NONFICTION  
"I went to Papua New Guinea in 2002"
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Winning the Cultural Lottery
While Assessing the Rule of Law
In Papua New Guinea
by  Mary Noel Pepys

​​Imagine living your entire life on an island and not knowing how old you are. The day you were born, there were no calendars to tell you which year, month or day it was. Nor did you know that each year had four seasons. The only seasons you cared about were the rainy and dry seasons, the two times of the year you planted and later harvested. In 1975, your island became an independent country, and you needed a passport to travel. Since you did not know your age, you simply made it up. That’s how an indigenous tribal leader described his country to me when I met him twenty years ago in Papua New Guinea situated just 80 nautical miles north of Australia.
 
Papua New Guinea, popularly known as PNG, is the world’s second largest island, and was administered by Australia until 1975. It was not until the 1930s that many of its roughly 4 million inhabitants were introduced to foreigners. An influx of missionaries and traders came, and then World War II brought soldiers fighting in the Pacific to the shores of PNG. And the island changed forever.
 
As an international attorney, I went to Papua New Guinea in 2002 to conduct an assessment of the legal system, including its justice institutions, for The World Bank as part of its efforts to end extreme poverty and promote shared prosperity. Traveling alone to a country that is wildly different from her own may seem imprudent for a single woman to do.
 
But I was not daunted by the assignment. I had engaged in similar work the previous decade developing independent judiciaries as a means of enhancing the rule of law in numerous former communist countries. Most of my work was on behalf of the U.S. government, but on occasion I would consult for international organizations, such as The World Bank and United Nations Development Programme.
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When The World Bank contacted me to work in PNG, I was thrilled. Not only because I had a passion—and still do—for enhancing the rule of law, but also because I love adventure. Countries with different histories, languages and customs intrigue me. In fact, the more foreign a country is, the more excited I am to visit.
 
I did not anticipate the exotic lifestyle I would encounter in PNG. That’s because I knew so little of the country before accepting The World Bank assignment. But what I did know is that the differences I would encounter in PNG would be primarily cultural. After decades of international travel, I knew I would develop personal relationships with Papua New Guineans just as I had with people in other countries I have visited. The cultural differences that were to greet me in PNG excited me; the anticipated similarity in personal relationships comforted me.
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​After weeks of researching PNG’s legal system in preparation for my trip, I was surprised to learn the U.S. State Department had issued a Do Not Travel warning due to the high rates of crime, civil unrest and kidnapping. Women were vulnerable to rape and advised to be escorted wherever they went, particularly in Port Moresby, the capital. I should have been nervous, but I was not deterred.
 
Many countries where I have traveled and worked were also blemished with a State Department Do Not Travel warning. And in those countries, I emerged unscathed although I have had scary moments.
 
I was abruptly awakened by gunfire outside the hotel my first night in Tajikistan during its 5-year civil war in the ‘90s. The frightening sound of “pop, pop, pop” was just a few feet from my room. I frantically called the receptionist, my words tripping over each other while trying to speak English slowly so she could understand me. She advised me to move to the other side of the hotel where it was quieter. “Are you out of your mind?” I yelled. She remained silent. I had no choice but to race to the other side of the hotel. There, I found an empty room, got into bed and laid wide awake anxiously listening to the same, albeit muted, gunfire until sunrise.
 
At least in PNG, I did not have to contend with warfare. After a 14-hour flight from San Francisco, I arrived in PNG on a Sunday morning at 2:00 am exhausted. The national airport was deserted. All the shops and its few restaurants were closed. Airport employees had gone home. Only one customs official in his rundown booth and a scattering of taxi drivers remained.
 
As excited as I was to arrive in PNG, I was concerned about being by myself at the airport. The World Bank’s driver assigned to me did not begin his work until Monday so I had to make my own arrangements to get safely to my hotel.
 
I had learned on my flight that certain roads in PNG were dangerous, particularly after midnight. With few cars and fewer police, criminal activity increased. The highway between the airport and downtown Port Moresby was especially dangerous after midnight since foreigners from the U.S. and Europe arrived during that time. Because of the poverty of tribal members who were seeking an urban life in Port Moresby, violent crimes, such as car jackings, sexual assaults and armed robberies, were common. Tensions also ran high among tribal gangs who fought each other over turf to control their criminal activities.
 
I waited impatiently for my luggage, eager to arrive at my hotel as soon as possible. I pleaded with a man from my flight to share a taxi with me even though he was going to another hotel. He was not empathetic with my plight, but finally agreed.
 
Our cab ride was a self-induced, nerve-wracking ordeal. I kept staring out the window wondering which of the few passing cars was going to ambush us. Of course, headlines rarely meet reality. I arrived in downtown Port Moresby unscathed. The cab driver dropped me off at a Marriott look-alike hotel which appeared noticeably out of place. Its exterior was sparkling with a bright neon sign. Its interior, however, was locally-grown. The lobby had been turned into an oasis, decorated with tribal artifacts of traditional masks and shields, gourd art and native jewelry.
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The hotel staff greeted me as if I were a family member. Their kindness and attention to my needs—"Do you prefer a special type of pillow? May we bring hot coffee to your room in the morning? What time would you like breakfast?”—made me feel as if I had returned home. Although I rarely get treated that well at home.
 
From my hotel room, I could see the Coral Sea, named for its numerous coral formations. Its serenity was soothing. More important, it belied the crimes that were theoretically surrounding my hotel and permeating throughout Port Moresby. With such a warm reception by the hotel staff and a bed covered by a down-filled duvet and fluffy pillows, I went to bed feeling like a princess. Such a strange contrast to my airport arrival.
 
The following day, I was introduced to Mike—that’s his anglicized name—the indigenous tribal leader who had agreed to assist me with my assignment. Much to my delight, Mike was a very handsome man with a kind face. He had such presence that he seemed to tower over me. Yet, he was only five inches taller than I am. He was a strong man whose powerful build reflected the travails of tribal living. Men and women in the U.S. spend hours in gyms, trying to attain muscles like Mike’s. His solid frame came from working, not working out. When Mike walked, he exuded power but he was not intimidating. That’s because he had a gentle nature. He was soft-spoken and always looked directly into my eyes when we talked. I felt a warmth in his presence not just because of his good looks, but because he seemed genuine.
 
Mike grew up in PNG’s Highlands, a region of mountains and beautiful river valleys. He belonged to one of the island’s 800 tribes. Most tribes were unknown to each other, primarily because the island’s steep mountainous regions separated the tribes from one another, but also because each tribal group had its own language. Imagine a country of 9 million people and 800 languages?
 
When Mike came to Port Moresby to study at the university and later at law school, graduating at the top of his class, he discovered calendars and seasons. “I felt I had been catapulted into a foreign country,” Mike sighed, when he told me how disoriented he was after arriving in Port Moresby. I felt the same way when I arrived in PNG.
 
I laughed when Mike told me that he chose his lucky numbers to be the year he was born. That made him 40 when I met him. I didn’t tell him, but I think he was closer to 50. Using my lucky numbers as my birth year, I would have been 15 years old when we met.
 
In Port Moresby, Mike was exposed to a lifestyle vastly dissimilar to his own. As a child living in the bush, he did not see cars traveling overs miles of asphalt. He walked on dirt paths or canoed across river streams to get where he was going. It was difficult for him to adapt to modern life: apartment buildings and banks, restaurants and bars, grocery stores filled with canned foods, even soft beds with fluffy pillows.  
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His home, like those of other members of his tribe, was a thatched hut surrounded by a tropical rainforest so thick it was hard to see individual tree ferns and orchid plants, begonias and rhododendrons. In fact, PNG’s rainforests provide the habitat for about 200 species of mammals, 20,000 species of plants, 1,500 species of trees and 750 species of birds, half of which are native to the island.
 
There were no stucco buildings where Mike lived. Nor were there packaged foods. Mike’s meals came from home-grown vegetables and fruits and from animals his tribe had slaughtered, mostly with bows and arrows.
 
As a brilliant lawyer, Mike was a blessing during the three weeks I was in PNG since he had a deep understanding of its legal system. His perspective of various governmental institutions was invaluable, particularly for foreigners who rarely obtain the same insights as locals. Many layers of the onion must be peeled to understand a culture. And in a country like PNG, that can take generations.
 
Spending significant time with Mike had an impact not only on my work, but also on my heart. We developed an unexpected bond. Despite our backgrounds, we were compatible and a friendship grew. Our life experiences could not have been more different, but our values were similar. Had I not been so committed to my work as a professional, perhaps he as well, I’m confident the outcome of our three weeks together could have resulted in a romance. Instead, there was not even a kiss.
 
Mike’s invaluable insights helped me to ascertain how the rule of law was being applied. I had to determine whether PNG adhered to the principles of supremacy of the law, independence of the judiciary, equality before the law, accountability to the law, fairness in the application of the law, separation of powers, legal certainty, and procedural and legal transparency.
 
For me, the work was straightforward. Regardless of a country’s legal system, the international principles of judicial independence are universal and transcend geographic borders and legal systems. Since PNG is a member of the British Commonwealth, its legal system is based on common law and because of its tribal history, customary laws are intermingled.
 
With Mike’s assistance, I interviewed numerous governmental leaders, attorneys, judges, law professors, tribal leaders, civil society activists, and the press. Whenever possible, I met them in their offices rather than in my temporary office. It gave me the opportunity not only to listen to what they were telling me, but also to observe their environment.​
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I learned the importance of physical context in my international work when I was interviewing a Serbian judge right after the fall of communism. He tried to convince me that he had never taken a bribe while we were sitting in his chambers filled with expensive furniture and oriental rugs. This at a time when judges were making around $50 monthly. I was incredulous that he did not try to fool me by conducting the interview in typical, mid-1990s judicial chambers. The first time I entered one a few years earlier in Latvia, I was surprised by how small, cramped and simplistic they were—two to four judges each at a desk with one file cabinet and telephone to share. With this duality of judicial chambers, it was obvious the Serbian judge’s integrity was unreservedly challenged.
 
I did not see such foolish deceit in PNG. In fact, many legal professionals I met were just as sophisticated as Europeans. They were well-educated and well-traveled, and dressed in fashionable Western clothes. Judges and attorneys, like their British counterparts, donned white wigs during trial and argued their cases in impeccable English. I’m always startled to see men in white wigs as I first saw them in London’s Old Bailey. Less startling in PNG was hearing English spoken in a country of more than 800 languages. Today, half the population in PNG speaks English.
 
Apart from the impressive legal professionals I met, there was an exception. One governmental leader kept me waiting in his office for an hour before he arrived disorientated from his post-lunch habit of chewing betel nut, a psychoactive and addictive drug in PNG. His lips were stained bright red, his eyes blurry, hair disheveled, and his tie was trying to find home plate.
 
When I doubted some of his answers to my questions, he became incensed and rather than rephrase his responses, he refused to continue the discussion and ordered me out of his office. I was stunned. I was also embarrassed leaving his office with him yelling at me. What would his staff think? That I, a World Bank representative, was disrespectful of their boss, a senior governmental leader? Later, I was told he often acted irrationally in the afternoons. His staff had learned to tiptoe around him. I wish I had known that. I would have avoided appearing to him as if I were stomping my feet during our interview.
 
“Mary Noel, how do the men treat you in the countries where you work?” I have been asked this question numerous times throughout my 30-year international legal career.
 
In each case, except for the betel-nut chewer, my answer is the same. “Even though many of them are misogynist or live in countries of male dominance, I am treated with respect.” Usually the response I receive is met with rolling eyes: “You’re fooling yourself.”
 
But I am not. I know very well that I receive respect from my male counterparts in other countries not because of who I am, but because of whom I represent. They know that funding for their government, their institutions, their civil society will flow if I provide a positive assessment. I never lose sight of their intentions when interviewing them.​
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After three six-day workweeks of more than 60 meetings, mostly with men, I was persuaded that the PNG judiciary was generally perceived by professionals and laymen alike as independent of external influence. It was a significant assessment since an independent judiciary is the cornerstone of a democracy based on the rule of law. The judges of the two highest courts (Supreme Court and National Court) were reputed to be of high caliber and highly ethical. That was an unusual public perception since many judiciaries in emerging democracies where I have worked are viewed as corrupt, particularly by 50% of the parties who lost their court case.
 
I heard numerous concerns in PNG about lower court judges, the legal profession and the efficacy of the laws, but this was par for the course in emerging democracies. Because I discerned a commitment by PNG’s governmental leadership to advance the rule of law, I was convinced that World Bank investment in PNG would enhance its democratic institutions.
 
My World Bank assignment did not involve the informal justice system which is predominant among the tribes in PNG. I learned from Mike that there is no individual crime in tribal justice, only collective crimes. And there is no such thing as fault, as we know it. For instance, when a member of a tribe steals from a member of another tribe, then the entire tribe is responsible for the crime and must collectively pay. The issue of fault is not important, but rather that peace and harmony between the tribes are restored. The bigman (tribal leader) of the perpetrator’s tribe will negotiate with the bigman of the victim’s tribe. Once the compensation is agreed upon, each member of the perpetrator’s tribe must contribute, usually with currency, sugarcane or pigs.
 
Throughout my three weeks in PNG, and despite the Do Not Travel warning, I never felt vulnerable. My World Bank driver accompanied me to meetings, tourist attractions and social events. No matter which streets my driver and I walked, highways we drove, or offices and shops we entered, I felt safe even though I clearly looked out of place. Why wouldn’t I? A Caucasian woman with blonde hair surrounded by the darkest-skinned people I’ve ever seen. With its borders closed until the mid-1900s and with few tourists since then, Papua New Guineans have had limited opportunities for mixed marriages.
 
In the evenings, I often joined Mike and his friends, all attorneys, for dinner. Only occasionally did we discuss work. Anyone listening to our conversations would have thought we were longtime friends discussing their upcoming vacations abroad and their newest acquisitions which, at that time, were SUVs.
 
Even though they were all men, most of whom had previously lived a remote tribal lifestyle compared to my suburban southern California upbringing, I never felt the differences in our gender, race or ethnicity. From decades of international travel to scores of countries with names that are hard to pronounce, even harder to spell, I discovered from people who did not look like me, spoke incomprehensible languages, ate strange-looking food, and lived unenviable lifestyles, that Maya Angelou is right: “Human beings are more alike than we are unalike.”
 
No matter what a person looks like, what kind of personal history he or she had, what history their country had, or the continent they lived on, I learned firsthand that talking to anyone about their family, especially their children, their desire for success, their affront by dishonesty, lack of integrity or lack of loyalty, their fear of failure, their sadness over loss and their love of laughter and humor revealed emotions similar to mine and all others I had met along the way.​
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My experiences have convinced me that Darwin was also right. Although there are a myriad of cultural differences among human beings, our basic unity as human beings is that we share the same emotions.
 
A few days before I was to leave PNG, one of the most successful PNG attorneys, Stephen, and his Australian wife, Carla, invited me to attend the annual two-day Mt. Hagen Festival. I had never heard about it and was surprised by the invitation since I had only met with Stephen three times and had never met his wife. When I learned the Mt. Hagen Festival celebrates PNG’s unique heritage with tribal members throughout the island nation showcasing their diverse traditions, I felt like I had just won the cultural lottery.
 
Rather than treat me as a foreigner, Stephen and Carla brought me into their family as if we had known each other for years. They made me feel comfortable even though I was going to a remote location with people I barely knew, and even though I was about to observe customs that would be entirely new to me.
 
We arrived in Mt. Hagen after a one-hour flight. The Festival celebration had already begun, and in just one hour I entered an entirely different world than the one I had left in Port Moresby.
 
Each tribe—more than 100 tribes typically attend—distinguished itself by its unique, traditional costume, consisting less of clothing than of beaded coverings. Most of the women and men I saw were bare-breasted. I later asked Mike before leaving PNG what he thought of women’s breasts since they were bared when he grew up and covered when he lived in Port Moresby. His response was intriguing. He said he thought nothing of bared breasts while living in the bush, but once they were “forbidden” by being covered, he was titillated.
 
At the Festival, most tribal members covered their upper bodies with massive necklaces of shells or flora. Depending upon the tribe, certain members wore animal skins under the necklaces; others wore ornate breast plates. Their heavy upper body decorations looked as if they weighed more than I did. Their intricate feathered headdresses, often made of PNG’s venerated birds of paradise, stood more than two feet tall. With most tribes, their legs were covered with straw skirts in rainbow colors.
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A few tribal members arrived late and I was able to watch them meticulously paint each other’s face in contrasting colors, a bright red or yellow or blue. Their eyes, nose and lips were outlined with broad stripes of white paint, and their bodies were painted with highlights of stripes and polka dots.
 
Children dressed just like their parents. Even though they were adorable, as all children are, every tribal member, man, woman and child, looked fantastical to me, particularly those tribal members who were painted as skeletons. I am certain I looked strange to them. That’s if they even noticed me. From their perspective, I was at the periphery of their celebration even though I was standing in the middle of it.​

​I learned that for these tribes, clothing has an entirely different meaning than it does for Americans. Their tribal attire represents their culture while ours represent our individuality. They were there to showcase their cultural heritage through their clothing and body painting and to share their common humanity with each other.
 
I was there to soak up each tribe’s unique dancing while they simultaneously sang their ancestral songs. It was their “sing-sing,” as they refer to the Festival, that transfixed them. Rather than being transfixed myself, I raced around the Festival grounds not wanting to miss any of the tribes, stopping long enough to take photos of each tribe. To use a well-worn phrase, I felt like a wide-eyed kid in a candy store.
 
It’s painful to admit, but I was more interested in capturing their images than experiencing the essence of what I was observing. Sometimes that’s the cruel reality of being a tourist.
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The Festival was a visual smorgasbord and I did not want to leave. But Stephen invited me to visit his tribe, which was located two hours from the Festival grounds. I couldn’t believe it! He was tearing me away from this otherworldly extravaganza that had captured my intense desire to explore, to experience the unknown. Never again, I thought, would I be back. I wanted to stay at least another hour, but I had no choice. It was his homeland and I was his guest.

​We drove through a remote part of the mountains on dirt roads lined with dense vegetation and tall trees that hung over the road, blocking the sun. Finally, a wide swath of land off the side of the road emerged and I could see a cluster of wooden single story homes, around 15 of them, each encircled by a small vegetable garden. A wooden Lutheran church built by the missionaries before WWII was in the distance.
 
We went there to participate in a ceremony of Stephen’s cousin who was getting married after a long courtship. Courtships in Papua New Guinea are a protracted process. A girl and her parents not only judge a boy’s character, but also scrutinize his tribal surroundings. Is there fresh water where he lives? Are there good mountains and farmland that surround his home? And, of course, can his family afford a respectable Bride Price?
 
In PNG, unlike in other countries where a dowry serves as a gift from the bride’s family to the groom’s family as a gesture for welcoming her into their home, the Bride Price serves as compensation from the groom’s family to the bride’s family since she and their children will become members of his tribe. The Bride Price creates a formal relationship between the husband’s and wife’s tribes. They become legally obligated to assist each other during difficult times, including tribal warfare and famine.​

​After greeting a large group of family members in both tribes, we watched the transfer of the Bride Price, a negotiated number of pigs, 32 of them, a colossal bunch of bananas and cash—I never learned how much—to the bride’s family. To celebrate the ceremonial transfer of the Bride Price, I was introduced to a uniquely Mt. Hagen dinner, a Mumu pig.
 
Mumu is a customary Highlands way of roasting food in earthen pits using hot stones. Traditionally, PNG tribal families have no cooking pots and those who live in the bush, where we were, typically roast their food over a fire. Because this was a ceremonial Mumu feast, the two tribal families had gathered together ten hours before we arrived to dig a shallow fire pit into which they placed large stones and burning wood; then a layer of large banana leaves followed by a layer of yams, corn, and pumpkin; and finally a ritually-slaughtered pig wrapped in banana leaves. The firepit was then covered with dirt.
 
I watched with fascination as the contents of the fire pit were dug up. My meals have always been cooked in the oven, on a burner or a grill, but never in an earthen pit. I loved being served pork and vegetables cooked below ground and eating with my hands. I’m not sure the meal tasted any better, but it certainly felt like it because of the ritual surrounding it.
 
Other than Carla, I was the only non-native woman there. That did not faze me. In fact, I barely noticed. For I’ve learned that although cultural settings can be vastly different, like the culinary differences of the Mumu, I was sharing with foreigners a universal event—celebrating a marriage with family and friends—as if we were one.
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The following morning I returned to Port Moresby, a startling contrast to Mt. Hagen. My last meeting of the day was with an erudite and sophisticated Justice of the Supreme Court. I had enjoyed working with him during the previous three weeks and wanted to see him one last time. He had a kindly demeanor and the temperament of a sage. He was the type of judge that litigants seek. Integrity oozed from his pores. We talked not only about the law but also about his family and mine, his love of cooking and our shared passion for playing tennis.
 
I asked what his plans were upon his impending retirement, anticipating he would talk about visiting countries around the world, giving lectures on PNG’s justice system, and dining at fine restaurants. Instead, he told me he was looking forward to returning to his tribe in the Highlands. His hope was to become the bigman, a position that is earned through respect with a proven ability to obtain resources and distribute them fairly among tribal members.​

​Since I had just experienced a cultural extravaganza in Mt. Hagan, the tribal Festival and the Bride Price ceremony, I could understand why he would return home. The need for a community is compelling. Often this need draws people back to their cultural roots no matter how their lives have seemingly improved over the years. The Justice’s tribal identity was more powerful than his lofty professional achievements.
 
That evening, Mike and I had dinner together, the only time without his colleagues. I remember well—how could I forget?—sitting alone with Mike at a beachfront restaurant located on the sand. We watched fishermen bring fresh scampi from the sea to the restaurant and shortly thereafter to our table. Perhaps I was mesmerized by the uniqueness of the circumstances, or because I was attracted to Mike, but I was certain I had never eaten scampi so delicious.
 
Our feelings for each other were palpable, but remained unexpressed. It was obvious we both felt that the three weeks we worked together in PNG were magical, professionally and personally. We had become kindred spirits.
 
When I left Papua New Guinea the next morning, I left my San Francisco heart there.​
Editor's Note:  All photos by Author
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​​Mary Noel Pepys is a senior attorney with a specialization in the rule of law, specifically international legal and judicial reform, and corruption within the judiciary. Since 1993 she has helped emerging democracies develop justice systems that ensure the protection of citizens’ human rights, equal treatment of all individuals before the law, and a predictable legal structure with fair, transparent and effective government institutions. Mary Noel has worked in over 45 countries, lived five years in six former communist countries, and 20 months in Afghanistan as the Justice Advisor for the Bureau of International Narcotics and Law Enforcement of the U.S. Department of State. While in Afghanistan, Mary Noel focused on strengthening the criminal justice system and the correctional system.
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Vistas & Byways Review is the semiannual journal of fiction, nonfiction and poetry by members of Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) at San Francisco State University​.​
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