Trying to purchase a 10kg bag of betel nuts (buai) from Gerehu’s Waikele buai warehouse is like baiting an elusive fish, thirty-something Joshua reflects with the usual smile on his sweaty face. “We are like fishing!”. Patience, skill, alertness, wit, and assertiveness – with unbudgeted costs for favour-solicitation – count with the wholesale fresh buai suppliers. Even being known or ‘save pes’ is of no reprieve. Joshua is from Kudjip, Jiwaka province, and has been living in Port Moresby for the last five years with his wife Angeline and two children. He is proudly self-employed, sustained by the sales of buai at Tokarara market in Port Moresby.
Joshua’s day begins with alternating runs to and from the only buai warehouse, at Waikele in the capital. It is owned and managed by Khaimo (an alias), a short and stout Engan, former school teacher, and later a trash bottle collector. He has been in buai business for decades since and is now a typical hevi baia. He is well known among the rural buai suppliers from Mekeo and Gulf villages along the western coastline of Port Moresby. So well, that Khaimo himself enjoys and exploits the rare privilege of mutually dealing open-ended buai business with them (dealing in credit).
The warehouse is fenced, and all the buai-carrying rural Public Motor Vehicle (PMV) trucks end up in this one single warehouse yard. No buai-carrying PMV truck is allowed direct access to the other nominated buai selling outlets in the city. Staff of Khaimo and some engaged city cops are usually summoned by instruction to forcefully escort all buai-carrying PMV trucks towards Khaimo’s Waikele warehouse.
Khaimo ferries buai from the furthest parts of Gulf both by sea and road, including by air from Oro province. Buai suppliers from Oro hire truck loads to Girua airport, where a phone call is made to Khaimo for his assistance. Khaimo authorises the charter plane by paying half of the cost, including the buai bags. As he is licensed, the buai arrives at Jacksons airport and is immediately dispatched to Waikele warehouse.
Khaimo is said to have paid for his warehouse operating licence at a price of some K300,000, targeting a retailing monopoly on the bulk supply of buai to the city. He is also rumoured to be a staunch supporter of the Port Moresby governor, whose election bids have been partially covered by Khaimo’s buai enterprise. They were old friends living alongside each other in Gerehu suburb. Khaimo strategically had a huge hand in the governor’s very first election victory in the National Capital District. He has been anecdotally recalled as saying, “I need no other city business contract, just give me the licence to trade as the bulk supplier of buai to the city!” This was in response to the victorious governor’s nudge to Khaimo to see if he had anything in mind.
Jostling for space and attention at the Waikele warehouse. City market vendors in the foreground, rural buai bag sellers crowding around the bags inside the fence, and a PMV truck that brought in the supplies parked inside Khaimo’s rented premises (5.30pm, Feb 13, 2020)
Khaimo earns his cash at night, morning, during the day, and evening – 24/7. The warehouse opens to city buai vendors to haggle twice a day, from 6am-10am and 3pm-10pm in the evenings. The takings get deposited daily in his Bank of South Pacific (BSP) account during the week. This quickly became irksome for the bank tellers, and with approval from their superiors a separate room was created for Khaimo’s daily supply of cash. He is the boss of his business, policeman, and judge and jury over disagreements arising among the vendors. Informants claim that he pays off his K15,000 monthly rent within a day, as he generates between K30,000-70,000 daily. Revenue is made from the gate charges and the various bag sizes, from 10kg to 20kg farm set bags. Mustards (daka/vaga)– that come in the form of leaf-wrapped parcels and 10kg bags – have separate charges. The state’s income tax seems to be out of the equation!
Khaimo carries a pistol too and had used it before without hesitation, including during occasional hold-ups by rascals. Even then, he is usually fair in dealing with the opposing groups: the city retailers, who are mostly from the highlands region and tend to be upfront (Sharp 2019 aptly refers to them as the “haggling highlanders”); and the rural buai suppliers from Mekeo, Gulf and Rigo. The latter display a laid back, yet cold character described as indifferent, lukewarm, and even audacious in this business context. This is where the city vendors dig deep in order to attract, entice and snare the rural fresh buai suppliers.
Between fifty to a hundred men and women line up each time the Waikele warehouse is open, crowded sweaty bodies all vying for the attention of the rural buai sellers. Bundles of PNG Kina notes are held aloft over their heads, as they yell for attention. Occasionally these bundles are swung at the bag sellers, who in turn ignore them and walk away. If they pick the cash up, this would be read as consenting to business engagement. A neutral security staffer or opp-sider of a PMV truck might pick up the wad of cash and return it to the owner.
Often enough, a Coca-Cola can is offered as a thirst quencher. The additional costs for solicitation with Coca-Cola range between K50-80 per trip. If one were to show up with a tidy budget of say K500-700 for a bag, less the Coca-Cola expense, one wouldn’t succeed.
The rural buai bag seller always wears a hard face for the city retailers. If the former makes eye contact, perhaps smiles, and then accepts the offer of a Coca-Cola, then one is in for a chance of purchasing a coveted bag of fresh buai nuts. However it would be foolhardy to think that you have snared your prey, and therefore could haggle over prices on offer or even plainly make enquiries. Many disappointed city market retailers had their Coca-Cola returned politely with the buai bag seller walking away nonchalantly to the next customer. Business gone!
If your cash was not taken at all, let alone eye contact made, you could be left behind waiting for hours and head home empty handed. One must exercise patience, beg, use persuasive language like those of a lover’s suitor, become assertive — but it is all up to the buai bag seller.
In the meantime queues of taxis are lined up along the roadside opposite the Waikele open market. Taxi drivers are acutely aware that buai vending is a lucrative business, and ferrying them is a more reliable business than that in other locations in the city. The same queue of taxis can be observed at the Tokarara roadside buai market. These ferry the vendors to and from the Waikele buai warehouse every day – morning to evening. Even a policeman has established clientele relations and regularly uses his old white Toyota ute to ferry city buai vendors for a fee.
This is a snapshot into the prolific buai trade in Port Moresby, where an official ban on sales has been in place since 2013. The kinds of dynamics we describe here resonate with Tim Sharp’s (2013, 2019) observations about the relations and negotiated spaces between the buai vendors/baias and the strategies employed in various socio-economic contexts. As he observes, throughout PNG buai is exchanged in varied ways. It is a commodity, and at the same time the way it is handled, managed, and how its values are redefined in various social and economic contexts in PNG, makes buai a phenomenon bigger than just a commodity or a health issue. Despite the ban, buai remains an important indigenous product that is exchanged at many levels and is an important source of income, and therefore employment, for many people.
Our thanks to Michelle N. Rooney and David B. Kombako, who read the very first drafts with many helpful comments, while Martin and Aiwa of Tokarara buai market provided additional fresh information.
This article was written before COVID-19. The buai trade, like much life in PNG, has been temporarily disrupted, but remains active and will further recover as the lockdown is lifted.
Sharp’s ’haggling Highlanders’ captures the eesence of how buai has become a commodity and as such has a thrving supply chain that Khaimo has tapped into.
A once traditional practice: ritual pastime, of the coastals and islanders, is now commodified. And Highlanders are it’s biggest chewers.
And when there are chewers (consumers) there are growers (producers), buyers and vendors (middlemen) along the supply chain to serve this niche market.
The ’haggling Highlanders’ as a regional group make up a large proportion of the population as consumers and middlemen in the buai supply chain. They see the profitability of linking the transportation businesses into that supply chain.
In other parts of the country but particularly in the Highlands, a ’haggling Highlander’ will go to great lengths to source, transport and sell the ’best’ buai bags they can get back home. They will travel to remote parts of Oro, East Sepik and the NGI if they have to.
It certainly will be interesting if a specific national study is carried out to assess the impact of COVID19 on this niche market. And perhaps inform policymakers about how to develop holistic measures that counters the ill socio-economic effects of the thriving ’buai bisnis’.
A really great piece, thanks Linus & Joshua. It would be interesting to follow up with Khaimo on how business is under the SOE restrictions. At the initial stages, one buai cost K10 (it’s now down to K1) as roadblocks prevented buai coming into POM.
Also, is Khaimo still supporting Powes Parkop after he introduced several buai bans sometime back, and called for more regulation a few years back?
Michael, thanks for your very generous comments. There was complete business shut down for Khaimo with his Edics Holdings during the SOE restrictions. I called by once during the restrictions and Khaimo’s warehouse was like a ghost town. The only vendor, albeit moving about rather surreptitiously, quietly spoke of the heavy handed clamp down by a combined force of Police and Defence Force personnel. “Nau monin ya, em bikpla smash wantaim police na army!” he explained. Vendors were sent scattering for their lives, nuts strewn all over, stall tables and umbrellas smashed and torched. After some twenty minutes of cautious moves with his female partner the vendor produced me five buai nuts with mustard for K20. These were picked up from different spots among the flower hedges of a nearby residential fence perimeter. At that time the highest price for a nut was said to be selling at K20/nut, whilst a neighborhood vendor stubbornly maintained a K15/nut rate for at least five days. Yes, its now down to K1/nut or even lower to 50t/nut due to the easement on restrictions with rural buai supply. Metoreia market at the northern end of Hanuabada village is however the only outlet that is observably thriving with buai sales thanks to its ostensible semi-autonomous privilege. Its quite interesting observing the inter-ethnic dynamics that go with the whole buai sociality. The other buai outlets in the city have all shut down and local individual vendors have resorted to clandestine tactics for survival! A classic example is the obstinate Erima spot under the Fly Over freeway drive.
I hope to have an audience with Khaimo one day soon and confirm much of the stories about him and his business relations with all and sundry. It had been fairly difficult to have a direct contact with him as one can imagine. But you have no doubt hit the irony of the whole story behind buai operation vis-a-vis the ban in Port Moresby on the head. I hope to find out more soon..