The Accidental Philanthropist

The Accidental Philanthropist

Flood water from the morning downpour gushed over the ford and a dozen vehicles had parked up on either side of the river, waiting for the level to drop. To drive across too soon when it was still high was to invite an unwanted trip downstream inside an upturned car. In this remote part of Papua New Guinea, the chances of getting rescued were nil, so drivers were cautious and resigned themselves to a long wait. They sat listlessly in their cars as the mist from the recent rain rose into the sky from the dense jungle on either side of the laterite track.

Higher up the bank, the occupants of a wooden hut had spotted a business opportunity, and on the bare earth in front of their house sold home-grown bananas and coconuts to bored drivers. I parked my car on the side of the track and walked over to the pile of fruit.

A tall, athletic-looking man squatted beside the bananas. His deeply pigmented skin and the reddish tint of his tightly curled hair identified him as a local to Bougainville, the island which I was driving across. He looked at me with interest. As a visitor, I was something of a rarity in this remote part of the island and he probably hoped to sell me some fruit for a suitable mark-up. I asked in Tok Pisin, the local language:

“Gut moning. How much dispela banana?”

“Two Kina for six bananas.”

This was about fifty US cents. Probably higher than the local price but I didn’t quibble.

“Tenku. Mi laik six.”

I handed over the notes and took the bananas. As I turned to walk back to the car, he touched my arm and said:

“Yu laik buy a mask?”

In the past, locals had made ornate masks for traditional ceremonies, but in recent years had discovered a lucrative market in selling them to foreigners.

“Perhaps. Where is it?”

He nodded towards the house.

“Insait hia.”

He led me into the dark interior and pointed to the wall. Through the gloom, I saw a large, oval mask hanging in the shadow. Hundreds of tiny cowry shells arranged in curling patterns created the image of a face on its clay surface. Feathers and animal hair decorated its edges, and a pair of hog tusks gave it a fearsome appearance. It was evidently a work of genuine traditional art and much more intricately crafted than the tourist trinkets sold in the airport shop.

“Dispela mask is good. Hamas it cost?”

“Two hundred Kina.”

We haggled for a while and eventually agreed on one hundred and fifty Kina.

It was heavy, so I carried it back to my car slowly and put it on the front seat beside me. It stared stonily ahead as I carefully secured it with the seatbelt.

By late afternoon, the river level began to drop, and the concrete base of the ford became visible through the flowing water. Drivers began to eye each other up to see who was going to be the first to try to get across. A lorry made the first move. Being heavier, it was less likely to be washed downstream, so it carefully set off into the flowing water, the driver leaning out of his window to check that his tyres stayed on the concrete track. A crowd on both sides of the river watched intently as he slowly made his way across. After several tense minutes, he reached the other side of the river and accelerated up the slope of the bank with water draining off his wheel arches, waving his clenched fist out of his window in triumph. Emboldened by his success, other vehicles then began to follow. First went the minibuses loaded with passengers, then some cars. Even though they all made it across, my little Suzuki jeep with its two-stroke engine was the lightest of all, and the prospect of floating downriver in it still seemed a genuine possibility. But, like a penguin on an ice floe, the sight of everyone else setting off was too much for me to resist, so I started off down the slope towards the ford. As I did so, two men jumped uninvited onto the rear bumper, holding on to the roof rack. I thought this was a bit cheeky but soon realised that they were doing me a big favour. Their additional weight on the back helped the tyres grip the surface of the riverbed and keep us on the track. Even so, the force of the water was still strong enough to push us sideways as we made our way forwards. Anxiously, I wound down my window fully in case we went over and I needed to get out of the sinking car quickly. I looked across to the mask in the passenger seat. Was I imagining it or did the face now look worried? I told myself not to be so superstitious and increased the revs of the high-pitched engine, which whined and complained as it pushed us across the flow. Thanks no doubt to the additional weight of my two passengers, we made it across. We drove victoriously up the opposite slope to the cheers and shouts of the audience that had gathered on either side of the river.

Back in my house in Arawa, the mask hung on the wall of my living room, watching me as I moved around. Even though it looked fierce, I liked it and so, when I left PNG the following year, I sent it back to my home in England. But when my shipment finally arrived in London a few weeks after I had got back, the mask was missing. It was puzzling, but the mystery was solved a couple of days later when I received a letter from the UK Customs. It informed me that the mask had been made from a turtle shell, which was a protected animal species, and the feathers came from protected birds too. Its import into the UK was therefore prohibited and it had been seized. I was mortified. I had not realised that under the thick clay covering of the mask was a turtle shell, and the feathers adorning the edges were taken from birds of paradise. I accepted that importation of the mask was illegal, but I was dismayed to learn that it was going to be disposed of. I wrote a reply to the Customs department, apologising for my ignorant error, and suggested that such a fine piece of traditional art might be given to a museum instead of being thrown away. I heard nothing back. I resigned myself to the fact that it would be destroyed, and that I was lucky not to have been prosecuted for importing illegal artefacts. Over time I forgot about it completely.

Thirty years later a friend from my school days contacted me to get reacquainted. I was surprised and pleased to receive his telephone call.

“It’s great to hear from you, Alastair, how did you find me?”

“I did an internet search for your name, and it was easy to find you. I see you are a philanthropist. Very impressive.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

He explained.

“When I typed your name into the internet search engine, you came up as a donor of traditional Papua New Guinean art to the British Museum in London.”

Puzzled, I checked on the museum website. Sure enough, under my name was a photograph of my beloved mask from Bougainville. Instead of coming to a fiery end in the furnaces of UK Customs, it had become an exhibit, admired by countless visitors from all over the world and preserved for eternity.

I had been transformed from being a smuggler of illegal artefacts to a philanthropic donor to the British Museum without even knowing it. As I looked at the photo, I smiled. Was it my imagination or was there also a hint of a smile on that fierce face that had stared back at me from my living room wall in Papua New Guinea all those years ago?