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Date Posted: 21:23:52 01/15/00 Sat
Author: Anonymous
Subject: Buai Market is more then daka, kambang na buai Dump!

I know this probably belong to the possible writers galore forum, but I thought I'd break your boredon from reading ongoing verbal battles between ..... well you know who.


PNGians for what they are possibly the most politically sensitive people in the South Pacific. I am pretty sure that every conversation is laced with some political verbiage. Take this as plot. Go to any buai market and see women in colorful Meri blouses, hand woven bilums slung from their shoulder walk in and out of the hurricane wire enclosure. Men in rolled up trousers watched from vehicles with engines still running at full throttle. Their jaws moved in mechanical motion, munching and grinning between puffs of tobacco or marijuana smoke. It is the main buai market; wholesale for the town retailers' set up by the city council to control the proliferation of the betel nut trade in the city. It is the focal point for the many life forms, a hive of activity, laud talks among the sellers and buyers, traffic chaos and mountains of garbage that remain uncollected for weeks on end.
Conveniently located beside it are the stores that sells anything from cheap clothes from Asia to New Zealand lamb flaps and plastic bags. It is the point of convergence of the rural and the city slick entrepreneur and political activist. Rural buai growers trade buai at K50.00 a bag (if the city retailers had not waylaid them along the Hiritano highway) and sell it at twice the price. It is the main center for social gossips and meetings amongst friends and foe alike. Young men and women seek out potential wives and husbands or a one-night stand and women from polygamous households find it opportune to settle scores with one of their husband's numerous other wives. Police officers pick up wanted criminal elements and the hordes of pick pockets that swam the place like blue bubonic flies.
Here is the typical trade that goes beyond the fenced wire. Sellers sit on top of piles of rotting rubbish. Betel nuts, pepper fruits and lime are laid out on the soil because men who pass the day lounging and doing nothing take up the few sellers' platforms. They represent the local rascal gangs or men married to women buai sellers. No one dares to challenge them.
PNGians are easily distinguishable. The long curly hairdo coastal folks sitting crossed legged and smiling easily at the buyers are coastal Papuans. Full-bodied highlanders stand about and watched their wares with cautious stares. They greet you with' abrupt "Yes Kande laikim buai? Naisbla Mekeo buai stret. Kerema buai i liklik more tasol suwit ologeta. Buai blong ol Kawas em traipela na blo ol strong man tasol. In the off season these sold for K4.00 a nut including the equally large pepper fruit [talk about mutation].
Oli paim, oli paim, oli paim!" is the daylong howl as you see buyers meander their way around carefully as they seek out fresh nuts or a free one from the benevolent female sellers. In the midst are gigolos to chance a village female seller. They often move out quickly let they invite the wrath of the male relatives who probably have a concealed butcher's knife in their trousers pockets.
Argument is the order of the day. It continues incessantly among the sellers. Women trade personal insults to the amusement of their male folks. Men whistle at each other and make catcalls to the large numbers of females. Words of "Sans oh, Can I oh, hemarai lasi, faveya, nogat sem blong yu," resounded through the market place. The crowd seemed oblivious to these, it seems they have heard it the past.
Come to the market you will be told. You can hear the latest gossip, the political horse-trading, the latest sacking in the civil service, the lead to the last murder and even an attempt to your own life. There is always someone who probably knows about spouse swapping among the elites or who is driving around in a K250, 000 executive, brought with your tax payers money of course. Stay around a little longer and you would be treated to entertaining domestic squabbles. A Jerry Springer type show except there are no plots minus the gays and lesbians and the stage is the bare Tokarara soil. Talk about keeping your sleazy secret for the inner sanctums of your master bedroom, well not on life. Here you're private organs, the female vital statistics and measurements and the tryst that failed is fair dinkum. And if you are daring you would probably smile at some lonely looking like women and soon she is beside you. You would probably want to sneak her out in your car until a horde of men start to throw stones at you shouting; "Pamuk man emi stealing meri blong mipela." Fearing for your life you would probably high tail it leaving the women to cope the insults. You have been warned.
Now here slowing down to park beside you is a red Z colored Z black vehicle. You would think the drivr was an idiot since a similar car was snatched from its driver only a moment ago, until you see the dark spectacled muscular male alighting from the passengers door and others disembarking from a follow up vehicle. From the back seat one heavy set male struggles to get out. The suspensions creak in relief, as he is finally free from the vehicle. His two female companions prefer to remain within the comfort of the air-conditioned Mercedes Benz. Soon he is swapping handshake with the crowd. One of his associates soon returns with a bag full of buai and with a thumbs up sign he re enters the car "shouting lookim yupela long parliament" for which the crowd respond; "noken forget, nogut yu aut long 2002!"
Now just who might be that guy? Well it could be anyone of the 109 MPs who have conveniently taken up residence in POM. In the beginning, he might have been just an ordinary villager, a university dropout perhaps or a retired public servant. In the years prior to entering parliament, he would have been prowling his provincial hinterland, practically broke and only to relocate permanently to Port Moresby soon after winning the open seat. Listen carefully and soon an individual in the market had a crowd around him. He is obviously one of the latest of the political yo-yos since given a ministerial portfolio for his support in the recent vote of no confidence. With five MPs he had cobbled together a political party and crossed over to the opposition camp. He has been given responsibility over public works and transport, the reason why he was already been carted around the city in a ministerial executive car while his brother ministers are still hitch hiking with their departmental heads. The females in the car carry the official titles of Executive officer and research officer. The crowd in the other car is his electoral officers, but like him have obtained permanent residency in Port Moresby and occasionally return to dispense his electoral funds. He is married with five children, although it is rumored that he has three others in the other three regions, two live in the city and the fairest in his Cairns home down under. Someone soon quipped that several days ago his number one wife flew to town unannounced and with the help of her tribal women bashed him on his back with a claw bar. She had found him in bed with an Asian woman, the reason why he walked with a limp and didn't stay around for long. The wife was since forcefully returned home to his tribal community.
By the way if you didn't know he is actually an adopted chief in the tribes of his other wives. Only a few weeks ago he had signed major road works in the three provinces wholly financed by a loan from the Asian Development Bank. This was commemorated with a special feature in the weekend newspaper supplement with his picture on the front page and a caption screaming: YOUTHFUL MINISTER ON THE MOVE!
Oh by the way if you hadn't forgotten, your own local MP has just had a mild stroke. A fellow wantok who dropped by to pick up some buai for the vigil at the MP's home has reported that he is in the ICU and resting. Apparently he had received report that several upstarts in his electorate have begun a political awareness campaign to oust him in the 2002 elections. He couldn't believe his own nephew is the nominated challenger and he has been calling him a " Roos blong Mosbi" that must be rid off. Well since I am from the same electorate I might as well drop by and join the vigil and free tucker for the evening. So I hitch a hike with my wantok leaving the buai market blazing with police gun fire as they fought it out with would be robbers of the TST supermarket.

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