South Sea Gold: Chapter Twenty

"What am I charged with?" Jon asked the sergeant, as the two policeman paraded him slowly through the city room, down to the reception area and out to the waiting police car. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and the constable steadied him going down the stairs. Maxine's jaw dropped with amazement as they passed her desk and placed him in the car. She saw a man in the street had a camera, and flashed it in Jon's face just before the door closed.

"Nice orchestration," observed Jon, as the camera flashed a second time. He recognized the camera man from one of the Journal's rival papers. "Are you going to tell me the charges?" he asked the sergeant again, as the car drove away.

"The desk officer will go over all that at the station," the sergeant replied, and that was all Jon could get out of him. He soon realized they were not headed for the local district station. After a five-minute trip across town, the car turned down an alley and parked behind an unfamiliar building. The silent sergeant escorted him up a short flight of stairs to a constabulary office.

"Your name is Jonathan Sinto?" the desk clerk intoned. "You are charged with writing and disseminating material dangerous to the interests of Papua New Guinea. How do you plead?"

Jon stared at him in astonishment. "What kind of nonsense is this?"

"How do you plead?" the clerk repeated.

"Not guilty, of course! I've never heard of such a law or charge in all my years as a news editor."

"You will come before the magistrate tomorrow for arraignment. You are entitled to counsel of law." To the waiting sergeant, the clerk said, "After I catalog his pocket contents, he can go in the holding cell."

Tom located him after a two-hour search. "Are you okay, Jon?" They sat facing each other, separated by bars, with a constable standing by.

"If you mean has anyone beaten me or threatened me, no they haven't. It's humiliating, mostly. Someone had given our competition a heads-up; one of their reporters was there outside the door to photograph me. Where is this place I'm in? They haven't given me any information except I'm accused of being a danger to the country."

"Or more likely to some big man in it," Tom said. "The sign on the front door reads RPNGC Special Investigations. By appointment only.

"I've never heard of it."

"Okay, now that I know where you are, I can get wheels rolling. I'll report to the boss, and Mr. Mobata, the Journal's lawyer, and your wife. What can we bring you?"

"Nothing at the moment."

"Any messages for the crew?"

"Only Sophia's motto, 'Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead!'"

Tom saw the constable taking notes. "That last is an historical quote, not a threat," he said, as he passed by him. He turned and gave Jon a parting thumbs up and left the constable still writing.

Later that day, the editor-in-chief, James Baird, and Mr. Mobata the lawyer were no more successful in clarifying charges. In the visitor's room, Mobata asked the constable to leave the room. "Do you want your boss to step out, too?" Mobata asked Jon.

"No, he can stay. I've no secrets to hide."

"Now, what's this about your making a terrorist threat?"

Sinto was startled. "I didn't know I'd made any terrorist threats."

"Something about torpedoing a dam, the desk officer said."

"I said nothing of the sort! When Tom asked if I had any message for my staff, I answered with a sea-faring quote from a hundred fifty years ago, 'Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!' meaning keep working on what you are doing, no matter what happens."

Mobata pursed his lips. "Well, Jon, I must advise you to consider before you speak. Remember the old advice: 'anything you say may be used against you.'
"However," he continued, "we'll get you out of here if the paper is willing to post bail."

"Certainly," Mr. Baird said.

But the desk sergeant was firm. "The accused has made a threat about weapons," he said. "Under the circumstances, it increases his alleged danger to the country." And he refused to budge from that position. "The magistrate will hear his case tomorrow morning at nine."

"They want to keep us from making any claims in tomorrow's edition," Mr. Mobata said as he and the chief editor left the building. "The competition won't feel any need for such caution, and we'll see the story on their front page. The rumor will be all over town by the time we can tell our side. I'm sure the magistrate will dismiss all this tomorrow morning."

Tom visited Inspector Kerro later that afternoon, to see if he could get more information on the charge against Jon, or at least where the "Special Investigations" office fit into the rest of the RPNGC.

"It's an old decommissioned jail that's only used occasionally, nowadays," said Kerro. "I'm surprised they opened it up for this. They could just as easily have him questioned at headquarters."

"Why all the secrecy, and this nonsense about being a danger to the country?"

"Let me ask the chief inspector." He tapped out an in-house number on his phone. "Sir? Kerro here. Is there anything going on at the old jail house today?" He listened a moment. "Apparently someone is using it to question a suspect on a charge of disseminating material dangerous to the State. They have the local-news desk editor of the Journal down there . . .No, no, he is the suspect. . . .I've no idea . . . Yes sir, I'll follow up on it and let you know." Kerro put down the phone. "It's news to him, too."

"The sergeant at the jail told me there will be a magistrate's hearing tomorrow morning."

Kerro jotted a note. "This is interesting. It has all the markings of a smoke screen to take attention away from your investigation of mining practices. The police want to keep our own investigation out of the news for now, but tell Jon's lawyer that I offer to be a character witness in the hearing tomorrow. Then we can watch the show from ringside seats."

Tom arrived at district court in Waigani next morning to find that defense attorney Mobata had not only accepted Jason Kerro's offer, but had also co-opted the Journal's Mr. Baird and Sophia as witnesses, if needed. Tom greeted Mrs. Sinto and Matt Lin, in the spectator's section, and took a seat nearby, next to Jason.

"There are at least three reporters here from our competitors. They've already featured this case in their morning editions. Who's that at the public prosecutor's table?"

"He's a junior member of their staff," said Jason. "I don't know who the other guy is. Looks like they think the case is open-and-shut, or else too ridiculous to waste time with. We'll see in a few minutes."

"All rise!" Conversation in the courtroom ceased as Magistrate Peter Magoro entered, swept his eyes over the room and seated himself.

"This District Court is now in session," he said in a pleasant but firm voice as those in the room resumed their seats. "I note the presence of the news media, and I would remind them that taking pictures is not allowed in my courtroom. Will the clerk call the first case."

The clerk referred to the top sheet of several on his desk. "Mr. Jonathan Sinto."

"Are both Prosecution and Defense prepared?" the magistrate's voice was brisk and firm as he looked at a document before him.

"We are, sir."

"Mr. Sinto," the magistrate proceeded, "this is a preliminary hearing, to see whether a court trial is warranted. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are charged with spreading written material dangerous to the nation, and with conspiracy to . . ." he paused, frowning at the document, "destroy a dam? How do you plead?"

"Not guilty on both counts, sir."

"Sir, I wish to move that the prosecution has no case" said Mobata.

"Mr. Prosecutor? What is the basis for these unusual charges?"

"Sir," the young prosecutor said, "a constabulary precinct office received notification that the prisoner attempted to incite dissent against traditional policies of the government in dealing with foreign companies who intend to invest money in Papua New Guinea. Such dissent would prevent proper development of the nation. I present exhibit 'A' in evidence." He handed over a typed sheet.

The magistrate read the page to himself, and looked up. "Mr. Prosecutor, are you aware that this is, with a few misspellings, a copy of an editorial in the Port Moresby Journal of four days ago?"

"No, sir," said the prosecutor, crestfallen.

"And are you aware that Papua New Guinea's Constitution fully protects freedom of the press, and that the defendant here, the acknowledged author, is employed by The Journal to write such pieces? Then why is he under arrest?"

"Sir, the informant was represented to me as a member of the government. When, in addition, the defendant gave an order to a visitor to torpedo a dam, I thought matters urgent enough to demand prompt action."

The magistrate swiveled to face the defense table. "Mr. Sinto, do you have an explanation? Consult with your lawyer, if you wish."

Sinto was smiling with relief. "Sir, what I actually said is not what the constable at the jail apparently wrote down. In the newspaper office, we have a standing joke, quoting a command issued by Captain David Farragut of the American Navy two hundred years ago. When notified of enemy torpedoes, he gave the order, 'Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!' I believe Mr. Mobata has witnesses to that conversation available to the court. At no time did I advise or order destruction of a dam."

The magistrate silenced a few laughing spectators, and looked as if he might be stifling a smile of his own. He then glared at the young prosecutor who was having a whispered conversation with a uniformed constable sitting behind him. "Mr. Prosecutor, I am familiar with Captain Farragut's frequently quoted order myself. I believe he was promoted to admiral soon afterward. Have you anything further to add?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Prosecutor. I am aware that you are new in your job, and may have been set up by someone with an agenda which was not brought out into the open here. Rather than lecture you in open court, I shall see you in my office.

"This case is dismissed. Mr. Sinto, you are free to go. Next case."

Tom caught up with Inspector Kerro as they were leaving the court house. "That proceeding raises more questions than it answers, doesn't it."

"It surely does," said Kerro. I think all the publicity will make things safer for you, Tom, but it may interfere with the police case later. Be careful how you and your team report it."

South Sea Gold: Chapter Nineteen

Editorial page banner: WHOSE GOLD IS IT? by Jonathan Sinto

Papua New Guinea has been blessed by God, in the beauty of its landscape, its mountains, islands and seas, and in the glory of its diversity of peoples, languages, and traditions. We are gifted with food from the fertile soil and abundance in the sea, for anyone willing to labor for their family and future.

Now we find that our land is rich in hidden treasures as well. Not only forests and farms, but abundant natural gas, oil, gold and copper under the soil and sea. These are not easily harvested. To bring them up from deep under the earth or sea requires special skills. Some of our sons and daughters have enough education to learn such skills, as young people of other countries do. But we need to continue to improve PNG's schools and universities to train more workers in mining and other industries. There is no scarcity of foreign enterprises who would like to come here. They are eager to come, for they need more of such resources for their own markets, and at the lowest price they can persuade us to sell.

Our country is rich in gold. Many are asking, "Then why are we so poor? Does our gold and our gas belong only to those who extract it? These new-found treasures belong not to just a favored few but to all the people of this nation. Surely those who work in mining are entitled to the fruits of their labor, and those who build a mine or a gas well are entitled to a return on their investment. But they are not entitled to carry the whole lot off to their own country free of charge.

We have no claim to the diamonds of South Africa nor to the vast grain fields of Asia or America, although we may buy some, if we choose, compensating the people of those nations for what we carry to our own country.

Just so, foreigners may buy some of our gold, gas, or oil, but they may not take it all home as a prize. We need funds from the sale of our natural resources to build our roads, construct our hospitals and schools, without the greedy first lining their pockets, be they foreigners or our own countrymen.

What is our government doing to guarantee that a fair price is paid for our resources, to provide enough money to build this nation, without allowing it to stick to the fingers of the few?

Jonathan Sinto is Local News editor of the Port Moresby Journal. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the publisher.

Reaction was mixed as usual, even at the newspaper. The editor-in-chief thought it should increase the number of subscribers. The publisher thought it would hurt advertising income. Student and faculty opinion at the University was overwhelmingly favorable. Those churches who commented from the pulpit were almost all approving; although one or two said the paper did not give enough credit to The Almighty. And one irreverent member of the opposition in Parliament asked who was the designated almighty this month?

Sinto's editorial, reported briefly by Matt Lin in the Hong Kong Chronicle, caught the attention of a board member of the China' government's SASAC commission. The board member visited Mr. Han, the CEO of South Sea Gold's overall operations for Africa and Asia, and demanded an explanation. The frown on his face could only be a harbinger of official censure. The exotic tea and plate of fresh tropical fruit the CEO had quickly provided did nothing to ease tension in the room.

"Bring me up to date on your PNG operations," the SASAC board member said, as he laid his teacup back on the small table by his chair. "Is there some over-arching reason for the delays in copper production in PNG? Your Owego mine seems to be having one problem after another in speeding up production, and your other copper producers there have not been able to compensate for it. Need I remind you of SASAC's goals for providing electricity to the homes and factories of all of China's interior provinces? Our copper stockpile is shrinking. We still need millions of kilometers of copper wire, not to mention the increasing demands of the military and other industries." He inspected his long, clean fingernails as he waited for Mr. Han's excuses.

"The Owego operation has not yet reached the main ore body deep under the mountain . . ." the South Sea CEO began.

"I am aware of all that," the board member interrupted. "My question is, why not? There seems to be one delay after another. Five miners dead. Other miners refusing to work until a taboo is lifted. A major pipe-line broken. Delayed ventilation construction, and not just in this one mine. I want to see more copper coming into China, and more favorable publicity. The only people who seem to be keeping up to speed so far are the news media. Your delays are also impeding our aeronautical industry's needs for rhenium. I understand that you had discovered a source in your new property up the coast in PNG."

"That property is only in development, not in production. And we don't have a major share holding there."

"I suggest that you explore the opportunity. It would be a redeeming factor in balancing South Sea Gold's present performance. You have thirty days to show improvement."

Several second-level officials from diverse PNG government bureaus quietly met together in secret conference. "The Journal editorial is drawing too much public attention to negotiating new mining projects. Don't they know," said one, "how expensive it is to keep the mining internationals happy?"

"Not to mention our own fees to ease passage of favorable laws," added another.

"You've got to spend money to make money," a third hackneyed.

"Of course. But if we spend too much, we don't make any profit ourselves. The solution is to write carefully worded legislation for Parliament to pass. Make it many pages long, and confusing enough so they won't read all of it. Insert a clause deep inside somewhere that authorizes us to negotiate the contracts. Then we each can write our own expense accounts as we like. It's an art form."

"But how do we stop the news media from interfering?'

"Leave that to me."

Landowners near mines in several parts of of the country were already planning how they might benefit from the catch-phrase, "Whose Gold Is It?" Some had genuine complaints; others were opportunists relying on poor public records of past land deals.

"If the gold is on our land, we own it, don't we?" questioned one landowner to his lawyer.

"Mineral rights are not included in a landowner's deed unless it so states specifically," the lawyer replied.

"But you're a law expert. Can't you do something?"

The lawyer put his fingertips together, making a show of considering this. He knew the chances were unlikely, but stating a fact is not the way consultation fees are earned. "I can approach our member in Parliament," he said, slowly and carefully. "But it may be expensive."

An independent placer miner in a small West Sepik village paused in his labor to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Seeing their father stop for a moment, his two sons took a drink of water. The father examined a tiny gold nugget, hardly bigger than a grain of rice, among the few flecks of yellow in the bottom of his gold pan. "That's the first one today," he said, rubbing the ache in his back; "Not too bad." He carefully added it to the small vial he kept in his shirt pocket. "It should bring a few Kina. All right, boys, let's get back to work, before some big mining company claims our little stream."

Matt was back, after a quick trip to Hong Kong and Beijing. "I talked with Mr. Han at South Sea Gold Headquarters. He had just had a visit from a big official from Beijing, and was even grumpier than I've seen him in the past. He knows the pipeline is way shorter and shallower than allowed; he was in charge locally when the mine was being set up, and when the pipeline was laid, before Li Kao Hsai came on the scene. And he knows that we know, or at least that we suspect it. He's obviously afraid that Beijing will find out and put the blame on him."

Jon Sinto rubbed his jaw, thinking. "The pipe has been there two years or more," he finally said. "Let's say nothing at the moment, and let the tension build."

His phone buzzed. The discussion paused while he picked it up. "Sinto here."

"Mr. Sinto, I have two policemen here at the front desk asking for you."

"Send them up, Maxine'" He raised his eyebrows at his staff. "Maybe we have a new development already."

Moments later, a police sergeant and a constable appeared. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" Sinto asked cordially.

"Mr. Sinto, we'd like you to come with us." The sergeant produced a pair of handcuffs. "You are under arrest."

South Sea Gold: Chapter Fifteen

The helicopter set Matt and Sophia down on a stretch of sandy beach just west of what they now thought of as "the tourist village" on Owego Island. Beverli, the woman at the bed and breakfast was happy to see them again. "Not much business lately." she confided. "Some people are afraid of the stuff the mine puts into the water over by the other village."

"Have you advertised your place here?" asked Sophia. "I know a lot of people in Port Moresby who would love to visit a place like this, especially when so many other places on PNG's coast are having even bigger problems with mining than you do."

"With business bad, I can't afford to advertise," said the woman.

"Maybe you won't have to," Sophia said. "I work for the Journal. I'd be happy to mention your place in my next piece. And the paper is working to convince mining companies to not dump their waste in the sea or the rivers."

A smile spread slowly over the woman's face as she comprehended this offer. "And my son, Pradeep, will give you a free scuba dive out on the reef. That could be in the paper too?"

Sophia tried to hide her dismay. She had never scuba dived. "Oh, we wouldn't want to trouble him like that . . ."

"No, no, he needs the practice! I'll call him."

Matt had not been following this Tok Pisin conversation, and Sophia turned to give him the gist, adding "I've no idea whether he's a safe operator or not, Matt. I don't know anything about diving."

"It might be fun," said Matt. "When I was growing up in Singapore, my family went a couple of times to Tioman Island for vacation. It's a beautiful spot, where the Bali Hai scenes in South Pacific were filmed, and the scuba diving was great! Let me talk to him, and I can get some idea about his equipment."

Presently, Pradeep appeared, a muscular young man of about twenty, who knew enough English to talk directly with Matt. They discussed oxygen tanks and other equipment, while Matt tested valves and gauges. "It looks safe, he said to Sophia. "Let's give it a try, want to?" Sophia shivered and shook her head, folded her arms.

"Yes, you can come," said the young man, with a sidewise wag of his head. "You can use a snorkel, see all the pretty fish around the coral reef, without having to go down deep."

She reluctantly got in the motor boat with them, and rode out about a kilometre, to where the coral could be seen through the still, clear water, ten meters below. Matt helped her adjust her goggles and angle her breathing tube back over her shoulder. "Now just let go of the boat and float on the surface, face down. Breathe easily, paddle with your arms and legs, and look down."

She did so, and presently saw Matt submerge past her, down to the reef. His descent scattered several schools of brightly colored fish that had been feeding among the starfish and anemones on the multi-hued coral. A plump eel moved lazily along the sandy bottom nearby as the fish regrouped. She watched a crab-like creature as it ventured out of its den in the coral. An hour passed quickly.

"Here's an idea for tonight," Matt said as they were riding back to shore, seated close together. Sophia turned to give him an encouraging look, and moved a little closer. "We need to get slurry samples for testing, right?" he continued. "And like Tom said yesterday, the mine has probably patched up the broken pipeline by now. But what if we could get samples of the sea water around the end of the pipe out in the bay?"

"You're out of your mind," Sophia told him, "You don't know how deep the water is there, or what kinds of pollutants there are, or whether the mine people will even allow it. Besides, what will you collect the samples in?"

"Tom got me some bottles with the right preservative in them, and the address of a lab to take them to. If we go out again tonight, I can dive by the buoy that marks the end of the pipe. Even if it's too deep, I can still get samples from above and a little beyond it. You won't have to dive, but it would help if you held one of our torches for me."

"The things I have to do for a news story," she sighed. "And I was hoping for a romantic evening."

"That could come later," he suggested, putting an arm around her shoulder.

That evening, their boatman took them out again. They carried fishing gear in case anyone at Owego Village got inquisitive, and with four wide-mouth, screw-capped plastic jars in Sophia's bilum shoulder bag. Matt paid for this trip, adding extra money for night time and for the petrol needed to get over to the pipeline in the bay.

They found the buoy marker, and anchored just beyond it. Matt strapped his torch to his forearm, checked his oxygen tank and valve, put on his flippers, pulled down his goggles and dropped over the side. The water here was not as crystal clear as that at the reef.

"Sophia, I'll follow the anchor line down. I taped a rock to the bottom of each bottle to keep it from floating back up. I tied your shoulder bag to the end of that line there in the boat. When you let it down, try to keep it between the anchor line and the buoy over there. When you feel me tug on the line, pull it back up, okay?"

She touched his arm softly. "Be careful, Matt."

He nodded. "See you in a few minutes," he said, and submerged, leaving a trail of bubbles marking his descent. The water began to get murky at about 5 meters depth. Orienting himself between the anchor and buoy lines, he could see the pipeline a short distance shoreward and downward; it was supported above the sea bottom by concrete pylons.

He took a bottle from the bag Sophia had lowered, swam over to the mouth of the pipe and sat astride it, facing out to sea. He held the bottle upright in the edge of the muddy plume flowing from the pipe and loosened the screw cap enough to let air escape slowly as the bottle filled, then tightened the cap again, and swam the few meters back to the bag suspended on its rope. He took another bottle, filled it with the clearer water outside the plume, deposited it in the bag along with the first and tugged to signal Sophia. The bag disappeared upward.

He shone his light in all directions as he steadied himself on the anchor line. A single fish swam slowly into view, then flicked its tail to turn back again as it came near the stream of pipeline slurry. He couldn't see the bottom clearly, but supposed it to be covered with silt. A small area of coral emerged out of the murk nearby, dead white, with none of the colorful fauna and flora he had seen on the reef that afternoon. He swam up toward the surface and rejoined Sophia.

Next morning after breakfast, they set out for the mine, about an hour's walk around the shoulder of the mountain, by a trail their hostess pointed out to them. Matt found the Chinese mine engineer by the mine's leaching pits. He recognized Matt from the visiting Chinese group at the time of the mine disaster. They conversed in Mandarin.

"Samples from the gold-leaching pits? Sure, which pit do you want?"

"Whatever one is draining today."

"That would be number four," the engineer said, "It's the last of the tailings from before the pipeline break last week. We only finished leaching the gold out of it yesterday. Not even time to properly rinse it afterward, so your sample test may run a little high. What's the company in such a hurry about?"

"They never tell me," said Matt. "I'm just the information guy. Ask the company CEO."

"Yeah, right. There's the drain valve, just past where this pit's drain joins the pipe-line."

"Got it," said Matt. He filled and labeled two more of the sample bottles from Sophia's bag. "Is Yari Banta, around?" The engineer pointed toward the mine office shed.

"No, wait." he said. Matt stopped at the door. "I forgot; Banta works on the night shift. He's down in the village." Matt caught his breath, let it out slowly, turned toward the road. He waved a silent thanks to the engineer.

"What was all that about?" Sophia asked as they walked away.

"The narrowest escape you'll ever see," Matt said. "Just act casual and don't look back. If the day-shift boss sees us, we'll have a lot of explaining to do, and he will probably alert their Moresby office about our visit. The engineer I was just talking to only met me once, when I entered the mine property with a bunch of visiting Chinese the day after the the miners died. He assumes I'm from the company office too. The man we're going to see now is a local, and can tell us how the villagers are doing."

"There's where they fixed the broken pipe," Sophia remarked a few minutes later. Looks like they just put in a piece of ordinary pipe. Like I said before, they need a woman's touch in this mine."

"South Sea Gold is in a hurry to get more copper and gold to China, and maybe that's the only patch they had on hand. Looks like air-duct pipe, not as sturdy as the thicker plastic. And speaking of hurrying, that looks like a ship on the horizon, heading this way.

They stopped at the village shop to ask directions to Banta's house. It sat on a low rise, looking out toward the bay. Sophia greeted Banta's wife, and talked with her in Tok Pisin, identifying herself by tribe, home town and present job, and introduced Matt. Matt gazed out at the ship as the two women talked. It was closer now, and appeared to be a bulk freighter of medium size, flying the red flag of the People's Republic of China from its stern.

Presently, Banta came onto the veranda, yawning from this early awakening. Matt re-introduced himself to the headman, who remembered him from the day after the miners' deaths. "I and my associate, Ms. Waru were here after the pipeline broke last week. We wondered how that affected your village people."

"Ah. After the landslide, when Jerry Bromo's lorry hit the pipe. No serious injuries happened. The pipeline has been repaired; the miners lost only one day's pay. Everything should be okay now."

"When did the pipeline go back in service?" asked Matt.

"Yesterday. We have two empty leach pits now, and can accept new ore from the mine again."

"Mr. Banta," Sophia spoke up, I've been asking your wife about the village children. When we were here last week, we noticed three of them playing in the little pool of slurry at the pipeline break. Are they well?"

"Ah, now. Two children in the village became ill a day or two after the pipeline broke." Banta spoke with his wife in a local language for several minutes while Matt and Sophia waited expectantly. "They were sisters," he said finally, "and complained of headache and tiredness. I believe they slept most of two or three days. My wife says they are better now. I will summon the mother." He called a small boy from outside, and evidently gave him instructions. The boy trotted off and presently returned with a young woman. Matt glanced out to the village pier again. The Chinese ship was preparing to dock now.

"She says yes, her children had played in the mud up at the pipe break when the family had gone to see it that day. It was that afternoon they became ill. She says they are eating and playing today, but they still tire easily."

In an aside to Sophia, Matt told her, "It's time for us to go. Armed guards and other people are getting off that ship. It's best to not be involved in conversation with them."

"The mother wants to know," said Banta, "do you think her children were poisoned like the fish?"

"It's hard to say for sure," said Matt. "Fish are poisoned more easily by what may be in the slurry than people are. I'm glad to hear the children are getting better now, but they had best be kept away from the slurry if a break ever happens again."

"What about swimming in the water here near the village?" asked Banta."

Sophia spoke up. "We have taken water samples from both ends of the pipeline," she said, without going into further detail. "With your permission, Mr. Banta, we can take another sample from a boat offshore here at the village, if someone can take us out." She looked to Matt to see if he agreed. He nodded. That would give them a quick exit past the armed men.

Yari Banta collected his son-in-law from a nearby house and walked with them down to the shore where several motor boats were beached. A half-dozen village children followed them, curious. Matt and Sophia both thanked Yari, and promised to inform him of the test results. "I hope the mine owners won't be upset about our tests,"said Matt, "but the people of PNG have a right to know what's happening to their sea water."

Yari smiled. "The mine owners do not have to know everything that happens."

The son-in-law cast off, then stopped the boat a short distance off shore. "You watch the ship people," Sophia said to Matt, and tell me when it's all right to fill this bottle. We have one more, for sampling at the tourist village shore."

Okay - now." said Matt. And then to their boat pilot, "Why does the dock have armed guards?" The young man looked questioningly at Sophia, who translated into Tok Pisin, after making sure she had closed the sample bottle tightly.

"He says because they ship gold, along with the copper concentrate they load."

"Nothing to do with us then," said Matt. Tell him I'll pay him to take us back to the tourist village. After that, we can get some dinner and have time for another late night swim. No need to end our vacation till tomorrow."

She nodded. "Agreed."

 

South Sea Gold: Chapter Thirteen

Sleeping on a cot at the office, with his meals sent in, was not Tom's idea of the high life, especially with his family five hundred kilometers away. He phoned Kim and Morrie most evenings. The only exercise he got, those first days after his injuries, was walking the halls in the building, or out on the flat roof, in company with his guard. No going out on the street. When he complained, Jon merely shrugged. "We supply the men, but the police made the call. Ask your friend Kerro."

"How long do I have to have a nursemaid?" he then asked Jason when the inspector came to ask a few more questions.

"As long as we need to protect your back." advised Kerro. "The men all say they haven't seen any suspicious activity, so you'll probably be turned loose in another couple of days. We have some unidentified fingerprints from the letter the man gave your wife, but they don't match any in our files." Can you remember anything else about the attackers, now that your mind is clearer?"

"I remember some big guy sitting on my legs to pin me down while his friend kept kicking me hard in my chest and back. When they started working on my head I guess I passed out. No identities yet, huh?"

"Our usual informers say the street gangs don't know anything about these guys. That could either mean your attackers are from out of town, or that anyone who does know them is too scared to talk. For now, we'd better still keep your family where they are."

Matt and Sophia, just returned from the Owego Mine, paid him a visit that same afternoon. "You're looking good, for the shape you're in," observed Matt. "What did they do to you, anyway?"

"Gave me a week's vacation. I don't recommend it as an option, though. Where have you guys been?" Tom's grin was still a little lop-sided. "Hi, Sophia."

"Hi. You look like you've spent time in a cement-mixer."

"Thank the Lord they didn't add the cement," said Tom, "but yeah. That's about what it felt like at the time. What's new with you two?"

"You've missed all the fun, Tom," Sophia said. "Jon sent us down to the Owego Mine again, the day after you got beat up. It seems they've had another accident. Their slurry pipeline broke."

"I thought the pipeline was unbreakable plastic."

"So they said," answered Matt. "But they made some mistakes in construction. You remember that place where the hillside juts out, half way down from the mine to the village? They laid the pipe right next to the road there, where there's only two meters clearance between the hill and the road. Last week one night, heavy rains caused a landslide that pushed the pipeline out into the road. A bulldozer couldn't have done a neater job."

"And there's more," said Sophia, "a ten-tonne lorry came down the road in the dark, hit that thirty-centimeter pipe, flipped the loaded lorry on it's side and crushed the pipe. Didn't hurt the driver much. Maybe he'd had a couple of beers to relax him."

"Did you get pictures?" asked Tom.

"We did," said Sophia, "showing slurry still trickling out of the broken pipe after we got there hours later. Now if they had had a woman engineer design that pipeline, I bet she would have foreseen the problem and kept the pipe in the open field on the other side of the road."

"Just facts, Sophia," said Matt gently. "Leave out the speculation."

"Did you get a chance to take a sample of the pipe drainage?"

"Yup," Matt said. "While Sophia diverted the watchman, a local villager, with her conversation, I quietly emptied the water bottle I had been carrying, and held it under the trickle of slurry still coming out of the pipe." He produced a bottle half full of brownish mud and water.

Tom looked at it doubtfully. "Are you sure that's not a latte from the pub around the corner?"

"It has been in my possession since I filled it. Sophia is my witness. But you can taste it, if you want to."

"Thanks, but no. You could take it to the police lab, though. Jason can't tell you how much cyanide it contains, but he can tell whether or not it has any at all. What else did you learn at Owego?"

"We checked at the provincial land records office in Alotau. South Sea Gold Corp. does not control the whole island of Owego. Their lease covers about twenty hectares of land around the mine and the mill, plus the road to the dock. There are two other villages on the island, one is two kilometers along the coast, west of where the miners live, and another on the south coast, beyond the big mountain. You don't notice them from the air because of all the trees."

"The one to the west is quite pretty," said Sophia. "Palms hanging out over clear blue water. A woman there takes in tourists, and her son advertises scuba diving. We stayed there; didn't check out his scuba equipment, but the swimming was great. I don't think many people know about the place. I suppose all that will change, once the mine goes into full gear."

"Farsighted of you, to go there prepared for swimming," remarked Tom.

Sophia smiled shyly. "Tourism's just as important an industry as mining, along the coast. A good reporter is supposed to evaluate all the diverse options."

"She taught me how to use a sarong," explained Matt. Sophia smiled.

Tom didn't know how far he should pursue this topic. Somehow in his mind, Matt and Sophia were becoming a single item, Matt-and-Sophia, at a rapid pace.

Because Tom was still confined by his injuries he arranged for Matt to take the slurry sample to Inspector Kerro for the police lab that afternoon. Kerro was not encouraging. We'll test for cyanide, but it won't be dependable after standing this long. Traces of metals and other stuff in that mud you have there can change the free cyanide level. If you are concerned about the slurry's effect on the village fishing, I've heard that many kinds of fish are much more sensitive to cyanide poisoning than humans are."

"What should I look for in humans?" Matt asked.

"Other than living near a source of cyanide? Symptoms of chronic poisoning are not very specific. Weakness, confusion, difficulty breathing; things that can also be caused by a lot of other different problems that have nothing to do with cyanide. A person's skin can be unusually pink, for the same reason you saw in that miner who died of monoxide poisoning. Both cyanide and monoxide keep red blood cells from releasing the oxygen they carry. But that's a late sign, near death, and it's harder to see in us PNGeans, because of our darker complexion."

"But we can predict there will be trouble if there is still untreated cyanide in the slurry, right?" Matt said.

"If you have as much as a tenth of a milligram of cyanide per liter of sea water," said Kerro, "you are going to have trouble for most fish and a lot of other sea life, including the coral reefs. The best defense is regular chemical testing of water in the the waste pipe."

"So the responsibility for survival of the fishing industry lies with the DEC, then?"

"Right, unless the Department of Mines is willing and able to do it," said Kerro. "Trusting a mining company's word, or inspecting a site from a company helicopter, or getting paid to ignore the discharge, is definitely a conflict of interest."

"That's what the newspaper needs to know," said Matt. "Thanks, Inspector."

South Sea Gold: Chapter Ten

Tom received a phone call soon after getting to the office next day. "Good morning, Tom," said a friendly voice, "Jeremy Blake here. Our CEO, Mr. Li, and I would like to invite you to lunch with us, if you're free today."

With ulterior motives on the menu? thought Tom. "Jeremy, I usually eat lunch at my desk here at work," Tom said.

"Consider this a working lunch at our expense. Mr. Li wants to get to know you better, and hear your ideas." Jeremy urged. "It shouldn't take long; we know your time is valuable."

Might be a story in this, thought Tom. "Okay, Jere, I'd be glad to, thanks." They set a time and place.

When Tom entered the air-conditioned and tastefully decorated Chinese restaurant at noon, Jeremy and Mr Li had just arrived. A waiter led them to an alcove allowing them some privacy. "This place has excellent dim sum," said Li, when they were seated. Waiters circulated among the tables, pushing food trolleys, each bearing several Chinese delicacies from which the customer might try as many as he liked.

After they had made several selections, and hot tea had been poured, Li turned the talk to business. "I've been very interested in your recent series on mining, Mr. Akani," he said. "South Sea Gold has the controlling interest in three mines in PNG, with two more in the exploration and development stages. Jeremy has been describing your thoughts on limiting the spread of mine tailings. We've heard of paste back-fill methods, of course, but our parent company in Hong Kong has found tailings ponds and deep sea disposal more cost-effective."

"I'm an outsider in such matters, Mr. Li," said Tom, "but has your company considered the added long-range costs in PNG of traditional tailings dumping?"

"We prefer to consider the benefits that can result from our mining ventures, Tom―may I call you Tom?―such as the scholarships our company furnishes for deserving young New Guineans to study abroad, that are made possible by our mining activities. You have children, don't you, Tom?"

Tom nodded. "One, so far."

"Think of the increased opportunities available to him in later life, if you could choose to send him to any university in the world―Australia, UK, United States . . . "

"And how are these scholarship candidates chosen, Mr. Li?"

"An independent committee selects them from a list of nominees furnished by the corporation. The grants are quite generous, intended to cover cost of tuition, travel, and living abroad."

"The grant applications are not open to all high school students, then, based on merit?"

"The committee would consider merit, among other things, of course." Li's expression and tone were bland, but something seemed to change in his face; something more distant about his eyes, maybe, Tom thought.

"Mr. Li, that's certainly very generous of the company. Of course, my newspaper's focus has always been chiefly on those people adversely affected by mining. People whose farms were down-river from a collapsed mine tailings dam, for instance, or the failure of the promised school house to appear at your own Owego Mine in Milne Bay."

Mr. Li leaned forward earnestly. "Let me assure you, the Owego school has not been forgotten. At a staff meeting earlier this month, one of the top executives from Hong Kong directed that the school construction be speeded up. We expect it to be ready later this year."

Another thought apparently struck Li. "And that reminds me," he said, "our public relations weekly newsletter has recently lost it's editor. Would you consider working for South Sea Gold as editor, keeping our world-wide enterprises informed on new mining developments as they occur? It's a paid position, of course," he added.

"Let me think about it," said Tom," as they all got up from the lunch table. "I would have to clear it with my editor, to be sure there is no conflict of interest."

"Of course," said Li. "Let me know soon, so we can discuss salary and travel perks."

As he drove back to the office, Tom considered what he had just been offered. Clearly, it had been an offer. They had been talking about tailings disposal, until Li had suddenly switched to college scholarships and world-wide travel. He had never given much thought to his children's future education. He had always thought that university achievement depended about 20% on the university and 80% on the student's character and motivation, and he saw the University of PNG as the natural place to go. But what if he was wrong? What if local schools deteriorated so much under the current culture of greed and bribes that a local diploma fifteen years in the future would be worthless?

He recalled the advice from his mother, a minor government official well acquainted with bribe offers: "Tomaka, my son, if you don't want to be tempted, don't even unwrap the gift, no matter whether it's a bottle of whiskey, or money, or whatever. Temptation is much easier to resist if you don't gaze at it."

I won't solve anything by becoming part of the problem, he thought. And yet. . . .

"I've had quite a day," Tom told his wife when he got home that evening. "A free lunch and two bribe offers."

"Oh? Can we take that vacation in New Zealand, then?" She held out three-year-old Morris, who was reaching for his Daddy.

"That wasn't in the offer," he said, lifting his son to his shoulders, "but a full university scholarship for Morrie when he grows up, anywhere in the world, covering tuition, travel and living expenses. You want to go to school in New Zealand, Morrie?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically. "After dinner!"

"And the second offer?" asked Kim.

"A part-time editor's job with a mining newsletter. Good travel perks. I'm supposed to let him know soon, so we can discuss pay."

"And what do you have to do to merit all this?"

"He hasn't said yet, but I'm sure it will involve some message like, 'Mine tailings are good for you,' " He set Morrie down.

"Are you serious about this, Tom?" she gazed at her husband wonderingly."You've never spoken like this before."

"I don't know." He was thoughtful. "It would be interesting to see how far they are willing to go."

Tom was taking a coffee break with Matt Lin the next morning. "So, Matt, how much success did you have yesterday tracking down the Gender Issues Office?" Tom asked.

"Sophia and I finally found an office near Parliament House." Matt gently blew on his coffee to cool it. "Easier to find than anything in the Mining Ministry maze. It opened up a whole new aspect of mining for me―small-scale operations by a single family or person, gold-panning a stream or maybe working a sluice. One of the papers the gender people handed out estimates there are eight or ten thousand women trying to make a living this way, and four times that many men.

"It's mostly bare subsistence living," he continued, "and there aren't any national regulations, but the Mineral Resource Authority runs a Small-Scale Mine Training Center at some place called Wau. Sophia says she grew up in a village near there."

Tom grunted. "Morobe Province, south of Lae. Some of the mines there aren't working any more, but there are new, bigger ones a little farther south."

"The government people are mostly neutral about these little places," Matt went on, "I guess they can't really inspect and enforce rules at that many thousand small mine sites. But these are mostly amateurs, they may know that mercury can extract gold from the heavy sand in the bottom of their sluice, but they don't know the dangers of mercury poisoning. Maybe they don't wash after a long day's work, maybe they use the same pot to cook their food that they used to cook the gold mix to boil off the mercury. Almost surely they breathe some of the mercury fumes, and most of them dump the sand residue back in the river for the folks downstream to drink."

"So, if these small-time miners are uneducated and live in some other part of the country, what good does this school do them?"

"That's where the women's groups come in. Sophia talked with the women at this gender issues office for quite a while. Women's empowerment is her favorite subject."

"Yeah, I've noticed," Tom said drily.

"She's a remarkable woman. In many ways." Matt's voice trailed off as he gazed into space.

Tom brought him back to the subject at hand. "You were saying . . ."

"Oh. Yes, well, PNG women are starting to realize that there's more to life than gardening, cooking, and babies. Until lately, they weren't allowed to mine at all. But now, things have turned around. Most male miners out in the villages are glad to have their wives and children help with the work. That makes other problems, of course, like kids dropping out of school, if there's even a school near by. Sophia says that women have more instinct for business, in finding the best buyer for their bits of gold, or having an eye for chances to buy and sell items in demand in the village. Men in PNG, she says, usually have less interest in saving money. As soon as they sell their gold, they spend the money. Women are more likely to look ahead, willing to spend some for their kids education or other needs."

"My question was, " Tom prompted, "how does the miners' school at Wau help those who can't afford the travel or pay the school fees. I assume there is some cost involved, not to mention time away from work?"

"That's still in the planning stage. One source said satellite schools will be set up in other mining areas, another said there will be a traveling team that can go anywhere that has a road nearby."

"And what do they teach?"

"The center at Wau sets up two-week sessions each covering three or four topics. One of their main concerns is safety in handling mercury—it's a health problem for the miner, for his family who breathe the fumes, and for the villagers who drink the contaminated water. But it's the only way they can recover fine particles of gold from the river sediment. Cyanide, that big mines are trained to use, is so poisonous that it's out of the question for village use."

"But not out of the question for big mines to dump residue in the rivers and ocean, if they so choose," said Tom. "What else do they teach?"

"How to prospect for gold, so they don't waste energy tearing up whole hillsides; how to avoid physical injury, how to handle the business-end of the work, avoiding environmental damage, things like that. You know," continued Matt, "living in Singapore, and now working in Hong Kong, I haven't any idea how people out in tiny villages handle their banking and business matters."

"There have been micro-banking projects from time to time here in PNG," said Tom, "but none I know of that reach a large part of the country. Security against robbery is a big problem here."

"A friend of mine in Singapore tried bringing banking to the villages, I remember." Matt smiled in reminiscence. "His bank sent him to Africa to see a successful enterprise a few years ago. They solved the robbery problem with an armored car carrying a computer system with the bank's complete database for the thirty villages in that region. Some of their clients couldn't read or write, but each account was registered to a client's thumbprint. Deposits, withdrawals, and small loans could all be done just by the computer, through the person's thumbprint ID. They even reduced the payroll of one government department by half when they got rid of all the fake names on the roster that couldn't match a print. Four armed guards deployed at each stop discourage robbers.

Tom grinned. "We might have to add a feature for rural PNG. Have a second armored car with four more armed guards locked inside to protect the deployed four from being out-gunned by our raskol gangs. But thanks for the tips, Matt. They should make a good base for next Friday's feature article."

"I'll trade them for some information I want," said Matt."

Tom raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Tell me about Sophia. She's a fascinating girl."

"Well, I only know her from working on a few projects here at The Journal. Twenty-seven years old, divorced, no kids. Aggressive reporter, looks for facts, verifies her material with at least two sources; that kind of stuff . . ."

"What happened to her marriage?"

"I've never asked her. I kind of assumed she had an abusive husband, but that's only a rumor."

"Do you know how she feels about Chinese?"

Tom smiled inwardly, tempted to answer, "she prefers pasta." But this wasn't the time.

"I've never heard her make any racial remarks. She has a temper, and doesn't suffer fools lightly, but you probably already noticed that."

"I'd like to ask her out. But I don't know the social customs here in PNG."

"Best way to test that is to ask her," Tom said. "I think she likes you." Actually, he had no idea whether she did or not, but a friend is a friend.

"Yeah. Well, thanks. See you tomorrow."