A Bird on My Shoulder Read online

  In a vast marquee in the centre of London, I found a group of dancers wearing grass skirts, bird of paradise headdresses, leaves, red-and-white-painted faces and gleaming body oil.

  I introduced myself to a young woman standing near the door in all her finery and asked if I could interview her. We stood in the gloomy sunshine, away from the bustle of the tent. The tape started rolling.

  ‘My name is Susannah Wamp and I come from Mount Hagen in the Western Highlands of Papua New Guinea.’ Susannah spoke softly with a quiet reserve, but her English was good and she was thoughtful, warm and engaging. We spent some time talking about her life, her impressions of England and the meaning of the dance she was taking part in – tainim het (turning head), a courtship dance.

  I discovered Susannah had not yet seen much of the city or the surrounding countryside, so after our interview I invited her to come out with Libby and me the following Sunday.

  When we arrived at her hotel she was standing nervously at the main entrance with her friend Josephine. ‘I am happy to see you,’ she said.

  As we drove out of London, Susannah was glued to the window. We passed a large hanging sign with the words Sunnyside Kennels written on it and a picture of a large black dog. ‘What is that?’ she asked.

  I thought for a moment about how to explain. “It’s like a hotel for dogs,” I began. “People go away and they pay someone to put their dog in a house and look after them.”

  ‘People do this?’ she asked. She explained that in her culture, dogs were simply part of tribal life and survived by scavenging; in a subsistence lifestyle which was dependent on the seasons for a good crop, people always came first.

  After lunch in a pub just outside London, we headed back home. Pulling up at some traffic lights, Susannah noticed another painting of a large fluffy dog, this time in a shop window below the sign Dandy Dog. She laughed softly. ‘Another hotel?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said slowly, my embarrassment rising. ‘Actually, that is a hairdresser for dogs. People take their dogs there to be washed and have their hair and nails cut.’

  The car filled with hysterical laughter.

  Spending time with Susannah and Josephine was the first opportunity I’d ever had to shine a spotlight on my own culture. I found myself trying to explain, with enormous difficulty, why we put old people into nursing homes rather than care for them, or why people begged on the streets when, as Susannah put it after seeing a dishevelled homeless man pushing his belongings in a supermarket trolley across Sloane Square, ‘There are so many rich people here; could they not give him some food?’

  A few days later, before they were due to leave, I invited Susannah and Josephine back to my flat for what I told them was a traditional English summer tea: fresh strawberries drowning in clotted cream. Despite the obvious cultural differences, I felt Susannah and I were kindred souls and I sensed she did too. Every few months a battered airmail letter would arrive from Wilya village on the outskirts of Mount Hagen, reigniting my passion to visit her one day and fulfil a long-held dream.

  •••

  My eventual arrival in Papua New Guinea many years later had all the hallmarks of fate. In 1988, at the age of twenty-five, weary after two years as a financial journalist in London, I decided to go to Australia based on the flimsy advice from a member of staff at Oxfam who I had phoned about a voluntary job in Mount Hagen.

  ‘To be honest, you’re a bit young,’ I was told. ‘And the fact that you’re a woman might be a problem. If you really want to go to PNG, I’d say your best bet would be to get a job in Australia and work on it from there.’

  I had wanted to travel for a while, as I had never taken a gap year, so I sold everything I owned and, with a mixed sense of fear and exhilaration, got on a plane.

  After a few weeks of knocking on doors in Sydney, I was offered a job with AAP, which also happened to have an office in Port Moresby. But it seemed unlikely they would ever send me – the foreign postings were reserved as a reward for journalists who had stayed with the company for years, something I could never imagine myself doing. Four years later – having completed two long walks in the desert – I decided I could not live in the city anymore; I needed a new adventure. When I told the editor-in-chief that I was resigning, he suggested that instead I should go to PNG to fill in while the incumbent correspondent was on extended leave over the Christmas holidays.

  I remember so clearly my anticipation growing as a thin green strip of land appeared in the distance on a hazy horizon. As I pressed my face against the aircraft window, I could feel years of inexplicable longing welling up inside me, tears coursing down my cheeks. The excitement was compounded when, on arrival, I learned the PNG correspondent had just resigned; applications for the permanent position were now open.

  Within days I was smitten by the dishevelled city and its chaotic energy, the spontaneous friendly smiles and open affection. I worked like a demon, even writing stories on Christmas Day in my effort to impress. The support for my presence from my Papua New Guinean colleagues was overwhelming – they warmed to me instantly and I to them. They helped me to learn the ropes and even wrote to my editor in support of my application to stay in PNG.

  A month later, by some extraordinary miracle – which probably also had something to do with the fact that hardly anyone else had applied – I was offered the posting.

  After briefly returning to Sydney to pack, I stepped off the plane for the second time into a wall of blasting heat and I knew, with absolute certainty, that everything I ever wanted would be somehow found in this most unlikely and seemingly difficult country. Not even the prospect of living by myself in one of the world’s most dangerous cities had, even for a moment, dimmed the bright star of this longstanding passion.

  By the time Ros came to visit, I had been working as a foreign correspondent in Papua New Guinea for AAP for more than a year. Every day was a new adventure as I was increasingly drawn into the layers of another, fascinating world, an ancient, complex culture full of contradictions, impossible to categorise.

  I gave little real thought to my wider future; I was thirty-one, I loved my job and, while I had not given up hope of meeting someone who I could build a life with, I was philosophical about its likelihood.

  Privately, of course, I dreamed of a lifelong, loving union. I became a little defensive when asked to explain, particularly by my mother back in England, why I had not settled down yet. I had sent her a postcard earlier that year, a cartoon of a young woman looking nonplussed while her mother hovers in the background.

  ‘Dear, the whole family wants to know why you’re not married yet,’ the mother is saying. The younger woman is rolling her eyes. ‘Tell them,’ she replies, ‘. . . tell them I forgot.’

  I certainly did not imagine for a moment, as Ros and I got dressed for the party, that I would soon find my future husband. In the drugged air of that ordinary tropical night, a whole new life was stirring.

  3

  I want to carve a bright new world, a world that

  springs from nowhere like the farthest aching star.

  We drove out slowly through the electric gates, serenaded by the howls of local security dogs. The house, which had an office downstairs, was surrounded by razor-wire fences, mercifully camouflaged by huge swathes of flowering bougainvillea. The company’s loyal but ageing housekeeper, Geri, was carrying a long-handled machete as he scanned the darkness. Even though he performed the role of night security guard with gusto, I often wondered what he would do if anything serious should ever happen.

  Leaving and entering home was well-known in Port Moresby as a vulnerable point for carjacking. Most expatriates did not worry about robbery alone; it was the potential for gratuitous violence that most people feared. And rape, of course, such a terrifying violation of tenderness. Among my Papua New Guinean friends, the situation was much, much worse – they often did not have the economic advantages and fortressed homes of their foreign counterparts and their level of safet
y was much poorer by comparison. They relied mainly on their substantial family networks – but often this was not enough to protect them.

  ‘Okay, go now!’ Geri called out.

  As we roared up the street, our doors and windows locked, Ros twisted a tissue in her hands and stared out into the dark night.

  Fear of crime was a big part of Port Moresby life and thankfully there were many times when I travelled around the rest of the country and had absolutely no apprehension at all. But my general wariness while driving at night in this fractured city and a year of broken sleep spoke volumes about the level of underlying anxiety I had learned to live with.

  Although accurate statistics were hard to find, crime in the city was frequent and every incident resonated. Sean Dorney, the long-standing ABC correspondent, advised me simply to keep a level head when I first arrived, saying that reasonable precautions should be enough. Just to encourage this serene state of mind, he had welcomed me with a lovely card. Inside was a copy of the front cover of a book written in 1974 about life in Port Moresby entitled Not a White Woman Safe.

  •••

  Razor wire and high security gates flashed in our headlights as Ros and I snaked our way around the narrow streets of Touaguba Hill, one of the city’s most prestigious suburbs, which housed international diplomats and the political elite.

  ‘I take my hat off to you, Luce,’ Ros said as we headed up the hill towards the brightly lit Australian High Commission. ‘There’s no way I could live here alone.’

  ‘I’m used to it,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m exactly where I want to be.’

  My mood lifted as I registered the presence of many familiar faces. I introduced Ros to a colleague and, true to form, she immediately engaged in an animated conversation. Perfect – the guest who did not need propping up. I wandered off to talk to the hosts, Bill and Elaine, determined to make the most of the evening.

  Two hours later, the crowd had dwindled as I sat at a table with my friend Ian Boden, deep in conversation. We were interrupted by the appearance of Ros at my side.

  ‘Are you ready to go?’ I asked.

  ‘Luce, you have to come and meet this really interesting man I’ve been talking to.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m really tired and I think I’m all talked out.’

  ‘No, really,’ she insisted, ‘I think you ought to meet him.’

  ‘I believe you’re being summoned,’ Ian said with a raised eyebrow, standing up to signal his gracious acceptance that I might be wanted elsewhere.

  Tired and crumpled by the heat, my dress sticking to the back of my legs, I reluctantly followed Ros towards the corner of the garden.

  A man stood there alone. He was tall – at more than six feet he towered over my five-foot frame – and broad-shouldered, with a rather attractive patrician face hiding behind some impossibly thick 1960s glasses. He held out a large freckled hand and his face hesitated into a shy smile.

  ‘Ros has been telling me about you.’ His voice was deep, his British accent strong and crisp. He exuded nervous energy, charging the air around him.

  I shot her a look. Not too much detail, I hope.

  ‘I’m Lucy,’ I said, assessing him in a glance: good-looking, conservative, possibly pompous, hopelessly English.

  ‘Julian Thirlwall,’ he said.

  •••

  Geri was waiting by the gate, his machete dangling beside his spindly legs. He nodded a greeting, satisfied that we were home safely, and waved us through.

  ‘What a lovely man,’ Ros remarked as we pulled into the driveway.

  ‘Geri?’ I replied.

  ‘Julian.’

  ‘He seems nice,’ I said. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘A lawyer. He’s been here for years.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I began to unlock the security door.

  ‘He was telling me his wife died in a car accident. It’s terribly sad. He said they have four boys who live in Australia. They’re at school or maybe uni. I can’t remember. He’s a really lovely man, Luce.’

  ‘Good night, Geri. Thank you!’ I called to the apparently empty garden.

  A reply came from the darkness. ‘Night!’

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ I told Ros. ‘I’ve had it.’ I went into the kitchen to get some water.

  ‘Did I tell you Julian invited us for dinner tomorrow night?’ she called after me.

  ‘Really? What did you say?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think we had any other plans, so I said we’d probably go.’

  •••

  The next morning I persuaded Ros that it would be much nicer to spend our last night alone.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. I’ll let him know.’

  In the privacy of my office I found Julian’s home number in the phone book and left a brief, polite message explaining I had an important news deadline. As I put down the phone, I hoped that would be the end of it – I really could not imagine Julian and I would have much in common at all and I was nonplussed as to why Ros seemed so enthusiastic about him.

  The day slid effortlessly into night as Ros and I sat on the veranda drinking wine, watching a huge buttery moon rise over the Port Moresby hills. The phone rang. I hoped it would not be Julian.

  ‘It could be work,’ I told Ros, running downstairs.

  ‘Hello,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘It’s Julian. Just wondering if you’ve got all your work done and if you might still make it for dinner?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ I fumbled. ‘I’m absolutely drowning in this story on the economy.’ Above me on the balcony I could hear the faint clink of glass on glass.

  ‘Oh, really? I happen to follow financial matters quite closely. Which particular aspect are you looking at?’

  I scrambled through the paper on my desk looking for clues. I could feel my face flushing as I blustered through an excuse.

  ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘if you’re not free tonight, since you’re absolutely drowning as you say, what about tomorrow?’

  Damn. Damn.

  ‘No, tomorrow’s not good either.’

  ‘Thursday?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ I said, my exasperation rising. ‘Thursday is going to be really busy.’

  There was a long pause while he assessed, as a showjumper might, the height and difficulty of a looming fence.

  ‘I see. Well, as your evenings seem to be problematic, let’s have coffee on Saturday. I don’t believe there are any newspaper deadlines at that time?’

  Before I knew it, I had agreed that he should come to my house on Saturday morning. I put down the phone, dismayed by my inability to be more assertive.

  ‘Anything important?’ Ros asked as I came up the stairs.

  ‘No, just the office checking something,’ I said.

  •••

  We sat among the detritus of our dinner. Ros had recently left a stable relationship which she’d been in for many years. Everyone liked her partner and many could not understand her decision to leave him. Although she was still relatively young – she was the same age as me – I hoped she would not regret her decision.

  ‘I know I’m not exactly the relationship poster girl right now,’ she began, ‘but let’s focus on you for a minute.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t work too hard,’ she said. ‘There is a life outside the office and you deserve to be loved.’

  That night I lay in bed, unable to sleep. The persistent heat pressed down on my still aching limbs and yelping from the neighbourhood dogs savaged the silence.

  I knew that my immediate life was a happy one, that I was living in a country where I had longed to be, work was always interesting and I had some wonderful friendships. I did not see myself as ambitious for career success at the expense of everything else. To me, it was simply a matter of pragmatism – in the absence of a better offer, I would simply make the most of the opportunities I had.

  At the heart of these ruminations, however, lay a dee
per kernel of self-doubt; a part of me wondered whether I was even capable of the kind of love that I aspired to. Under all my bright banter lurked a very real fear that, when love came too close, I might be seen in the full light of all my complexities, contradictions and inadequacies – and then abandoned.

  I thought back to a rather dramatic resolution I had made a year earlier – that I was not going to have another relationship unless it was for good. I simply could not be bothered with all the drama and uncertainty anymore.

  I had come to this decision after weeks of soul-searching while I walked, with seven others, for more than 850 kilometres across the Great Sandy Desert – from west of Alice Springs to the outskirts of Broome in Western Australia. Hours, days and weeks of silent trudging across the ochre dunes in an endless landscape of sand and sky induced a deep and almost constant state of meditation, and gave me an opportunity to reflect more deeply on where my life was really going.

  Going to the desert had given me no escape from my problems; it was, in fact, a total stripping down, a confrontation with my essential self. Like many people, there were aspects of my life and events from the past which I had not yet made peace with. With little else to distract me, my propensity to be highly self-critical was given free rein and I was forced to come face to face with all the things I had tried to forget.

  As we trudged on, day after day, I found myself shedding not only physical weight but emotional burdens. I knew I was stuck somewhere in my life that I did not want to be – a place that was very familiar but utterly unhappy. I cannot say I found any answers, but I certainly felt more strong and resolute when I returned.

  I kept my promise and battled on through all the challenges of building a new life in Papua New Guinea. Sometimes the feeling of isolation and loneliness was overwhelming, but I had to keep trusting that all would come right. Surely, I thought, it was not a question of if my hopes would be fulfilled, but only a question of when.