HUMANS love to trade and trading can be one of the most rewarding and insightful part of travel, tourism, holiday or vacation – – call it what you will.
The Trobriand Islands are off the north coast of the eastern tail of Papua New Guinea. I went there very briefly after some engaging tropical diving near Milne Bay — the scene of the first Japanese defeat of World War II.
The Trobriands were just one stop on an island hop back to Port Moresby. At the airport a large number of islanders gathered at the perimeter gate, about 30 metres from where the aircraft had come to a stop. They were displaying beautiful ebony carvings with inlaid pearl. Now I am a sucker for ethno junk, precisely because I it don’t believe that this craft is junk. Usually, it is an expression of culture as well as a way for local people to make money. And the cost per hour of work is good value anyway – – better than the average painting at a gallery in suburban Australia. But if there is nothing else to do, no other employment, why not work for hours for some rare cash to obtain things otherwise unobtainable.
I looked at the carvings and was then attracted by a very odd shaped bundle being held on a coconut string by a young man.
The man and, indeed, all his companions were dressed in second-hand shorts and t-shirts emblazoned with improbable brand names and slogans: KPMG, Deloitte’s, Canberra Raiders, Alaska, Bears, Brumbies, Diabetes Week, Alice Springs, Seinfeld, Nissan and so on. They represented places, things and companies far removed from the subsistence gardeners on this PNG island. Yet the t-shirts were part of a vast trade in secondhand clothes from Australia (sometimes involving charities). In Mount Hagen, some days before I saw a deliciously ironic sign outside a brightly coloured but heavily secured shop: “”Secondhand Cloths Haus: 3000 new items a week.”
Few people buys new clothes in PNG.
On closer inspection the bundle being carried by the young man turned out not to be a carving at all, but six very large crabs – each as big as a dinner plate.
As it happened, there was no food left at the Port Moresby house (it would only have gone off in the decaying tropics while we were diving). So this looked like dinner.
On past travels I have noticed how many tourists (particularly Europeans and Americans) tend to eschew local fare, worrying that it will contain some fearsome disease. Very silly.
Then one of the crabs moved – – not much because they were bound by coconut string. But this was an excellent sign, indeed.
“How much?” I asked.
“Twelve kina ($8).”
“Two kina each?” I asked, attempting to clarify without out exposing the possibility that I would pay 12 kina for each crab and thinking myself quite clever at Third World markets.
“Yes, but you have to take them all,” he replied, showing he was far smarter than me at Third World markets.
“OK,” I said.
There was nothing to lose. By then I had noticed that all the crabs had moved. I grabbed them by the coconut string and strolled over and slung them in the aircraft hold. PNG is a relaxed place. Security at airports is not especially tight. One reason is that technology is hard to maintain. Frequently, the X-ray and metal detectors are broken or just not available a local airports. Anyway, it is not as if a bomb could be contained in six crabs.
An hour later, on our arrival in Port Moresby, the crabs were still moving, despite a depressurised and presumably very cold trip.
I imagined serving a red crab on a bed of rice with sweet chilli sauce, a delicate salad and some chilled white wine all on a white table cloth served on my brother’s verandah over-looking the tropical evening view over Port Moresby harbour. (Incidentally, Australians are far too silly about PNG. Sure, you have to be careful, just as you do in Manhattan, but why avoid such a culturally rich and scenically beautiful place right on your doorstep.)
As it happened, the meal did not turn out so elegantly.
I put the crabs in the freezer for half an hour and then into boiling salted water for eight minutes, two at a time. When the first two were cooked they went straight into the sink full of cold water. My brother and I just had to taste them to see if they had been cooked properly – just a sample. His son, daughter and her boyfriend were taking a detached interest in the background.
We cracked open the first claw and tasted . . . .
It was the sweetest, succulent tastiest seafood I have ever tasted. Within a few minutes it degenerated into an orgy of carnivorism – – no rice, no salad, no chilli sauce and not even any clean white wine. These crabs were just too good for that. We just broke them open and sucked out the meat, spreading shell pieces all over the kitchen. The second two crabs met the same fate, and the other people joined the feast. One of the crab’s claws proved too difficult for the nutcrackers. So my brother — by now with a couple of SP lagers under his belt, took to it with a hammer. Shell and juice spattered all over the kitchen and ourselves.
And while those crabs were being consumed the last two were on the stove.
Sight was offended, but taste, touch and smell were pushed beyond satiation. I can taste those crabs now. Just luck – no more — to have been born in that position.
Three weeks later, at Cairns airport, I was astonished to see similar, though smaller crabs, live in a small aquarium display. They were $50 each. So in Australian terms, on that evening in Port Moresby we had gorged $300 worth of crabs in 20 minutes – perhaps six months’ work for the Trobriand lad.
The lad who had caught the crabs in the first place – – barefoot over the sharp coral – – spent two days getting them for his $8. He was ignorant of the Cairns price. Perfect markets require full knowledge. He deserved more.
And what a huge mark-up — $1.33 to $50, or nearly 4000 per cent — over a distance less than Sydney to Melbourne. But the distance in economy and culture was far greater thant he kilometres.
Nevertheless, the lad probably went home to his grass hut ecstatic that evening with a tale or of how a silly Dim-Dim (PNG for whitefella) had stepped off the plane and foolishly paid top money ($8) for the catch.
Still, after that feast I thought he deserved more. What strange things markets are.