall. That I was really looking forward to starting at the Institute. He nodded and said that he was glad that I would be so close to the factory that my dad could visit when he came into Cleveland for meetings. I swung it back to the point. I suggested that it would be of great benefit if instead of following the contract to the letter, IE returning via Japan and the west coast it would be great if I could just continue West and see Asia, Egypt, Europe and all the Museums there. He suddenly understood my point. He sighed and said that it would probably help me in my school work. I nodded. He said “OK, how much is this going to cost me? I reminded him that the contract stipulated that I make the trip back to American soil 1st class. IF I went coach the other way it would cost him as much maybe less. He smiled and said “yeah, do it, send me postcards of the stuff you see and I want to hear how this helped you in school.” I was suddenly elated. I would be seeing Art in person rather then in books. I thanked him profusely and got him another drink. I also signed one of the drawings he'd especially liked and gave it to him as a gift.
During this whole time I had achieved a great respect for the mosquito's there. They make the tiger mosquito's we are bothered by here look like simple pests. The ones there are about 1/2” long and swarm in clouds that are about 20' across. Those little bastards will indeed carry you off. Our greatest fear was Malaria and we took our quinine regularly. Malaria was rampant on the island amongst the Aussies. One morning the guy who Robbie had hired to do the storage station for the ore slush coming down from the mine came down with a case. It had gotten into his spinal column, this was usually crippling and sometimes fatal, (he and my mother had come to logger heads when he claimed he could buy her some buka baskets (actually they're made by a family in Buin, and he spent the money on beer. My mother got her money back from him and went and got her own baskets.) So I Volunteered to take his job. Running the yard was important, but this job had to have somebody on site. Clabus could run the yard in a pinch with Robbie checking in every couple of hours, It was agreed that I would take over the Slush station. That gave me a vehicle to use. It was an Isuzu 5 speed diesel dump truck. I took the crew to the site and oversaw the work. Although I was there mostly as a babysitter the guys knew what to do. I missed the yard but I knew that I had to be doing what I was doing so I spent the rest of my time while employed at Bougainville Protective Coatings Pty. Ltd. Working on site as a babysitter. The time flew by. It was coming on time for me to plan my exit from New Guinea and plan the stops I would make on my journey west towards home.
posted by ak at 8:26 AM
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