Fishing for Stars

by Bryce Courtenay

  When it came to leadership, Joe had no peer. His colour was an immediate advantage and his size precluded trouble among the workers. Joe Popkin could laugh and knock two kanaka heads together and the other workers would laugh with him. If I did the same thing, they might see the swift justice as fair, but I would still be a white man dishing out punishment. ‘Uncle Joe, hem blong mifella,’ they’d say about Joe Popkin. Then to emphasise the difference, they’d add, ‘Masta Nick, hem blong white masta.’

  Joe would never ask any of them to do what he wouldn’t do himself. Usually he’d strip to the waist and help with the heavy loading, but he also ensured that the older and smaller of the island men were taught how to drive our bulldozers, cranes, winches, jeeps and forklift trucks, thus enabling them to be gainfully employed.

  Joe loved the island kids and they followed him in a whirl of dust and noise whenever he went into a village. Sometimes he had some difficulty keeping their mothers, with or without the approval of their husbands, from taking him into the jungle for a bit of extra-connubial bliss.

  There were literally hundreds of children named Joe on the islands, although this was almost certainly due to his popularity and not to his fecundity. We worked in a very big backyard and Joe was reluctant to piss on his own doorstep.

  By the mid-fifties we’d largely cleared the islands of war-surplus scrap, and in order to switch to our long-term plan to run an inter-island shipping business we’d converted the original wooden vessel to general cargo and passengers and bought three more similar vessels for the same purpose. Despite Joe’s increasing education expenses, we were pretty cashed up. The three ex-US Navy vessels, now also converted, earned their keep shuttling general freight between Australia and New Zealand and the main island ports. Thus the Pacific Island Shipping Company, registered in Port Vila, was born and we seemed to have moved almost seamlessly from salvage to freight and then to carrying passengers as well.

  We had earned a small reputation as reliable and fair employers in the war-salvage business. The way the various other scrap merchants conducted their labour relations had allowed the islanders to make comparisons very much in our favour. Now, contrary to our expectations, we were to learn that the advent of a reliable inter-island passenger and freight service that didn’t exploit the locals wasn’t going to reward us with the same loyalty.

  We’d made a few enemies in the scrap-metal business, but this was nothing compared to the hostility we encountered from rival shipping companies. While we’d been shifting from salvage to freight they’d left us alone. We weren’t carrying passengers and there was plenty of freight available for all of us. When we refitted to take passengers as well, the shit hit the fan. Many of them were running ships that were barely seaworthy and in an attempt to put us out of business they dropped their ticket prices, then carried up to twice the numbers of islanders allowed on the ship’s manifest. Understandably every penny counted with the impecunious islanders and race relations and goodwill came a poor second to saving a quid. We still carried whatever white passengers were travelling between the islands, but there weren’t sufficient to make a difference. We couldn’t match the competition’s prices without resorting to the same tactics, and for Joe and me that simply wasn’t an option.

  For a while we looked like going under and Joe became really worried. One of our vessels would come into port with a load of copra and with only a handful of paying passengers on board. ‘Nick, dose cocksuckers, dey winnin’, man! How long we gonna be in business this keeps up? Ain’t no money in haulin’ copra. Kevin’s goin’ crazy, man. You know how he says we gonna go broke in two more months. Is dat true?’

  ‘Joe, touch wood, all we have to do is stay in business until the wet season comes,’ I assured him. ‘That’s next month. If the competition continues overloading their passenger manifest, then the first big storm that comes along is going to mean trouble. The bastards know this and so they’ll be forced to pull way back when the dirty weather arrives. Then our prices will be competitive and our reliability and service should make the difference.’

  But it didn’t happen. The cyclone season arrived and the competition continued to overload their ships. Two were caught out at sea during a violent storm and both went down. All 229 islanders drowned.

  A great uproar followed and at the hearing to investigate the disasters it was discovered that the two shipping companies, one French and the other Australian, had both registered their vessels in Panama and carried no disaster insurance. Both companies simply declared themselves bankrupt and walked away scot-free, with none of the islanders, most of whom had lost family members, receiving any compensation.

  Curiously, a rumour circulated among the commercial expatriates that we were indirectly responsible for the disaster because we had forced our competition to resort to overloading in order to remain in business. Only in the islands! This was the beginning of the ill will that would be directed at Joe Popkin and me for years. Throughout the sixties and early seventies, as our allegiances became increasingly clear, the hostility deepened. We had regarded ourselves as permanent island residents from the beginning, which stood in marked contrast to the colonial service personnel posted to the islands by their various governments. The other Europeans were usually on short-term work permits or saw their stay as an opportunity to earn a nice solid nest egg before returning home. Thus, exploitation of the locals was commonplace and the largely transient white population earned a dubious reputation. Our island way of life was often referred to as a place in the sun for shady people.

  This wasn’t entirely fair, there being of course many people, government and otherwise, who made a remarkable contribution – my father, the Anglican Bishop of New Britain, being one of them – but the average white resident put very little back and enjoyed a way of life few if any could have afforded in their own countries. The high salaries they received, together with the ‘hardship allowance’ for living away from home under ‘difficult circumstances’ with as many lowly paid servants as they wished to retain, allowed them to enjoy a splendid and privileged way of life.

  The two disasters at sea put an end to the overloading of commercial ships, but the mission ships, trusting to God, continued to load passengers until people virtually hung from the ship’s rails and the draft was within a few inches of the waterline. With every wet season they would lose more ships and more people. This loss of life was often caused by inexperienced captains who left port in bad weather and, unfamiliar with navigation equipment, were lost at sea, never to be seen again. On one occasion several years later, with a cyclone threatening and the possibility of a tidal surge on one of the islands, the Seventh Day Adventists loaded their barge to evacuate only the members of their faith, leaving the Catholics behind to perish. The cyclone arrived while the rescued congregation was barely out to sea, overturning the barge and driving it back onto the island with all hands lost. The tidal surge failed to arrive and the Catholics remaining on the island were unharmed. From that day onwards the local priests at the mission used the disaster as proof to their congregation that God is most definitely a Catholic. The SDAs buried the dead, then, stripped of their influence with Him upstairs, left the island, never to return.

  From the outset of our operations we employed European captains on the larger ships that travelled between the mainland and the islands. For our smaller inter-island vessels there were plenty of qualified ex-naval Europeans with a taste for adventure willing to work as skippers and engineers. One of the conditions of their employment was that they train any promising native crew members as second mates, the idea being that the more promising islanders would be given the opportunity to advance. One of Joe’s proudest achievements was when we sent ten promising island lads to Marine Training School to qualify as masters and engineers. Our first two local skippers were Gideon of the tall tales but true and Ellison.

  Ellison had been the leader of the small gang of native scouts who had fought with me in the jungle during the war a
nd had subsequently worked as our foreman on salvage locations. He also served from time to time as my personal assistant and I trusted him. In fact, during the war I had often trusted him with my life. A member of the Tolai, a New Guinea coastal tribe, he was completely at home with the sea and he eventually became the respected senior captain in our fleet.

  Joe and I spent a lot of time on these island vessels and we both studied and eventually took our masters ticket. Together we saw to it that the captains ran the vessels the way we wanted. No drunks, and no liquor to be taken on board by passengers or crew; a clean ship properly loaded according to the cargo manifest; passengers, including the islanders, treated with respect by crew. Stowaways smuggled on board by crew in return for sexual favours led to instant dismissal. The myriad details that make for a smoothly run operation were practised as a matter of routine. These vessels were not exactly the Queen Mary, but we earned a reputation for running a tight passenger ship and a reliable freight service.

  With Joe and me riding constant shotgun we were able to see at first hand what was needed to transport copra and other produce to the market, and kids to and from high schools. With self-government now inevitable on many Pacific Islands, we were also transporting an increasing number of junior public servants being trained in local-government work. Reliable inter-island transport had always been a problem for the local farmers and the European plantations and businesses, and as our fleet grew we eventually covered most of the commercially viable routes.

  Grumble-bum Kevin, living the life of Riley in Brisbane, would complain every time we requested a new vessel. ‘How many cockamamie islands you got, Nick? I got eyes! I got a goddamn atlas! Las’ count there was nine worth a crock a shit! One big one, lots a small ones! You got nine fuckin’ ships. What you want? A fuckin’ armada? You ain’t Francis goddamn Drake! Now we not only got Uncle Joe Scholarships suckin’ us dry, we got half the fuckin’ population goin’ ter navy school!’

  Kevin, of course, went looking for freight business in Australia, too, where he would refer to our operation as ‘The fleet’. In Brisbane on one occasion I heard him on the phone to a would-be exporter. ‘We got us a big operation, a fleet dat kin go everywhere you want, ain’t no place in the goddamn Pacific we cain’t cover. Sir, trust me, you wanna crap in a seagull nest on a coral atoll, we already got a seagull egg freight franchise from dere. Ain’t no place we don’t go, man!’ Coming from someone who got seasick on wet grass it was outrageous bullshit, but it worked. Kevin was highly respected in Australian and New Zealand export circles.

  ‘Now don’t let me down, Nick,’ he’d say when a near impossible contract was being discussed. ‘Yeah, I heard yer good. It ain’t possible. So? You want we should lose all da government business? Tell me so I can pick up da phone and cancel a twenny grand contrak! Send us broke. Da fucking bank dey screaming at me tree, four times a day, I cain’t eat breakfast before da first motherfuckin’ manager he’s yellin’ down my ear. Now, you tell Joe Popkin we gotta do dis, yer hear? Tell dat nigger to get one a dem Uncle Joe Scholarship and navy school captains to bust his black ass. Dey eatin’ us outta house an’ home! Dey gobblin’ up the profit margin! Fuckers owe me big time!’

  With our reputation for reliability growing, Kevin was obtaining more and more contracts from the Australian, New Zealand, British, American and French governments and even the UN. Our international freighters could transport just about anything to the various islands, then our smaller vessels would complete the delivery: demountable school buildings, administration offices equipped with typewriters, machinery for power stations, food for fridges, in fact everything a potentially self-governing nation might need to create a modern society.

  All this meant that we were in constant contact with the local movers and shakers around the island coastlines, many of them the likely leaders of the future. All politics are local, especially in the islands, so we set about making permanent friends. We would perform small favours for island politicians or be seen to be looking after the needs of their constituents. It was impossible to sit on the fence, and Joe and I decided that as our future lay with the islands, so must our loyalty.

  This didn’t always go down well. By the late sixties we were known in some white island circles as kanaka-lovers, coconut cobbers or meri fuckers – meri being local slang for a native woman. This overt racism was most openly expressed in Rabaul where the exclusively white membership of the New Guinea Club, the New Britain Club and the Yacht Club produced the most outspoken white supremacists.

  Joe Popkin, even in the late forties, was only admitted to these clubs by special dispensation because he was an American, although he was still made to feel distinctly unwelcome and subjected to racist remarks. In the late fifties, with the dawn of nationalism, this bad-mouthing had become more frequent, and by the early sixties Joe finally refused to enter any of the three clubs.

  Unfortunately, a lot of island business happened over a beer at the club and Joe, ever the pragmatist, wouldn’t hear of me resigning as well. ‘Nick my man, busi-ness is busi-ness. Don’t matter what dem cocksuckers call me. In da end we gonna chew ’em up and spit ’em out, flush da toilet. Who you think gonna still be here when da freedom bell rings? It ain’t gonna be dose motherfuckers. Meantime we gonna take der loot, man! You gotta do the busi-ness. So you gotta stay a legit member o’ dem hokey white-boy clubs.’

  I recall on one occasion overhearing a conversation between four ruddy-faced European men indistinguishable from most others in the islands with their short back and sides, dressed in the white man’s tropical uniform – white shirt, white shorts, white socks neatly turned back at the knees and highly polished black shoes. I walked up to the bar of the Yacht Club to wait for a government official to arrive. The conversation appeared to be well underway, and the only part I heard of what seemed to be an animated discussion was as follows:

  First man: ‘Yeah, the place is going to the fucking dogs. Mark my words, it’ll end up like the Mau Mau in Kenya, a bloody uprising with the kanakas raping white women and murdering Europeans in their beds.’

  Second man: ‘Too right. What really pisses me off is that the dumb bastards don’t realise how bloody hard we work to keep things running for them.’

  Third man: ‘Spot on, mate! They wouldn’t last a month. Soon as the lights go out, no more fuel at the BP depot and they can’t buy a bag a’ rice at the Chink shop, they’ll finally realise things don’t happen by themselves.’ He looked around, lifting his empty beer glass. ‘Whose shout? Mine, is it? Righto.’ He nodded to the barman. ‘Boy! Same again.’

  Second man: ‘It’s the new uni in Moresby – commo lefties stirrin’ them up.’

  First man: ‘These kanakas are rock apes, ferchrissake! Climbed down from the trees day before yesterday and now we’re givin’ them a fucking university! You don’t need a fucking PhD to cut copra!’

  The islander barman placed the drinks down in front of them. Chorus of ‘Cheers!’

  First man continued: ‘Did’ya read where this white bitch from the uni married a local? What sort of a slag would let a kanaka screw her? Hey? I mean, fair dinkum, it’s just not on, is it? In the old days we sorted things out quick bloody smart – you got caught with a meri, straight off, bang, you’re onto the BP steamer back home in disgrace.’

  There were nods all round, then the fourth member of the group smiled and piped in: ‘Hey! Fair go, Mack! If they brought that regulation back, there’d be a lot fewer members in this club for a start.’

  General mirth followed.

  First man (Mack): ‘Steady on, mate, that’s totally different. White women have to set a standard, that’s always been the rule. You don’t see any of us paradin’ down the street with the house girl on our arm.’

  Fourth man: ‘Ha ha, yeah, mate, sure . . . we’ve all heard about your little Tolai house girl!’

  Mack: ‘Bastard! That’s not the same!’ (Knowing laughter from the other three.) ‘Look . . . when a single bloke lives w
ith a meri everyone knows he needs a bit of company in bed, somebody to cook and clean – there’s no harm in that. It’s not the same for that commo bitch at the university. There’d be no shortage of white blokes linin’ up to screw the arse off her, unless she’s a real crook sort.’

  Second man: ‘She’ll be digging in the garden with a wooden stick, a piccaninny on her hip, another in her guts, carrying firewood home on her head.’

  Third man: ‘Oath! First time she opens her mouth when he comes home pissed, she’ll lose her front teeth. In three years you won’t recognise the stupid bitch.’

  At that moment my business appointment arrived and we moved away from the bar to a table. As a longstanding islander, a coastwatcher with a couple of reasonable medals, and the son of the local Anglican bishop, I was more or less accepted, mainly out of deference to my old man, who’d survived the Japs and was considered a hero among both the white and native populations. But I knew I was being privately condemned for my so-called radical political views.

  My father, John Duncan, held similar views to my own, but as a man of God, he refused to get mixed up in politics. ‘I dare say the locals will win in the end,’ he’d confided. ‘Good thing too, but it won’t bring them closer to the kingdom of heaven. Alas, for some, the devil will have his way. Corruption is colour-blind, an affliction to which few men are immune. Black men suddenly catapulted to power will be easily tempted.’