In Papua New Guinea, Young Chinese Migrants Begin a Quiet Second Act - Sixth Tone

When Fan Haoyu boarded a flight to Papua New Guinea in the summer of 2021, even the airline staff seemed confused. “Where is that country? People still go there?” one asked the passenger ahead of him. Fan just smiled and stepped forward. At 21, with a degree in traffic engineering and no clear plan, he was simply following his mother to the city of Mount Hagen, capital of Western Highlands province, where she had helped build a hardware business from scratch. Back in Shanxi, a coal-rich province in northern China, his father had urged him to find a secure job close to home. But Fan wanted more. “China’s job market is too competitive,” he says. “I wanted to try my luck somewhere else.” For decades, Chinese migrants have done just that: chasing opportunity in the resource-rich Pacific island nation. Many came in search of their “first bucket of gold,” opening hardware stores, supermarkets, and trading posts. They worked quickly, lived frugally, and often left once they’d earned enough. Four years later, Fan is still there. He calls life in Papua New Guinea, now a major destination for Chinese investment in infrastructure, mining, and construction, “busy but fulfilling.” “Our company originally only sold hardware,” he tells Sixth Tone, “but since several young colleagues and I joined, we’ve expanded into engineering projects. When you see hospitals and schools you designed being built, you can’t help but think you’ve done something for this place.” In Papua New Guinea, Fan is part of a younger generation of Chinese drawn not only by its untapped resources but by the chance to work, manage, and sometimes stay — a quiet reversal of the older logic of earning fast and leaving. Where older generations lived frugally, saved aggressively, and kept their distance from locals, the newcomers arrive with degrees, English fluency, and a sense of choice. They join established firms, teach, consult, and manage local staff. And in the process, they’re slowly rewriting what it means to be Chinese abroad. New arrivals Fan’s mother, Niu Li, first came to Papua New Guinea in 2011 as part of a Chinese mining firm’s survey team in Western Highlands. But the project collapsed after protests from local communities. “The resistance was palpable,” she says. “They saw outsiders as coming to take their gold and resources.” Foreign involvement in Papua New Guinea’s extractive industries has long been met with suspicion. Chinese companies, often seen as the newest players in an old contest over land and minerals, encountered the same resistance that once greeted Australian and Western firms. After repeated delays, Niu returned to China. But in 2018, she came back, this time as an investor. With two partners, she helped build a hardware and building materials business that now operates five stores and employs more than 200 local workers. “Papua New Guinea is still in an early stage of development, and its relationship with China keeps growing,” she says. She also noticed a change in tone. Local attitudes toward Chinese migrants, she says, have softened in recent years, partly due to large-scale infrastructure projects under China’s Belt and Road Initiative. “When I arrived, a Chinese-built road was already linking Mount Hagen to Goroka.” That shift toward long-term investment has defined a newer wave of Chinese migration to Papua New Guinea. Xu Yunfeng, one of Niu’s business partners, says the company looks different since younger Chinese employees joined. “Although they still have much to learn, these highly educated young individuals clearly adapt better to the Papua New Guinea environment,” he says. “Their language skills are stronger, and they show greater willingness to engage with local communities.” Fan, now 26, sees that change from the inside. Though he manages local staff, he admits that business doesn’t come naturally to him. An introvert by temperament, he finds the constant push for efficiency and profit exhausting and often at odds with his own values. “In the company, I always try my best to treat local employees favorably within the bounds of our management policies,” he says. “Seeing them struggle with poverty often weighs on me.” Local officials say they’ve noticed the difference. Sent Kolda, deputy board chairman of the Western Highlands Provincial Health Authority and member of the provincial education board, believes many Chinese migrants are integrating more than previous generations. “They actively participate in community activities and show a strong interest in local culture,” he says. Others, however, keep their distance. “Some seem more reserved,” Kolda adds. “They avoid sitting at the same table for meals, or even riding in the same car with locals.” Transit lives For more than a century, small Chinese communities have taken root in the country, beginning with indentured laborers under colonial rule in the late 1800s. By 1966, official records counted just 2,455 ethnic Chinese residents. That number grew rapidly in the 1990s, when merchants from Fujian — a coastal province known for its trading culture and overseas family networks — began arriving in larger numbers. They opened supermarkets, hardware stores, and auto repair shops in cities such as Port Moresby, the country’s capital, and Mount Hagen, building what would become the core of Papua New Guinea’s Chinese business community. Jack, a 34-year-old second-generation Fujianese entrepreneur in Port Moresby, grew up in that world. His parents arrived in the 1990s to start a supermarket and a garage. He now helps run the business but doesn’t see a future for himself in the country. “We came here to make money as quickly as possible and leave as soon as possible,” he says, using a pseudonym to protect his privacy. He calls Papua New Guinea a “transit station in life,” adding that many Fujianese business owners return to China once their operations stabilize, handing over day-to-day management to relatives or local staff. Fan has seen that mindset up close. During one Mid-Autumn Festival in Mount Hagen, he was asked to deliver holiday gifts to a few longtime Chinese shopkeepers. “They had made a lot of money,” he says, “but their living conditions were surprisingly modest. You could tell they never saw Papua New Guinea as home.” For some, keeping a distance was the only way to manage the risks. Jack’s family business has been robbed three times in the past few years. “Locals traditionally see the Chinese as wealthy businesspeople,” he explains, “making them primary targets in areas with poor security.” That sense of vulnerability has shaped how he runs his operations. He prefers to hire Burmese staff, citing both lower wages and fewer communication issues. More importantly, he discourages close contact between his Chinese employees and the local community. Even younger migrants like Chen Bi’er — who came to Papua New Guinea in 2023 after earning engineering degrees in Australia — have had to adjust their expectations. “It’s a rugged place, but you can still get by,” he says. He recalls being stopped on the road several times a month by people who hit his car with sticks, not to cause harm, but to demand small amounts of money. He doesn’t remember exactly when it started, only that the frequency was hard to ignore. “It made me feel angry and helpless,” he says. “But not afraid.” Such incidents are relatively common, he adds, and rarely lead to police reports or embassy involvement. Fan underscores that Papua New Guinea has no strict gun control laws, and says larger businesses often have no choice but to hire armed security. He’s also seen how quickly things can unravel when local tensions rise. In September, Fan says, his local partner spent several days helping mediate a conflict between local tribes. Part of the problem stems from the language divide. While English is widely used in Papua New Guinea — particularly in schools and government — it exists alongside more than 800 local languages, with Tok Pisin and Motu commonly spoken in everyday life. For older Chinese migrants with limited English, even basic communication can be a challenge. Some rely on gestures to get by; others avoid direct contact with locals altogether. Fan recalls a Chinese excavator operator who, unable to speak a word of English when he first arrived, relied entirely on hand signals at work. In Fan’s own company, English is the working language, but it’s not always enough. For younger migrants, though, the gap is narrowing. Many arrive with university degrees, stronger English skills, and a greater willingness to engage. “We’re all young people, so communication is easy,” Fan says. “Outside of work, we go to bars, play games, hang out. Having more peers around makes us feel less lonely here.” Almost home Wang Menglin, who came to Papua New Guinea in 2021 to teach Chinese, often finds herself mistaken for Malaysian or Filipino — a sign, she says, of how easily she’s blended into local life. Some of her local friends have shared stories of being watched warily by older Chinese shopkeepers. Wang pushes back on that perception. “Our generation is not like that,” she says. “Not every Chinese person is like that.” A graduate in English from a top university in China’s southwestern megacity of Chongqing, she came to Papua New Guinea in 2021 to teach at a Confucius Institute. When her contract ended two years later, she chose to stay, swapping the security of a public school job in China for what she calls the life of a “jack of all trades.” Today, she works as a consultant for the country’s fisheries department and is trying to launch local Chinese language training programs. Rent alone — more than 8,000 kina ($1,872) a month for a small office in Port Moresby — makes it a financial strain. But Wang says the slower pace, simpler expectations, and kindness she’s experienced keep her grounded. “When I compare it with life back home, I just feel less anxious here,” she says. “I don’t go out much, but I’ve built a circle of local friends. Eating with them, I feel completely relaxed.” Still, she calls 2024 her “period of growing pains” — juggling new responsibilities and an uncertain future. “There’s no right or wrong when it comes to choices,” Wang says. “The real mistake is wanting everything, refusing to let go, and still feeling unsatisfied.” Fan has also found his own rhythm beyond work. He visits nearby villages, shares meals with elders, and spends time getting to know the communities around his worksites. His company employs more than 100 local staff, including in supervisory roles — still rare in an industry where Chinese firms often rely on their own nationals, and where Western-owned companies tend to favor hiring Indian workers. Local officials say younger Chinese workers are starting to move beyond traditional sectors like trade and construction. Sent Kolda, the Western Highlands’ education board member, points to new interest in agriculture and food processing — areas he sees as ripe for development. Some Chinese companies now sponsor youth sports events, offer scholarships, and donate medical supplies in villages around the region, Kolda says. Most of Fan’s Chinese staff speak fluent English and work closely with their Papua New Guinea colleagues. “It’s common for local staff to request time off for church or worship,” Fan says. “We always accommodate it. It’s just basic respect.” For Adolf Kila, one of Fan’s local colleagues, that approach has built real camaraderie. He compares Chinese and Western management styles and finds the former more direct, less patronizing. “If they come to build a road, they build it. If they come to do business, they succeed,” he says. Another local, Simon Kolop, however, admits that growing up, he was wary of China. “We used to think the Chinese came to take from us,” he says. “Now, I think they give more than they ask for.” Kolda agrees. For him, China offers a model that breaks with colonial legacies. “The laws we inherited were designed to benefit others,” he says. “If we follow the old path, nothing changes. But if we learn from China, we might finally change.” Kila sees that potential too. After rising from junior staff to store manager, he credits his Chinese employers with teaching him practical skills the local education system didn’t. “They show us how to build something of our own,” he says. As for Fan, the future still feels wide open. He’s already thinking about what comes next. “By 2027, I’ll have spent six years here. That’s the first full decade of my adult life,” he says. “I’d like to go back to school, maybe study sociology or anthropology. Or maybe I’ll just buy a motorcycle and ride from China to Europe.” For now, he’s staying put. Editor: Apurva. (Header image: Chen Bi’er (left) at work in a village in Mount Hagen, Papua New Guinea, 2024. Courtesy of Chen Bi’er)