Friday, 12 August 2016

PNG 15 Traditional Medicine - For Bad Backs

While at the Misty Mountain lodge outside Mt. Hagen I had a small crisis. For two days Gabrielle and I had been taking an enforced chillout. The mist of the said mountain was of a pea soup consistency. It was there when we woke, it would clear for twenty minutes, long enough for us to glimpse said mountain, and then would roll back in again like a soft wave breaking over the hillside. It was quite beautiful. Gabrielle and I took a lot of photos which turned out to be mostly whiteouts of the landscape with the occasional peak visible through the envelope of rabbit fur. Gabrielle loved it. She spends a lot of time at her home in the bush west of Brisbane so was used to the quiet and the slowness and was comfortable settling in for a day of reading and writing and photographing fog.

I was a little less settled. I insisted that we go for a hike at the first opportunity when the clouds lifted in the afternoon of our second day and the gods, as they say, were kind to us and the sky stayed clear for a couple of hours. We saw Mt Hagen in all its distant glory at 12,000ft, and the views from the ridges were pretty special.

The next day our host, Pym, had offered to take us for a ride to his village to see his lifestyle up close. 'When's he coming?' I asked more than once as the hours passed. 'Maybe after lunch. Maybe this afternoon,' was the reply as lunch came and went.

I needed to get some clear air and exercise so I set off down the 4WD track to see what I could see. The sound of water rushing down the mountainside after the overnight rain drew me out. The track down was steep and slippery but not half as steep as the same track on the way back.

I had descended for about fifteen minutes and reached a point where the road levelled out and in doing so came upon an idyllic thatched house and garden and the sign at the beginning of the climb which said: "SUE 4 WHEL L H." I couldn't figure out who Sue might be and why someone would make a whole sign for this one person. It was pretty clear that 4WD was essential. Was Sue a newcomber about to arrive for the first time?
Anyway, I backtracked and made my way back up the rocky and uneven climb. When I got to the entrance to our lodge I was pretty stuffed and stood for a moment to catch my breath whereupon a small man emerged from the forest with two giant pieces of timber in tow - one on each shoulder and his axe balanced across the load. We said hello. He thought I was strange and I thought he was mad. He was about to descend the path I had struggled up, laden with two fifteen foot long, thirty kg pieces of timber.He just smiled and wandered off downhill.

Pym did arrive eventually and we boarded his 4WD to make the descent to his village. Gabrielle sat in the front and I hung on for dear life on the hard bench seat in the closed-in trayback. I must have held on too tightly because when I went to step down at Pym's village my back seized up and I collapsed. I was suddenly a cripple. Pym was most concerned. He particularly didn't like the idea of me becoming a cripple on his watch - the fear of litigation has hit even the remotest parts of the world. I lay down did a few stretches, lied to everyone that everything was okay and hobbled along behind the other three pretending to enjoy myself.

At one point Pym seemed to catch my condition and he too decided he needed to lie down while we went ahead. He showed us some interesting artefacts and his home, which was not thatched but sported a galvanised roof, was surrounded by beautiful gardens, a small piggery and two cassowaries in cages being fattened for a feast. Pym continued to ask after my back and then offered to apply a local traditional remedy which he promised me would fix it like magic. Gabrielle, more experienced in these things, assured me that no harm would come to me from what he was suggesting. 'We use something similar in Timor,' she said. How could I refuse? So I said okay.

Pym led me towards some the undergrowth, picked a couple of leaves, told me to pull up my shirt and point to where the most intense pain was and proceeded to slap my lower back with the flat of these leaves. JESUS! My back was on fire. Any pain I felt was no match for this treatment. Gabrielle extended the treatment by saying 'Wait, wait, I need to get another photo. Do it again Pym, I missed it. No, one more time."  All the time I'm saying 'Enough! Enough!. It's working. It's working!.'

It was as if my back had been attacked by fire ants. 'What was that?' I asked Gabrielle grimacing and regretting my decision.'One of the stinging nettle family,' she said.  'It's supposed to work by a combination of shock and maybe a balm which enters the body where the nettles have pricked you.'

I did feel a little better over the next hour or so as the treatment continued its work (and I got to sit in the comfortable front sea of the Toyota). Pym kept checking in on me, challenging me to deny that his treatment had worked. On returning to the lodge I used what I thought was a wise combination of modern and ancient medicine. I took a double dose of Voltarin and went to bed.

The result. I woke feeling relaxed. Was a little tentative getting out of bed. Had a hot shower and dressed cautiously. And by mid-morning I had decided it was safe to again sit on the hard bench seat in the rear of the Toyota on our journey down the mountain back to Hagen.

Modern Ancient Traditional ?? Hmmmm. I'm willing to give them all a try. I haven't had more than a twinge or two since but I'm not sure I'll be harvesting our local stinging nettle for my next emergency back treatment. I would need someone with Pym's knowledge and conviction to do it again.

Oh and "Sue" of the 4WD signage. Pym was confused himself, even though he had asked one of his staff to paint the sign. Eventually he figured out what it should have said: "USE 4 WHEL L H" (L H = Low High gear? Left Hand? Or the mis-spelling of WHEEL)

And this from my google search (not medical research just old fashioned google).

2. Osteoarthritis and Joint Pain
Arthritis sufferers often experience joint pain, typically in the hands, knees, hips and spine. Nettle works alongside nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (NSAIDs) to allow patients to decrease their NSAID use. Because prolonged use of NSAIDs can cause a number of serious side effects, this is an ideal pairing.
Studies also show that applying nettle leaf topically at the site of pain decreases joint pain and can treat arthritis. Nettle can also provide relief when taken orally. Another study published in the Journal of Rheumatology shows stinging nettle’s anti-inflammatory power against other autoimmune diseases like rheumatoid arthritis. (5)

Wednesday, 3 August 2016

PNG 14 Death in PNG - "Clos to yumi go pinis"

I love tokpisin. It uses English so inventivly to describe things in surprising ways.

I am a very thin man. My new friends, with some encouragement from Gabrielle took to describing me as "bon nuting' - nothing but bones, and referring to our advancing age as 'clos to yumi go pinis" - "soon we'll all die/all be finished."

Gabrielle and I are on our independent pilgrimages, hers to the Hagen of the 1970s and me to the New Ireland  of the 1880s. For each of us the journey feels as if it has some urgency.

We talked about why we  were doing this at this time of our lives. In our 60s. The second half of our 60s in fact!

Maybe, we thought, it was the last chance  we might have to visit such challenging places, such challenging and fascinating (mesmerising) aspects of our histories; maybe we were at the age when we begin to reflect on our lives and what they've meant and maybe history and family had come into a sharper focus; maybe we had realised that time was passing and there are some things that can't be put off; maybe it was a recognition that we were each at a point of transition - that time when you take stock and understand that you are entering a new phase.

We talked about that last one a bit and both had stories of critical moments in our recent lives when we became acutely aware that we were now definitely entering our third age, the final of the three ages of man. In Egyptian mythology the riddle which was posed went: " What animal walks first on four legs, then on two and finally on three legs?" Neither of us uses a walking stick just yet, so perhaps we are not quite ready for this three legged stage. In Shakespearean terms perhaps we are in our fifth of seven stages.

For each of us it had taken an incident or an experience beyond the everyday to provoke the realisation that this time was upon us. For me it had been a trip to Sicily, where in travelling with a younger travel companion I was confronted with the truth  that I would never again be the young man I imagined I still was. For Gabrielle .... well that's not for me to tell.

And where did this conversation come from? Travelling in company with a person you trust but is not your life partner can loosen the tongue and lubricate the ruminations one has about life. It was a safe time for introspection with neither of us inclined to make any assumptions about the other. We were good listeners and the highlands of PNG was far from our standard routines.

We had spent some small amount of time with the wife of our Magic Mountain host, Pym, and after relating to her our separate stories including our ages (though these were easy to fathom from the context of the stories), she made a comment which surprised me. She described us both as being "Clos to yumi go pinis," (close to the end/approaching our last days/death). Though she had included herself (even though she was much younger than either of us) I thought her commentp was a bit close to the bone, a bit presumptuous, blunt. Even misinformed. Or perhaps this stranger in a land and culture largely foreign to our own simply was saying what she saw. Maybe she spoke the truth (of course life expectency in PNG is much lower than in Australia and this may have influenced her perception of us).

Nevertheless it hit a note which Gabrielle and I found difficult to ignore. We both agreed that getting old was inevitable but we were not quite ready to accept "Clos to yumi go pinis." That we were getting older we agreed was true, but not yet ready to die. 'How do you say that in tokpisin?' I asked Gabrielle.

'Longpela taim yet, mipela," I clumsily repeated Gabrielle's phrase. Pym laughed, though not in a way that gave me confidence he really believed it.

We came back to this conversation again and again over that week as we wound down each night. Our experience in Mt Hagen and in New Britain was an adventure neither of us had really expected to be having but we'd done it without incident, without trauma and with energy and the wisdom of years of travel. We both felt excited by our time in PNG and satisfied in having made this choice which had carried an element of risk when we were contemplating the trip. Now we felt emboldened; confident that these adventures were not beyond us and that perhaps the third age had the potential to be every bit as exciting and fresh as the first and second ages when we were learning about life through a constant diet of new experiences.

I came home with a spring in my step and keen to plan the next adventure.

'Long time yet, mipela.'

Thursday, 28 July 2016

PNG 6 New Ireland part II - Nouvelle France

Our host - Tribal land owner at Irish Cove + brick
From Irish Cove towards Lambom Island
This is Irish Cove. Other accounts of the land which served as the landing point for the colony have referred to this site as English Cove but our guides were adamant that the French based their settlement here at Irish Cove. English Cove sits a short distance away, by foot or boat, in the same bay but to the south. There is fresh water available at both though they described the English Cove spring as better quality. Irish Cove, where 300 European colonists were to establish their community, now supports just one family who live a subsistence existence having planted out much of the arable land.

We met the family who make it home and visited their house built high on stilts like a Queeenslander. Our guide from Lambon Island asked his permission to show us over his tribal land and he agreed.

From the narrow beach where the Italians would have landed the land runs inland gradually widening to form a valley about 200 - 300 metres across at its maximum. It appears to have been cleared, perhaps the settlers played their part here, and is quite open, dotted with coconut palms until the land rises steeply and becomes dense jungle.

Blockhouse site perhaps?
A walking path, which we followed, meandered through the palms. The first hundred metres or so didn't look arable - it was stony and bordered on one side by mangroves. Further along we came to an area which had obviously been the site of a cluster of buildings though the only indicators of this were a few scattered bricks (the Marquis had sent thousands of them for the construction of his promised cathedral) and some rock formations roughly in a rectangular form which might have been part of the base of a simple rough building - the Blockhouse perhaps. The site felt dank and damp, with little sun penetrating.

The existing family have built their house another 150 metres further inland on an open sunny site, on land that appears to be more promising. They've planted cocoa, tapioca, chinese yams, bananas, sweet potato and some vegetable crops in the vicinity of their house but, productivity wise, it was nothing like the lush growth we later saw in the hinterland of New Britain or later still in the Central Highlands of mainland New Guinea around Mt Hagen. In the Highlands you can poke a dead stick in the ground and it will grow.

The only moment when I felt at all hopeful when imagining the Italians trying to eke out an existence here was when we next came upon a beautiful fast flowing stream another 100 metres inland. This reminded me of Far North Queensland. It was only small, about 10 - 15 metres wide at it widest and maybe three or four at its narrowest. On the other side the soil seemed to offer more hope. From rough and stony volcanic soil it appeared to be deeper and finer. This was, most likely, the stream that is spoken about in accounts of the site over which a rough crossing was built. Our guides were sure that the settlers had crossed the stream and continued to the end of the valley, maybe 500 metres distant where it rose sharply into the hills. Mt Vernon sat prominently overlooking the site. Our guide said that there were pathways beyond the valley but that the closest next village was far distant in the mountains.

It's likely that there was contact between the locals and the visitors but it would have been these lowland coastal dwellers, the Tolai, rather than those further inland. The Tolai are New Ireland based but centuries ago invaded nearby New Britain and drove the local coastal tribe, the Baining, into the hills. They have a fierce reputation and were active cannibals (exercising it as a form of power over rival tribes) until the 20th century.

Palm Lily
Our guides were keen to show us one final site before we left. It was located a short distance around the bay and accessible by boat. We landed on another narrow sandy beach and stepped ashore to find an narrow open area partly cleared which rose quickly to higher land. The locals pointed out sites that they said were burial places for those who had died here. The evidence was slim but nevertheless believable. There were lines of red Cordyline (Palm Lily) which we were told were traditionally planted to mark gravesites; there were mounds of volcanic stones which resembled cairns which might have marked gravesites. The site was separated from the main colony as befits a cemetery and faced east which one of our party suggested might have been significant to the Catholic community. It certainly felt like a special place and had clearly remained so in the memory of the locals.

Looking to sea from Irish Cove - Lambom island to the left.
As for a protected anchorage, Irish Cove is not a deep bay but is deep water and would have been protected from the prevailing southerly winds by Lambon Island which lies close by and south of the bay.

We had been on land for less than three hours but Mick and I felt satisfied that we'd seen almost everything that was available. The only additional thing I would have liked to do would have been to follow the valley further inland and into the forests as the land began to climb. I was interested in what the Italians might have encountered as they explored the area. I've imagined all that in my book but that will be as close as I get to it. I doubt if there will be a next time.

We would have needed another four hours and we'd agreed to meet John's boat at midday. As it was we were in a different inlet from where we had started and John couldn't find us though we could see him. For a moment we had the rising fear that we might be the next generation to be marooned on the southern tip of New Ireland.

After leaving Port Breton/Port Praslin we trawled our way northward along the coast of New Ireland fishing for travelly and mackeral (successfully). John loves fishing so that was where our interest in our history aligned with John's interest in game fishing. The slow trip north revealed village after village established on the coastline. Small canoes were launched from these as we approached. Where possible John sailed close to the shore and had his crew throw cans of coke and fanta to the kids in the boats. A nice gesture if you can ignore the unhealthy sugar hit we were offering.

As the sun began to head west we headed east towards Kokopo and arrived back about 5pm with two good mackeral and a couple of travelly stowed in the ice box. Great day. Thanks John.

Sunday, 24 July 2016

PNG 13 - Magic Mountain I

Mt Hagen 
Magic Mountain
Magic Mountain could also be known as Misty Mountain. Soon after we arrived at 3.30pm the mist began to close in, rolling up the narrow valley like a wave. The next morning as we had breakfast on the open deck visibility varied. The valley came and went. As the day passes each time we thought about heading off for a walk towards distant, and invisible, Mt Hagen, the mist would again envelop us.

It was almost 2pm before we had the confidence to set out. We were expecting to head off alone and risk getting lost but we were wrong. Wannie, chef and guide, led the way followed by me and Gabrielle. Moses and his machete brought up the rear. Gabrielle and I were each offered a walking stick (stik long walkabout) in deference, it seemed, to our age. Wannie set a gentle pace. Gabrielle and I could walk all day as long as we took breaks and Gabrielle took her time up the steep sections. Breaks weren't a problem as Gabrielle likes to film the sights every 100 metres.

Wannie decided to take us on the walk to a high ridge rather than the four hour walk up Mt Hagen. At the lookout a majestic valley spread out below us and a second higher plateau lay nearby -  Moses, whose English was limited and who didn't know his age, proudly showed off all his hard work. Not only had he cut the path which we were following including hundreds of steps cut into the clay of the hillside but he had been one of the men employed by a German company which had come ,many years ago to log the mountainside.

Along the way Wannie shared his thoughts about PNG and the changes occurring in the community. His 13 year old son comes home from Hagen to the village reluctantly; he shows no interest in learning the traditional songs, some of which are sung in ancient languages at ceremonies; the young people no longer participate in the 'trow im leg' courtship rituals where groups of young adult boys and girls participate in an elaborate song and dance ritual to meet and mix with eligible partners - now they meet each other at school, in the street or at church.

He is concerned that in twenty years time all these practices will be gone - the songs, the dances, even the language. No one dresses in traditional costume outside of ceremonies, the chiefs have lost the respect of many - and yet the expected benefits of the modern world have not been delivered. Everyone has access to modern communication systems but most families live a subsistence life; hospitals have been built and medical centres established yet the death of infants and mothers in childbirth is still high - most still live in communities remote from transport and medical facilities and often when these exist, the government has failed to fund them adequately or in a predictable fashion.

The one tradition which has not disappeared, and is perhaps even stronger, is the bride price sysrem. It's an opportunity for people to shown off their wealth and to create a level of indebtedness, a binding debt which they can call in, in the future. In some cases tens of thousands of Kina, dozens of pigs and promises into the future are involved. It's a way of creating mutual interdependence. It's got a bit out of control since independence. Many years ago the Austtralian authorities , the administrators of the territory, brought all the chiefs together and helped negotiate a standard bride price but that has long been ignored.

Wannie's story echoed Teresa Bolga's.

Wannie and Teresa are intelligent people who are caught between the past and the future; who watch and hope for a balanced future but despair at the lack of progress towards a more secure and honest system.

PNG 12 - Teresa Bolga

After 42 years Gabrielle and Teresa met again. Two young women from the 1970s were now two mature women in their mid sixties.

I'd wondered what it was that held such a strong place in Gabrielle's memory, such a strong emotional connection to this person. Since the moment that we touched down at Mt Hagen airfield Gabrielle had been asking each person we met if they knew her. Many knew of her but it was in the KaiKai Coffee Haus where she struck gold. "Yes I know Teresa," the waitress said. "She's my aunty." Gabrielle nearly fell over. "Can you get a message to her? She will know me as Gaye."

Now two days later we're on our way to visit her. We're in the Mt Hagen Mission Home minibus with Vanessa, Teresa's daughter, who is directing Gibson, our muscled Christian driver to her village compound on the edge of town. Gibson is a bit nervous. "It's a bad part of town," he says. "Lots of drugs and bad people." Gibson is a giant of a man who goes to the gym every day and plays rugby league for his province. It's a Iittle incongruous that this gruff footballer should be afraid of anything. As we approach NewTown we are surrounded by a hundred colourful beach umbrellas under which people have spread their wares for sale. Rubbish piles dominate the scene. Everywhere. It's filthy. We have arrived at betel nut central. These are the druggies Gibson was referring to. Bright green arrays of betelnut sit beside plastic bags of lime and sticks of siri pona (timor name).

We turn down a narrow lane and find ourselves in the middle of manicured hedges and compounds of neat bungalows. Teresa's place is only a few hundred metres from the beach umbrella chaos. It's a quiet haven. She is sitting at the entrance to her plot wiith her sister and another relative as we approach. The two girls now in women's bodies changed by time recognize each other instantly. Teresa is on her feet and she takes Gabrielle's hand and leads us to her house. I am the observer and watch as these two relax in each others company as if the forty two years were forty two days.

She and Gabrielle trade questions and offer answers about the past four decades. There a directness about it that belies the soft emotional connection between the two of them. Teresa talks about the hardship of living a subsistence life and complains about corruption and government inaction, implying that forty years on, things are actually worse. She pulls no punches. Once a devoted Catholic, she has become a born again Christian. She became disillusioned with the Catholic Church because she no longer felt an emotional connection to her beliefs. "Too much of it was routine. The priest telling us when to stand and when to sit and say this and say that. The Pentecostals make me feel a connection. I need to have an emotional connection."

The land she lives on is her family's traditional land. Her brother lives in a house adjacent hers, her nephew and his three wives live on the other side. The families share the land which supports a banana grove, orange trees and vegetable plots which they harvest for the market and for their own consumption. It's a simple life.

Teresa's house is tiny. A central room not much bigger than a kitchen is flanked by four rooms which house her daughter and three children in one room, her sister and aunty in another and Teresa in the final bedroom. The last room is the kitchen and storeroom. It's a house of seven women. The central room contains a single soft chair, a double seater lounge and a tv on a stand covered in cloth. At one end, the entrance to the house, is a door. At the other, a matter of three or four paces distant is a window. The room is about two paces across.

Jobs are scarce. There is a lot of talk of work in Australia picking apples. They want us to use our influence to help set up job opportunities for the family. Gabrielle says she will do what she can but makes no promises. Vanessa seems happy at the prospect of leaving her three young children behind for six months. Child rearing seems like an extended family responsibility.

Teresa is poor. There's no other word for it and yet she presses gifts of fruit and hand made bilums on us before we leave.

Over the next days Gabrielle tells everyone the story. And everyone seems to know Teresa. "The red skin?" they ask us, referring to her colouring. Her skin is quite light for a highlander and she seems to have rosy cheeks. Two days later Teresa calls us at our lodge in the mountains. She's determined to see Gabrielle again before she goes.

PNG 11 - Mt Hagen Refreshed

Mt Hagen has become more familiar as the days have passed. I've discovered other sides of the town which have helped redeem it in my eyes. It still reminds me of a shanty town with shabby broken down store fronts, each one guarded by a security guard; the Westpac Bank, housed inside a pallisade of heavy duty steel bars as thick as my wrist; the main street full of trucks and potholes the size of cows, with people in all sorts of rough garb, young, old,  beautiful, mis-shapen; some faces lined with creases as deep as the potholes, others with skin shining like burnished ebony.

We have not seen another white face in the town streets in three days.

What's changed to make me feel more relaxed, more comfortable?  Firstly the friendly reception we receive from strangers. People constantly making eye contact and saying good morning; people constantly asking to have their photos taken and not asking for anything - even to see the result - as if we are providing some service; then thanking us as if we have given them some privileged experience.

Then there are the ladies at the market where Gabrielle is the honeypot and the bilum sellers the honey bees. They swarm over us whenever we step inside the gate and often before, calling to us through the bars of the metal fence. They laugh, compete, pose for photos but always with their eye on the prize - another sale. The market is bountiful, overflowing with produce fresh from the village plots. It is a heaving mass of people doing business. It's mainly women. They sit surrounded by expanses of leafy green vegetables, absurdly orange carrots, ginger, brocolli, bananas, oranges, vivid red and purple sweet potato, spring onions, beans, smoked fish, trussed chickens; everything you can imagine.  It is a gardener's paradise. So much more than Kokopo and at prices you can imagine people can afford.

Thirdly, we discovered the areas outside the centre where people live largely subsistence lives in family groups on family land. Here the green of the valley returns, where garden plots abound and family compounds are proudly clean and maintained. You can feel yourself breath again as the dust and bustle of central Mt Hagen recede.

We were lucky enough to visit one of these families. Gabrielle managed to make contact with her old friend from 42 years ago, Teresa Bolga.

PNG 10 Mt Hagen - Coffee

Coffee. Every barista or coffee entrepreneur should have to follow their coffee beans to their source. It's a revelation. Here in the Central Highlands coffee is the cash crop and Brian Lahey is the biggest trader. He doesn't own any plantations but is a joint venture partner in a 600 hectare plantation owned cooperatively by a collective of tradional landowners. Barry sources the finance to pay wages and costs; the cooperative manages the plantation; Barry processes and sells the final product to an international trading company which then onsells to the market (including Merlo and Campo in Australia).

He also buys beans directly from village plantations large and small. These are picked at the local level then sold on the roadside to mobile bean traders, utes piled high with the red and green harvest and delivered to Brian's processing plant.

Coffee bean to you.
1. Arabica coffee plant takes two years to produce from planting. Cultivation, pruning, weeding etc are all done by hand. No mechanisation to this stage. The kina goes directly to the village.
2. Coffee beans harvested by hand - May to July.
3. Delivered to processing plant
4. Washed in giant vats, the pulp removed and the beans split (each pod contains a bean which has two halves) as they pass through a machining process.
4. Sun dried for between two to five days to reduce moisture content and to allow safe storage - again a fully manual process
5. Beans bagged ready for advanced processing
6. Beans then go through a series of mechanical processes which do a further clean and polish, then mechanically sorted acccording to size and rebagged by grade - AAA, AA etc (beans that cannot be split are called pepper beans and are highly valued in some coffee circles)
7. Each bag is now manually examined and sifted on the factory floor (literally) to remove any broken, malformed or discoloured beans - the buyers have high expectations of quality control.
8 Next they are rebagged and labelled ready for final inspection and sale.
9. These are sold to international traders/distributors and on to major outlets and chains of roasteries (Merlo, Campos in Australia; and major companies in the USA - the main export destination)
10. Finally it reaches your local coffee shop or the supermarket shelves.

Time from harvest to final bagging approximately one week. Beans are bought from the local villages at around $1AUS a kilo and sold green (processed but unroasted) for about $2-$5AUS a kilo according to quality and the prevailing market. If there are about 50 cups of coffee to a kilo, at the final point of sale @ $3.50 a cup, the $1AUS price for the village produce has become $175.00 (or in bean form approx  $40AUS).

We visited Brian's joint venture plantation and processing plant and the only dissapointment was that there was not a whiff of coffee aroma in the whole day. It's all in the roasting. Maybe that why a cup of coffee is so expensive.

You might look for Kimul Coffee - Brian's trade name.