AAAND SCREWED

After a thrilling day yesterday with the local traffic police telling us that our driver’s licenses were invalid and that we needed to pay a 50 kina bribe in order to be sent on our way, Paul and I were anxious to get to the local license bureau to see if the officer’s claim had any merit.

We made a plan to head out first thing in the morning and run about a dozen errands in the process. After lying in bed secretly plotting ways to – sarcastically and not going on record here saying that we actually would – end the life of the annoying child staying in the apartment above us who constantly runs, yells, screams and sounds like he rides a skateboard along our ceiling at ALL HOURS OF THE DAY.

It’s so bad that we cannot nap, which you know is bad for Paul. It’s so bad that someone calling our house phone can hear the kid screaming on the other side of the world. It’s so bad that even the cable repair guys were commenting on the kid’s screaming volume and gibberish yesterday. It’s so bad that last night before Paul and I drifted off to slumberland I asked Paul if he set the kid, instead of the alarm, to wake us….because the kid does wake us….every morning around 6:30. We hate that kid.

Like clockwork, we awoke to the sound of the screaming toddler before 7, though I tried my hardest to sleep just a little longer since I was awake more hours than I slept last night. We gave up at different points and got out of bed separately, Paul to do a little work and then me to just get moving and watch one of the two Australian Today shows on sequential channels.

I showered first and, of course, took much longer to get ready than Paul. If it turned out that Paul and I did need to be issued new licenses, I needed to be ready in case a new photo would be snapped; the last one was pretty bad, as usual. For the last week and a half I have been dealing with some Bruce issues and, coupling that with my lack of sleep, I did not want to face planning an outfit or squeezing myself into a pair of skinny jeans. This day was a day destined for comfort.

Paul, antsy, paced up and down the small hallway in between our bathroom and closet three separate times before I told him I swore I was done. To keep him busy, I had him start some water for the tea I intended to take along.

I walked into the living room / kitchen in time for the kettle to pop, wearing a strapless, floor-length sundress and a scarf to cover my shoulders.

“You’re not wearing that to the DMV, are you?” Paul whined with a bit of added attitude. I made a pouty face and proceeded to make my tea, not saying anything because I didn’t want to say anything wrong.

After a minute or two, he decided that we were already running a bit behind the determined schedule (totally my fault) and that I didn’t have to change.

“No…” I said like a four-year-old who knows she’s done something wrong, “I’ll change,” and I walked toward the closet, Paul following behind me.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, I get it. I aim for complete comfort and zero effort and you just see local men raping me.”

“Exactly!”

“I just don’t feel like fitting into a pair of jeans today,” I explained. “Can I wear sweatpants?”

“YES!” He exclaimed, practically jumping for joy. I laughed.

I put on my black yoga pants with a pink camouflage fold-over band at the hips. They were a present I bought myself for a Duck Dynasty-themed Father’s Day party earlier this year.

“What are those, pregnancy pants?” he enthusiastically questioned.

I gave him a well-deserved look. “I just got through saying that I didn’t feel like squeezing into anything and you want to throw out that line right now?”

He was already laughing, knowing his mistake.

“They’re yoga pants.”

I didn’t take him seriously. In all honesty, my unwellnes the past week and a half has me pretty skinny. Not wanting to eat anything contributes to not consuming a lot of extra calories. Magic.

While I was changing in front of him, he asked why I had to look so pretty (I put effort into making my hair look a little more than decent and I had on a more makeup than any given day, especially since moving here). I stood up and faced him. “This,” I advised while indicating my face with my palm circling my head, “is in case we do need new licenses and someone has to take my picture.”

So I paired an eye- and complexion-complementing blue workout T-shirt with my yoga pants, plopped on my flip flops, grabbed my tea and sunglasses and headed for the door.

After a stop at the cable company to drop off our box for service for the second time in two weeks and following two at-home visits from the techs that still did not solve our issue, we headed to the license bureau.

When we approached the counter, Paul advised the local woman behind the glass that we needed to have a Class 1 indication added to our existing PNG licenses; I slid our local IDs into the tray. She looked confused.

“Class 1?” she asked.

“Yes,” Paul confirmed, and then she started to hand us two pieces of yellow paper that were, as she explained, permit applications. That was not going to work.

I explained that we had been stopped by the traffic police the day prior and were specifically instructed that we needed to obtain a Class 1. She left the window to speak with a man who may have been a supervisor.

She came back to the window and asked for clarification. Paul explained that we were stopped, told by the officer that our licenses were invalid, advised that we needed to have Class 1 designations and that we were fined 50 kina on the spot. As she turned to head back to the same man, the local men around us started looking at us with wide eyes and faces that seemed to confirm our belief that we had been victims of malfeasance.

The man at the desk immediately came up and confirmed our situation. He asked us about the car we drove, a standard SUV-type vehicle seating five passengers, and he confirmed that our Class 3 designation was sufficient. He also confirmed that the Class 3 covers all of the requirements of the Class 1 and that we should not have been fined by the officer.

Paul asked if we could have documentation stating that our Class 3 designations were valid in case we were stopped again for the same offense. When the man turned away to fulfill Paul’s request, I turned to Paul, put my hand in the air and said, “High five for getting screwed!”

NATURE VS. VIOLENCE

When I was in college, I was intrigued by the philosophies discussed in the sociology courses that I chose to pursue as part of my mandated humanities courses required for my liberal arts college degree. We often talked about social norms and raising families, and we heavily discussed theories like nature vs. nurture.

Since my brother and I grew up in the same household and turned out completely different personality wise, temperament wise, business wise and natural instinct wise, I was originally a strong contender for the nature argument, believing that a lot of my brother’s habits were attributed to his genes, specifically the ones associated with his Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.

However, I eventually concluded that while our genetic makeup has a lot to do with certain traits, our varying experiences within the same household – and among peer groups – truly proved that the nurture controversy heavily contributed to our overall social and behavioral makeup.

In my opinion, one of the biggest contributors to a child’s behavior is the parenting style, which I have been actively observing over the last few years since my close friends and I are at what we consider to be prime baby-making age, balancing career goals with family desires. Living in, observing and studying various cultures proves just how much cultural practices align with nurturing habits.

Before Paul and I moved to Port Moresby, we were advised of the violent culture, which made us seriously contemplate relocating. We were informed that fights were common, an eye for an eye more closely translated to an eye for a life, theft levels were high and going out at night was out of the question. We were advised to always keep on main roads and to avoid seemingly-problematic situations at all costs.

Knowing that a violent culture exists is one thing but observing the effects of a violent culture first hand, among children….in church…is quite another.

Sunday Paul and I for the second consecutive week attended a local church that was recommended by another Air Niugini family. We arrived a few minutes prior to the start of the service and sat ourselves in the front-half of the middle pews as the church was not yet half full. Once the service started, a local child I recognized from the prior week sat herself in front of us. She was wearing a bright, multi-colored top and brown knee-length shorts; she appeared to have a bit of brush stuck in sections of her hair.

Like most kids, she had a lot of energy and constantly moved. Last week she seemed fascinated by us, constantly turning around and purposely becoming a distraction in order to make eye contact. She, likely the age of 5 or 6, was later joined by two older girls in matching tops and a boy around their age, all appearing to be under 12. Later yet the kids were joined by a younger boy who may have been 4.

My heart sank when he entered barefoot, legs dusty, clothes dirty. I wanted so badly to pick him up, take him home with me, put him in the shower and buy him new clothes. He, like the youngest girl, also had a lot of energy. He ran out of the pew, down the aisle to the back of the church and returned a few minutes later. Whenever he did something the other girls did not like, whether moving too much or squealing, they would hit him – sometimes with gentle force and sometimes with quite a crack. I was shocked.

Throughout the service the girls hit on each other and hit on the boy; the youngest girl and the younger boy were hit the most – over and over again. I wanted to step in but wondered what reaction I would get since none of the adults in the same pew or the pews in front and behind seemed to do anything. I do not usually support stepping in to correct cultural norms but I also felt for the children and wanted so badly to stop the hitting.

At that moment I realized that the violent PNG culture is prevalent even in such young age groups. This society teaches people to attack when they are wronged so even the children are learning to fight instead of communicating or collaborating.

I decided that if the boy made eye contact with me, I would invite him to sit with me. The pastor proceeded to lead the congregation in prayer and I bowed my head and asked that God would resolve the situation so that I did not have to. In the middle of the prayer, the two youngest – the boy and the girl who were receiving most of the beatings – ran outside and into the next building where youth services are held. Thank you, Jesus.

Today Paul and I avoided violence through another cultural practice – financial bribery. This morning Paul dropped me off at a coffee shop while he visited the cable company next door. When he finished he joined me and we had a light breakfast and some time eavesdropping on a conversation at the adjacent table.

When we had finished both of our objectives we got into the car and headed home. We were two roundabouts away from our residence when we saw familiar orange cones, a couple vehicles and a few men in blue shirts, all of which indicated a seemingly-routine traffic stop.

All around Port Moresby, any day of the week, traffic police set up cones blocking one of two lanes and check small stickers on the corner of our windscreen indicating that the vehicle has passed a safety check. The stickers are valid for six months and must be up to date.

PNG also requires that drivers have their license on them at all times, and it is common for traffic policemen to check a driver’s license at a checkpoint. Failure to produce a license at a checkpoint will result in a fine or jail time. More often than not, the officers check our stickers and wave us along; only once before today have I been asked to flash my license, showing the man outside the passenger window my license from the driver’s seat; not once has an officer held onto my license for close verification.

Today, after checking our sticker, Paul was asked if he had a valid license. When Paul confirmed that he did, I obtained the license to show the officer at my window and we were asked to pull to the side so that other cars could pass through. Apparently we were going to be a few minutes. This was the first time that I had been in a pull-over situation and the first time that a traffic man had so thoroughly reviewed a license.

He told us that the license class Paul held – a Class 3 that was provided by the local license bureau – was not valid and that in order to hold a Class 3 license, Paul had to first hold a Class 1 license. The man checked my license and confirmed the same thing. I initially challenged the man asking why our licenses were invalid when those were the classifications that the local bureau had provided, but he stuck to his statement and told us that we were going to be fined. Paul asked how much and immediately paid the man the 50 kina he requested while my eyes were wide open and my mouth remained closed.

I was hurt, frustrated and confused as we pulled away, feeling anger simmering inside. I could neither understand why our licenses were invalid, nor understand why we had to pay the man, who just put the money in his pocket and did not issue us any sort of documentation regarding the offense.

When I told Paul that I wanted to say something but kept my mouth shut, he told me that was a good thing. He knew story about an expat who challenged a traffic policeman and found his nose broken after the butt of the traffic man’s gun hit him in the face.

“What would have happened if I was alone and did not have 50 kina?” I asked.

“You would probably be put in jail,” Paul replied matter-of-factly.

I continued asking questions regarding standing my ground, stating that I really wanted to ask the man for documentation relating to our fine and Paul told me that in every case I need to shut my mouth and pay the man – every time.

Today was the first day that I felt disdain toward Port Moresby and thought about America, however corrupt and awful the government is at times, suddenly seemed better than this place. 

DATE NIGHT

Paul and I had date night tonight – exciting. Date night in previous years would usually involve some food, sometimes enjoy some fun element like a movie or an attraction of some sort, maybe a sporting event, and sometimes a late walk.

In Papua New Guinea, it is a risk for us to be in a car after dark and there are few places to where we would walk in broad daylight. So, for a PNG date night, we get in our car, drive around the corner to the compound next door and have dinner at the open-air hotel restaurant that overlooks the airport.

The menu is tiny and hasn’t changed since Paul and I first arrived in March so I don’t expect updates any time soon. The menu items range roughly between 45 kina and 90 kina (19 USD to 38 USD) and there are typically four specials and a small buffet so there is a little variety.

The atmosphere is very relaxing. The restaurant boasts wood columns, beams and floors, along with ceiling fans and white table cloths – very soothing. The only walls enclose the buffet and the staff areas so the wind blows throughout the restaurant and bar areas. The food is usually really good so we typically have one meal a week at the rooftop restaurant.

When ordering food, the key in PNG is to find something you like 100 percent and don’t try to make any changes. If you don’t like mayonnaise, order something that doesn’t come with mayonnaise because it will be on your sandwich even if you told them to leave it off. If you are like me, my sister, Alexis, or my friend, Jen, who like to customize orders (no bread, no cheese, add some peppers, salmon instead of chicken, change the dressing and put it on the side), you will never survive, you will just waste your energy and end up with whatever was clearly written on the menu. Fish and chips is always my back up option.

Service is usually slow but tonight it was quite quick. While we were eating, Paul and I were eavesdropping on a conversation at a neighboring table most of the evening. There were two Aussie men and one local man enjoying a meal. I thought I heard the words, “Jesus” and “church” and they appeared to pray before devouring their meals and, as the meal progressed, their words elevated in volume – not obnoxiously, just audibly.

When we had finished our meals, Paul popped over and interrupted their conversation, explaining that he couldn’t help but hear parts of their dialogue and that he was interested in knowing if they could recommend a good church for expats in Port Moresby. Well who would have guessed that the local man sitting with his back to our table just happens to be a pastor at what we will assume to be Port Moresby’s largest church?

He talked about his church, advised Paul of the location and, as I approached the table, he offered to meet us at our apartment and personally take us to the church. Paul and I initially thought he was just being kind so Paul explained that we have a car and would be able to find our way with proper directions but the pastor insisted and stated that he would drive ahead of or behind us. We quickly learned that the church was in a not-so-good area (is there really a good area?) and that we would not likely see any fellow Western world expats.

We very kindly thanked the gentlemen and let them get back to their dinner and then we reseated ourselves at our own table and began Googling the church, which boasts American roots.

After dinner, Paul and I walked down the hill to the parking lot and said hello to the guards who appeared to be changing shifts, shotguns by their side. “I love this place,” Paul sighed as we headed to the car.

ONE MONTH DOWN

I have reached a milestone: I have officially been living in PNG for a month. “So what’s it like?” people often ask.

“How are you getting along?”

“What do you do all day?”

Honestly, I think it’s going pretty well so far. Neither of us has been harmed or jumped or carjacked or threatened so that’s good. We are getting to know our way around as we travel from one first-world bubble to the next. As Paul describes it, “We live in our first-world apartment in our first-world compound, get into our first-world car and drive to first-world grocery stores and first-world restaurants.” The only local exposure we have experienced, until today, has been through the car windows.

Today we went to church following an invitation from one of the pilot wives. Paul and I have been looking for a good church but, since leaving the best church in the world, we have become church snobs looking for someone preaching the grace message. Luckily, we see about 20 minutes of Pastor Prince on television five days a week.

One local church had been recommended but the church was not located where Google said it was and, since most places don’t have websites and most Facebook pages don’t come with addresses, let alone maps or directions, it took some serious research for Paul and me to find the building.

We did a drive by on a Saturday, checked the English service time and then proceeded the next morning to church. The building itself looked like a newer structure but the parking lot within the gate was small and there did not appear to be any security guards. The church was located in a rough area and was surrounded by the local markets that we have been advised to avoid, so we sat in the car for a few minutes, kept our eyes out for any expats and, after a failed sighting, we went back to the compound with hopes of finding a better option.

Yesterday I reached out to one of the pilot wives who not only provided a recommendation but also advised that she would meet us at our place, guide us to the location and then serve coffee and cake back at her house after the service.

The church was small and reminded me of my days in the Middle Tennessee Nazarene church I attended as a child. The sanctuary was open air and fans were blowing but I was still sweating uncontrollably at times. “Good thing you wore your scarf,” my husband quipped as I used the program to fan myself.

A small praise team led us in singing “Ten Thousand Reasons” twice, all the way through, back to back, in what I swear was differing keys. The service events reminded me of a Catholic service just because we would sit, sing a song while seated, stand to sing the same song again, sit for the pastor’s Bible reading, stand for more singing, greet the people around us, sit for a long-winded prayer and the message that did not relate to the Bible reading, be invited to stand for a song but then sit first for the second long-winded prayer (a dozen people half stood and then sat once the prayer commenced so there were a lot of confused people), stand again for the singing and then be seated as we were dismissed, which was, again, very confusing for nearly everyone.

The message wasn’t what we wanted but the church people were welcoming and in attendance were people we know. One of the pilot wives advised me that there is a women’s Bible study on Wednesdays that provides a good opportunity to mingle with the local women.

Outside of researching and finding churches, Paul and I have a pretty busy schedule. I go to the gym four to five days a week and to the grocery on a weekly basis; Paul has been studying for aviation tests and enlightening himself on reddit.

I have been developing a personal website, working on my résumé and job searching. Paul today – for the first time since I have been here – flew the plane out of Port Moresby and back. In his defense, he was supposed to fly twice before but both trips cancelled.

When we are not napping, Paul divides his time between crushing candy and contributing to the well being of the world through his commitment to solving Free Cell games on freecellproject.com, a website dedicated to solving the world’s 1 million Free Cell games. Yesterday we changed a tire. See? We’re keeping busy.

I HAVE A FRIEND!

I made a friend! Thursday I wrote about my incredibly boring life and Friday morning I made a friend. How about that!

Paul left early that morning to do a few observation flights on Air Niugini, which allow Paul to sit in the cockpit jump seat while flying to one of many domestic locations so that he can see the terrain and get a feel for the takeoff and landing conditions. A third-world country, Papua New Guinea lacks a lot of infrastructure and roads exist within cities but very few roads go far beyond the cities. There are, however, nearly 600 airports within the island nation and Air Niugini flies commercial service to 21; many airports are unpaved and are only suitable for bush planes.

Instead of sitting around the house by myself all morning, I Thursday night decided that I would take back my Fridays. In Singapore, I had a great weekly routine that typically started with a morning to myself at my neighborhood Starbucks. I would drink a coffee, sometimes have a muffin or scone, do some RDA work, read or write a bit. I had roughly two hours to do whatever I wanted.

When I had had enough, I usually ran a couple errands or went to the grocery before coming home in time to make lunch. I loved my Friday mornings. They were sacred.

I had an idea to walk down to the hotel restaurant and enjoy a quiet breakfast for one on the patio. Then I contemplated driving to one of two cafés in town to again enjoy a nice cuppa in the sunshine before lounging next to the pool later in the day.

My morning started off right – I relaxed in bed until I felt like moving. I had a thought that I should check the breakfast service times and, sure enough, I had about 25 minutes until breakfast was over. I didn’t like feeling pressured on my perfect morning but I hurriedly got dressed, grabbed my Nook and checked the clock as I locked the door behind me.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I was advised that there was a buffet and that I had five minutes before they would start clearing the food. That’s fine, I thought. I only needed one trip.

There was a decent spread. I helped myself to some sketchy scrambled eggs since the man at the egg station was MIA. I viewed the bread station but opted for a couple small pancakes instead. Again feeling the carbs, I loaded up on some fabulous breakfast potatoes and some fruit.

I paid my kina – a bit more than I anticipated – and sat by the pool until I got a message from Paul stating he was back in town. Itching to get off the complex, I messaged him and stated that I would go get him. He declined my offer. I might have pouted for a minute before I decided that I would head to the pool.

I changed into my swimsuit, strapless cotton top and cotton shorts and headed down to the pool with my tanning spray, sunglasses and my Nook. (At this point in time I was completely obsessed with J.K. Rowling’s new book, The Cuckoo’s Calling and I was just a few chapters away from the big reveal).

When I got to the pool area I observed a rare sighting – another Caucasian woman. And, bonus, she said hello when she noticed me. We both sat in the sun for a while and, as I got up to leave, I offered a good-bye and a conversation sparked.

Lisa, a New Zealander current living in Brisbane, was in town for a long weekend visiting her husband who lives in the complex. After a short chat, I invited her to join Paul and me for a later lunch at the Edge Café and she amiably accepted.

“I made a friend at the pool!” I excitedly announced as I walked into my apartment. “She doesn’t actually live here but that still counts, right?” I told Paul about Lisa and that I had invited her to lunch with us. Then, something even more amazing happened. Paul backed out of lunch and said that Lisa and I should go without him. I questioned this decision first because Paul had me feeling like a grounded teenager that couldn’t go anywhere unsupervised, and second because he had previously stated an interest in trying the café. Apparently, a nap was calling and the power of the nap was stronger than Paul’s desire to venture out. He did take the time, however, to pray over me before I left the house.

And then, for the first time, I left the compound without my husband.

Lisa and I drove down to the waterfront and made our way to the Edge Café, a Kiwi-owned business located in the corner of a parking garage overlooking the Yacht Club. The food was great and the location was ideal but the wind was so strong that pop cans, napkins and straws were constantly flying away.

After a very tasty light lunch, we went next door to the Yacht Club and walked alongside the boats for a while before heading back.

We met again Monday and enjoyed a great lunch at the Lamana Hotel’s Palazzo. The food and the atmosphere was so inviting, we decided to stay for coffee and cake. That was the first day that I really started to enjoy PNG.

Lisa went back to Brisbane today but I am sure we will see each other again soon. 

I’D RATHER BE BORED THAN DEAD

And the winner is…….three weeks. Whoever guessed that I would find the end of fun at three weeks to the day wins the pool. Yesterday, after 21 days on the island, I uttered the words, “I am bored. I need to do something.”

By the afternoon, I had not yet showered because I was honestly trying to motivate myself to go to the gym, where I go most days, and why would I shower before intentionally sweating? Yesterday, however, I was just not feeling it. Paul and I had ventured out Sunday, Monday and Tuesday and apparently my body needed a recovery day.

At one point, I decided to suck it up and realize that I was just not in a gym mood that day so I got up and showered. Once cleaned up and dressed, I entered the living room and announced, “Well, that killed 12 minutes.”

Paul chuckled. “Bored?” “Yes. I need to do something.” I didn’t do anything. I stayed in, made dinner, watched some television and did some reading before bed.

I also did a little Googleing and map searching before bed. My goal: find something to do or somewhere to go outside of the dangerous Port Moresby. I succeeded, finding a seaside village just north of town called Lea Lea.

The village is smaller than Moresby and, from another blogger’s pictures, the people look quite welcoming and the kids love to have their photos taken. That blogger had a great day but he also had two things we didn’t: a motorbike and a local guide.

Knowing that the capital city, with its high crime, dirty appearance and high security, is atypical to Papua New Guinea as a whole, I thought it would be great to spend the afternoon outside the city, exploring a new area.

When Susie, our housemaid, arrived midday, I asked her about Lea Lea. She advised that it was a nice village right on the Coral Sea and that there was a very nice resort there. Awesome, I thought. She advised the village was roughly a 20-minute drive from Moresby and that the freeway went nearly the entire way, ensuring good roads.

She asked if we would be going and I told her, while Paul was in the same room on the phone with someone, that I had hoped to take a drive this afternoon – if I could convince my husband.

Well, don’t get your hopes up. He said no. Actually, he said, “I don’t think driving around outside the city without someone who knows the roads is a good idea.” I gave him a look indicating that I did not agree with his statement. In my mind, getting out of the city is a great idea. “Hey,” he continued. “I’d rather be bored than dead.”

And that, I suppose, is the new mantra and my new reality. I am not a fan of this reality. I have a desire to explore as much as possible, take photos and write about what I see. Instead, I am lying on the red leather loveseat in my once-sweaty workout clothes (yes, I did make it to the gym today, thank you) thinking about dinner – not eating dinner but making dinner.

It’s 3:30 – a.k.a. nowhere near dinnertime – and I am not even the slightest bit hungry but I am seriously considering starting dinner because making the tacos, rice and vegetables that I have planned to make three hours from now will at least allow me to do something other than lie here and think about all of the things I am not doing.

I suppose I will go shower. That will kill five minutes. But what’s the point? I’m not going anywhere, nor am I doing anything so do I really need to shower right now? This is the debate I am currently having with myself.

I HATE MY KITCHEN

America certainly has its issues, especially where the government and the phrase “Land of the Free” come in but the country is still good for a few things. First, the land is beautiful and, even though people have to pay to get into many great parks, a good bit of that land is visible free of charge. In one country, we have snow-capped mountains, rolling hills, plains, beaches, lakes, oceans, rivers, a gulf, wetlands, desserts, quarries, cities, farms and four seasons.

Secondly, the American Dream does still exist and it is great to know that I come from a country that allows an individual, in most cases, to succeed no matter which caste or family a person is from. I say in most cases because, let’s be honest, high school is not like that at all.

The third thing America is good for is food. The Land of the Dwindling Freedoms has a ton of great restaurants, chefs, cookbooks, cooking and entertainment classes and food tours that center around an amazing melting pot of flavors from nearly every country in the world. And where are those fabulous dishes made? The majority are produced in kitchens.

In America, the kitchen is considered one of the most important rooms in the home, often a focal point, especially for entertaining. Kitchen appearance and functionality rank near the top of nearly all house-hunting lists and one of the top two most remodeled rooms within a home is, you guessed it, the kitchen. Kitchens are beautiful. Dream kitchens are spacious. Kitchens are functional and custom designed. Kitchens make people happy.

I have recently discovered that I have obviously taken all of my American kitchens (five between graduating college and moving to Singapore) for granted. None has been my perfect, dream kitchen but at least they all worked and we had enough room (sometimes barely) for our belongings.

Our kitchen in Singapore was a nightmare because of the fake storage (there appeared to be cabinets but nearly half the kitchen cupboards were merely decorative), the constantly-breaking oven and the strange layout. On the flip side, I had a tremendous amount of counter space and likely the biggest kitchen compared to the rest of my friends so I got by.

Here in PNG, we have a long kitchen but, again, I find myself in a hate-hate relationship with my kitchen. While I enjoy a pseudo island that is technically a peninsula against the wall, usable counter space is limited. We do have more shelves, cupboards and drawers than we had in Singapore but the shelves lack usable height and almost all of the cupboards smell like mold when the doors open.

All of that is pretty easy to manage most of the time so most of my anger, frustration and rage is directed at the appliances, minus the now-to-me-giant-refrigerator, which I almost love, and a dishwasher that I could never hate because I don’t actually have one.

I hate my flat-top stove because I cannot easily control and monitor the temperatures. I hate that there is a ventilating unit above the stove that, other than the light feature, doesn’t actually work. I hate an oven that does not evenly cook food. I hate that the oven bends the oven sheets. And the whole set hates me back by not producing the great food I and my husband know I can make.

I hate that I have one skillet and that everything sticks to it. No matter what I put in the skillet, the skillet never comes away clean. Potatoes stick, meatballs stick, burgers stick, pancakes stick, eggs stick. And don’t tell me it’s because I don’t have a substance like butter or oil in the pan when needed because I do.

In those cases, two things happen. First, if I use butter on say, bread, to toast some buns to be used for sandwiches, the buns stick. The buns have butter on them and the buttery bread sticks to the pan! If I use butter or oil to cook something in the middle of the pan, the butter or oil around the edges smokes and fills the whole place. And most food burns before it cooks, even on a low setting.

I tried again this morning, a peaceful Sunday morning, to make a fabulous breakfast consisting of pancakes from a mix since I don’t have a lot of supplies, hand-made hashbrowns with scallions and some eggs that I would either do scrambled or over easy, depending on how I was feeling in the last three minutes.

I went to war with the oven, the stove and the ventilating system this morning. Paul ate a few unremarkable pancakes, I ate one semi-normal and one undercooked yet brown pancake in addition to a hashbrown that was on par with the latter pancake. I did not make eggs because I was too furious with the pan that had emitted enough smoke to kill my sense of smell due to the amount of overcooked butter surrounding the skillet’s edge. Three pancakes were sacrificed in the process and, yes, the temperature was set to low.

This morning I vowed to never make breakfast again. 

VROOM VROOM

Monday morning Paul had still not made a decision on which car to purchase and, to be honest, I wasn’t much help. I had given my opinion when he asked and sometimes when he didn’t but mostly I picked cars that were not the Pajero or the Sportage which, like I said, didn’t help. At one point over the weekend, at the end of the day, Paul walked into the living room, stood next to the red leather loveseat’s arm, pointed at me and said, “I am going to ask you a question and I want you to answer really quickly.”

“KIA!” I shouted and he immediately started laughing and walked away. Yeah, I totally called it.

We had decided to go to the dealer Monday morning but, obviously, we needed to figure out which dealer we were going to visit before we left the house. While Paul was in the shower, I made my contribution.

I walked over to the living room desk, ripped a page form his new legal pad, folded and tore eight pieces of paper and then wrote on six of them. Paul’s mom happened to be on the phone when he entered the room so I told her what I had done, made a drum roll sound and told Paul to pick from the pile.

“And the winner is…..” I called.

Paul flipped through his options, pulled two, threw one back on the desk, opened up the paper and then…he made a combination laugh/grumble, crumbled the piece of paper and threw it at my face. “Results hazy. Pick again later.” I’m not going to lie, I was really hoping he would pick that one first.

He pivoted and walked into the other room and I finished up the conversation with Paul’s mom, leaving her hanging on the decision that we had not yet made. A short while later, Paul said he had made a decision. He walked over to the desk, picked up another piece of paper and advised that we were going to buy the Kia Sportage. It was the cheapest, had the longest warranty and was by far the most comfortable and best performing car we drove. Can we go into the highlands with it? No, not likely. Do we ever plan on going into the highlands? No, not really. Deal done.

He opened the paper. It read “Kia Sportage.”

“Done,” I said.

Then he was curious. “Do all of these say Kia?”

“No, of course not,” I replied and he continued to review his options:

• Mitsubishi Pajero
• Land Rover
• Hyundai Tucson (I almost wrote “Vetoed option. Pick again.” But I didn’t)
• Really Expensive Nissan

He laughed and felt more confident about the decision.

We left the house ready to make a deal but completely confident that Paul could end up changing his mind. I was actually holding out for a wild card – a third car that would pop in out of nowhere and steal the deal – so I wasn’t expecting things to go nearly as smoothly as they did. As we sat in the rental car, ready to head into town, Paul called the competing dealer and advised that we would not be purchasing the Pajero. With no counter offer and no hard sale, that was it. He hung up the phone and we began driving.

“We are here to buy the Sportage,” Paul announced when he saw one of the three people with whom we had been speaking. The man just looked at us for a moment, stood up a little straighter, puffed his chest out, let out a breath and extended an arm. “Congratulations,” he said as he shook Paul’s hand and then mine.

After a few minutes at the desk finalizing the offer letter, we took the paperwork to First Finance, a company that would arrange a novated lease, which allows us to purchase a vehicle through Paul’s company. The lendor will provide full payment to the dealer and then monthly payments are extracted from Paul’s biweekly salary. Once we pay off the car, we own the car but it’s called a lease.

The finance appointment took about 40 minutes. Paul filled out three pages of a detailed application, submitted his local ID and passport and then we were left for more than 15 minutes while the representative went to make copies of the three-page application and his two forms of identification. We were advised that we would be notified as to whether or not Paul would be approved and then we would need to follow a few more steps before we could take possession.

The next morning, Tuesday, we were told that we were approved and that we would be contacted with further instructions. Paul’s colleague was two steps ahead of us and had already been waiting three weeks so Paul began to look into other options.

He inquired about another company, our local bank perhaps and, lo and behold we could. So that afternoon Paul made a phone call to ANZ and after trying a few locations and being told that all of them were closed we, on a last attempt, were advised that the corporate offices upstairs were open and we were directed to the second floor…and then the third.

After some time around a conference room table with a television larger than the one we had in Columbus, the representative had provided both Paul and me and his colleague with quotes for each of the selected vehicles – sans applications.

The quotes included insurance, titles and stickers so all we needed was an additional quote that would include maintenance. By morning we had that. Thursday afternoon the woman from First Finance contacted us about step two in the process but, since we were nearly done with the ANZ deal, Paul told her she was fired. “O.K.”

This morning the paperwork was complete, the money was guaranteed to the dealer and we just needed the registration. In the afternoon we went to the dealer and left with our new Kia, albeit, not a car we would have ever seen ourselves driving.

The car was dusty on the outside and on the inside, the color is not what we were promised and the tinting is not the dark that we requested but hey, Jack, this is PNG so we just had to blow some dust off the outside, wipe the dust off the seats and consoles, ignore the dirt on the floors and drive away knowing that next week we would bring the car back for darker tinting.  

We requested white or a light-colored car due to the heat-producing rays coming off the equator.
They told us this was silver.

MAINTENANCE MYSTERIES

It’s 2 in the afternoon and I am sitting on our red leather love seat watching my husband instruct the maintenance workers how to fix things in our apartment that just aren’t working as they should. I find it funny, first because he has had to explain to two people including the building manager and the maintenance specialist how to turn on and off the vent feature above our stove, and second because he is too much of a self-proclaimed DIY expert to let the people on the payroll complete the jobs for which they are paid.

Last night I had to beg him not to tear the air conditioning unit off the bedroom wall just before bedtime. He had already taken off the first layer in order to clean the filters in the small utility sink located next to our vertical washer and dryer. After about 15 minutes I saw him pondering.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

”Cleaning the filters,” he replied. Then he informed me that he needed a screwdriver. Why you wonder? So did I. “This thing is dirty and, though I have cleaned the filters, I want to clean the rest of it. Don’t look at it!”

“Why? Is there a bunch of mold?”

“No, it’s just really dusty.”

”Why exactly are you doing all of this without the proper equipment right before bedtime when someone on the maintenance team could more easily do it tomorrow?”

It was simple: he was a man on a mission.

“I just need a screwdriver,” he said, standing with me in the doorway, looking intently at the machine on the wall.

“But we don’t have a screwdriver,” I reminded him. Don’t worry, that didn’t stop him.

”If I could just find something that would work like a screwdriver…”

”No!!” I pleaded.

“Why not?!” he countered.

“Because you’ll take the whole thing apart, it will be in pieces, you will give up or mess up something and then you will be miserable because you won’t have air conditioning while you sleep tonight.”

Somehow, I convinced him to let it be.

Today has been quite a day for visitors. I had a bit of a rough morning, waking suddenly around 6 and then trying to sleep another couple hours or so in order to feel more rested. I did sleep on and off until 8, stayed in bed until closer to 9 and then felt ready to move even though I felt a bit like a sinus infection was looming. It took a while for me to really get going this morning and, before I was ready, we had knocks on the door.

The first was our house marie (housekeeper) to collect our towels. Susie comes three times a day, six days weekly as part of the hotel compound service. She or one of her colleagues comes between 8:30 and 10 to collect our used towels (sometimes whether we have used them or not) and then later after 11 to clean the bathroom, tidy the bed linens, wash any dishes that I had not wanted to clean and sweep and mop the floors. Around 3, we are provided fresh towels.

In between towels and cleaning, we had a water delivery. We have 5-gallon jugs delivered in exchange for our empty ones and, while still in my sweatpants and undershirt, three men came to my door on two occasions each carrying a water jug. They were very kind, asked me to sign and then they left. Paul was in the shower at the time but, when he came out, dressed in office attire, he reminded me that we hadn’t actually paid for our delivery. Oops. “They never asked for payment,” I said.

Susie came back after 11 to do the cleaning. By that time I had at least put on some workout clothes with the intention of hitting the gym at some point today – clearly that would be after lunch since Paul put on his hungry face.

We had just over an hour to ourselves before the fifth knock on our door. This time we had a maintenance man and the property manager coming in to clean the air con and discuss our overall experience so far. We advised the property manager that things were going well and then Paul remembered that the stove vent didn’t actually vent – in the past it just pushed the smoke or steam throughout the apartment and on a couple occasions did not stop the smoke detector from blaring.

And that brings us to Paul, showing the property manager and then the new repair man (sixth knock and seventh visitor on a day that I had put absolutely no effort into looking normal, which happens more often than not these days) how the vent actually works.

He monitored the air con service man while he worked and commented on his performance once the man finished. He stood right next to the vent repair man, sticking his head and hands into the apparatus in an attempt to solve the problem and then did battle (nicely, of course) with the maintenance man about how to fix the problem. Truth be told he was right. He found the venting switch was not positioned in the position that indicated pushing the air outside.

And so, at 2:35, I am still sitting on the couch in my workout clothes thinking it is finally time to get my butt in the gym so that I can shower and dress in normal attire.

Breaking News: I think we will be able to pick up our car tomorrow!