Paul's PNG CollectionPapua New Guinea 2008-10 |
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Chapter 3 Island Visits |
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The Island of LoveRather than face internment during the war the Polish anthropologist, Malinowski, was instead offered the choice of staying on a remote Island. He chose the Trobriand Islands and earned notoriety for his shocking expose of the wild customs of the Trobriand people. Whilst it is still easier to meet an anthropologist than a tourist for most of the year the Islands still hold a magical attraction for those seeking traditional life and also to those believing that Trobriands really will live up to its sobriquet. My trip began in the Port Moresby Museum, where my conversations with a Trobriand boat decorator led to an invitation to visit. For many months I met him sporadically in the street, but nothing developed and eventually I lost his address. Then one day as I came into our compound I was talking about the Trobriands to our guard. A young woman who was visiting her family in the compound turned to me “Are you talking about the Trobriand Islands?” “ Yes, I wanted to visit them, but I lost my address book with the name of a friend.” “ Well, my mother is a chief on the Islands – I will ask her to talk to you.” It was three months before the date of the Cultural Festival was set. First the chiefs argued with the local government councillors, then money had to be raised, then it had to moved again because a canoe festival was on in the Provincial capital of Alatao on the Milne Bay mainland. At last, as I stepped from the plane it was obvious that everyone from the villages around the airstrip had gathered to watch the main event of the week – the arrival of the plane. I was met by two men from the village – Able 1 and Able 2. The brother, Caine, had not come as he was still mourning the recent death of an eleven-month son through vomiting and diarrhoea. They asked if I wanted to hire a truck (there are only around a dozen vehicles on the Island). “How much is it?” It turned out to cost about half of the money I had to spend. “ No its alright, I like to walk.” “But it's a long way – more than an hour” “ Its alright, It's a good way to see the Island on the way.” “But its going to rain.” “Don't worry, I've got an umbrella.” Able 2 was plaintiff in his final appeal, “But what about me?” Like ‘Skip' in the Scouts I encouraged the Able's to stride forward manfully, soon discovering that they always walked and it was nothing to them, even with the large heavy bag sent by Chief Mum Selina. Sure enough the rain fell in torrents, and our journey was enlivened by a very drunk youth from the next village who embarrassed the Able's with his Port Moresby behaviour. The village turned out to greet the ‘white man '. Although, I was one of only 3 tourists on the Island that week they had plenty of experience of white men, including General MacArthur and his troops who stayed only five minutes from the village during the war. I was shown round the village, which was a collection of tightly packed wooden huts with sago leaf roofs arranged facing each other with a path leading down to the sea. I was shown to the largest bathroom/toilet in the world – The Pacific Ocean - and this turned out to be an early warning that they had a stupid ‘white man' in their midst. It was not long before the toilet was needed. As happened each subsequent time either Cain or Able would escort me to the beach. This was my first time at the male toilet. Imagine yourself standing on a sharp coral beach looking out to sea. To your left is a small house on stout stilts. Six posts support a roof of sago leaves with woven-leaf walls and stand in the sea about 15 metres from the high tide line. In the morning when the tide is out the mud under the roof is exposed. To flush, simply wait for the tide to come in. Able pointed me to the toilet. I walked along the raised coral that formed a causeway to the toilet. To my consternation I saw that it was high tide and I could not enter the toilet. Oh well, no time for modesty. I sat on the rock in front of the toilet and completed the task. As I returned, I saw that Cain was not happy. “You must go inside the toilet. The women will laugh at you.” I saw that the women had a similar arrangement further up the beach. I promised to try to do better next time. Next morning I tried again. Again, Cain escorted me. I went towards the toilet. This time it was low tide. I looked at the mud under the roof. Someone had been there before me. Oh well I suppose I just have to pretend I am that man who eats insects to survive on the T.V and step down onto the ‘mud '. As I went to step down, I saw Cain waving and pointing up. I had not noticed that inside the roof at just above eye level were two poles for sitting upon. Even having discovered the secrets of the loo it was an art to balance and do everything you had to, but I emerged with pride to tell Cain that it was safe to allow me to use the ablutions now. However, I suspect that the story of how the primitive ‘white man' had to be told how to use a toilet will be spoken about for some time. When I got back to the main village I was immediately immersed in anthropological studies. We were greeted by a man sitting on a house platform at the side of the village. He explained that he had returned to the village after 33 years in the PNG Defence Force. We talked of his part in the Bougainville conflict and shared acquaintances, then he told me that he had completed small business skills training and showed me his certificate. “Will you start a business here?” “No, I decided it would cause too much trouble. I will just relax and garden like the others.” This was my first introduction to the communism that runs a Trobriand village. It seems that the main principle that underpins communal life is that we are all the same, except the chief, and if you try to get ahead of others (especially the chief) you will be in trouble. It seemed to my untrained eye that everything was geared towards keeping people at the same level. Difficult for economic development. How did they persuade people to toe the line in the modern world? As time went on in the week, I became aware of just how strong magic was in everyday life. If my friend stepped out of line, he would fear retribution through magic. Jealous people had the power to kill your whole family one by one. Political or chiefly power was difficult to challenge because they had access to an army of magicians. So, the few shops and larger businesses were owned by white people or people from other parts of PNG. The only exception I heard was that the paramount chief was starting a tourist stay business. I was shown into the house and encouraged to relax ( probably to stop me doing anything else that would make the women laugh). As I was reading, I heard a crowd noise. It went on for some time. Later I came out to ask. “Were they playing rugby?” “No there was a problem between the boys. If our boys go to the next village after girls, they will cause trouble. It is not allowed. It is taboo. Last night one of our boys went over to see a girl and today they went over because there is a farewell ceremony for our pastor.” “ So, they caused trouble?” “Yes, the boys from the big village started to throw rocks and fight with our youths.” “Was it stopped?” “Yes, the elders know that if it gets serious then the men will have to fight and big trouble will start between the villages. So they persuaded the boys to stop.” He explained that traditionally there had been much inter clan warfare over the usual issues of land and women. Now trouble usually occurs between boys over girls, but people try to stop trouble quickly before it escalates. We went to the big village to see the dancing. The people sat in a circle around a central dancing area. Rows of girls and one boy were performing gentle hip-swinging dances with willowy hand and wrist movements. The boy had no problem with the very feminine movements. They were in long grass skirts with blouses and wore flower garlands on their heads. Confusingly, older women would come and dance excitedly at the side and then snatch a garland from a dancer's head. Sometimes the women got into animated discussion. The dancer took no notice. Then someone would appear and place a garland on a dancer's head. “Why do they do that?” “If you think a dancer is dancing well you may take the garland. Then the father must give you something for the garland (in the past this could be quite substantial but now it was a small coin ”. “But don't people just take lots of garlands to make money.” “ Not really, it is taken seriously, mainly, although some do not do it properly.” Was this another way to re-distribute wealth? We left just as the pastor began dancing and exhorting others to join in. The next two days were spent in village activity. I did a tour of the gardens, which are created by shifting large quantities of surface coral rocks to clear the soil for planting. Each large plot – the size of a small Devon field, grew a variety of crops. Yams have cultural, spiritual and economic significance. They are the staple crop and are used extensively in trade, exchange and ceremony. Last year the crop failed. People put it down to rapidly increasing population and depletion of soil nutrients. Like our potatoes you must keep some for seed, but this year many were eaten. There is a yam crisis compounded by the deterioration of discipline. Some youths now do not bother to garden and steal from other gardens. They plant African Yams, Pacific Yams and lots of other plants such as sweet potato, Kau-Kau (another starch root), tapioca, taro tomatoes, greens, and watermelon. Men and women do work in the gardens, although I was only grudgingly allowed to help with weeding. Late afternoon, the canoes came into the wharf at the station (large village and administrative centre). Although most live by the sea there is still a demand for fish to purchase . None of my hosts went to sea as they did not have canoes. As the traditional and powered canoes arrive people walk into the water to haggle over the catch. Small fish are put in fives on a string, large fish are sold separately. Here it was obvious that money was scarce and barter was still important. Some paid low prices in money, others offered garden produce in return. By now things were moving into gear for the first ever cultural show. There is a famous yam festival at the time of harvest sometime in July or August. This is the period of the year when people relax. The yam houses are full and the Island of love reputation comes from this period when traditionally all people could make laisons with whoever they wished. Now some say it is still alive, other say it is not. The cultural show was designed to bring the villages together and for the first time dancing was to take place outside of harvest time. The boys in our village began cutting small wooden bird shields for their dance and could be seen learning the dance from the elders. However, the peaceful family atmosphere that I was now part of was coming to an end . Mother Selina, the elderly chief who lived mainly in Moresby was to arrive. She had left when she was 26 years with a white Scottish Australian, but was still the authority. More than that she was the wealthy chief who was expected to send money to the poor relatives in the village. There was tension from the start. They needed money for a mortuary feast the next day. She resented the demands. Within ten minutes of finishing lunch sisters were screaming at each other across the village. A pig ran across the clearing in fear, two dogs spotting fun started to chase but quickly lost interest and play-fought each other. People turned from the porches to view the battle. One son threw stones towards one of the sisters. Sporadically, Chief Selina would shout abuse at her relatives swearing and calling them vermin. ******************************* The next day was the start of the cultural show. It was also time for the first of four mortuary feasts to mark the passing of the small boy. I came to the cultural show site and waited. The programme was due to start, but no-one had arrived. Lunch came and only two of the ten groups had danced. I wondered if the disputes leading up to the show had undermined the show. However, in the afternoon things started to move forward, and many more groups began to dance. By mid-afternoon I left for the mortuary feast. What greeted me was a near biblical sight. The central area of the village, usually such a tranquil and sparsely populated space was full of women and children. Many had the traditional elongated earlobes with holes for shell earrings . The few men were sat at the side. In front of every group of women was a basket and piles of dried hands of decorated banana leaf strips. It was like the opening of Hemyock Boy Scouts jumble sale. Women came forward and planted these hands of Doba in piles. Other women came up and took them. Sometimes a 2 Kina note (50p) was put on top. It was like a giant game of draughts. The noise was loud and incessant. Bundles were carefully arranged in baskets or tied in bale-sized bundles. The feast, it turned out, was mainly to thank those who had helped to care for the boy and had supported the family in the house-cry (grieving). The feast also marked the end of grieving for the parents who were now allowed to work again and eat an unrestricted diet. Breaking the prohibition would have shown lack of care and perhaps even indicated guilt. The doba is an alternative currency that can be exchanged for goods at fixed rates. A woman who doesn't obtain sufficient doba is viewed as deficient and will be taunted by other females. The jumble sale was yet another way that the process of distribution and re-distribution was taking place. The women would take away their doba and store it in the roof of their house until the next occasion. When all was bundled, fish, yam and taro was served to everyone. Fishermen had been paid to fish all night. Chief Selina was notable by her absence and there was obviously some trouble finding all of the money required . As the days passed the culture show went from strength to strength. The boys and girls were proudly dressed in traditional bilas . All looked magnificent. I began to notice that I not seen a single overweight Trobriand person. The boys wore only leaves from front to back tied at the waist by bark belts. They had pure white feathers stuck into their hair in a spiky crown. All sorts of garlands and shells hung around their bodies. The girls wore only mini skirts of two layers of dyed grasses and garlands and feathers on their hair. Some groups had much older men in the same bilas dancing and coaching. The dancing was unusually energetic for PNG and closer to African style than I usually witnessed . The dances took two forms. The first, a traditional form, was a circle dance, usually telling a story. One group had a banner proudly proclaiming the dance as a warrior's dance from the time of cannibalism. In the second form boys and/or girls form ranks and rows dancing muscular sensual dances. The most popular is the tapioca dance which started as a village dance but has now become a form of ‘dirty dancing' with lots of pelvic thrusting and grunts. Any form of tapioca draws gales of laughter from the crowd. Watching was a joy. The boys looked beautifully brown muscular and lean, leaping, twisting crouching and bursting with vitality in unison. The girls were just as beautiful, lean and healthy, moving gracefully and confidently sometimes with the boys, sometimes on their own. Old men sometimes danced with the boys following all of the moves and leaps without quite the height and spring. One women's group came from a village famous for cricket and wove it into their dance. Cricket was introduced by the British and turned into a ceremony by the Trobes . Although I only saw the dance I am told that a game plays to the rules of cricket but with dancing. Any number of men can bat, so the game can take long. There is a dance and song every time something happens. When a batsman is caught out there is a dance, and the catcher sings that his hands are like PK (chewing gum.) Similarly, dancing occurs for runs scored and wickets taken. I am not sure if there is ever a result. A special dance involved at least thirty men curled in a squatting posture, each holding on to the man in front so that a sheet of paper could fit between them. They also held on to a pole on their shoulders that ran the length of the line. The pole was moved rhythmically from side to side by two helpers at either end. To shouts of “eh” the squatting line moved forward across the clearing for no apparent purpose. Definitely , not for the arthritic. As there were only three tourists we also travelled on the few vehicles with the dignitaries. We went inland to two villages that had the feel of Africa and feasted with local people. By the final day the Deputy Prime Minister had arrived to close the show and present lots of cheques to ensure the Government's popularity. A huge crowd was seated on the grass. The interminable speeches began in English which most of the crowd could not understand as they speak only the local language. At last, it came to the turn of the Minister for tourism. As he was introduced, I noticed that some people were running across the field from one side to the other. As he rose to his feet the numbers running grew and by the time he reached the microphone only about fifty of the hundreds of people gathered were left. He started well: “Don't worry I am used to people running away when I get up to speak.” Then he was not sure what to do. There was a commotion somewhere beyond the field and only a few people were left for him to impress. He continued. Gradually, people drifted back in – there was to be food at the end of the speeches. There had been a fight between two girls and when you have the choice between listening to the Minister and watching girls fight there is no choice to be made. In spite of everything the cultural show had been a great success . The chiefs and the local Government were brought together and promised to meet the needs of their people. Dances had been seen for the first time from small Islands and everyone thought that they would get something from the cheques handed over. Ministers were left to ponder how to take the presents of pigs and yams back to Moresby. On Sunday I left as I came, walking in a heavy downpour to the airport. I felt that this was a place I could easily spend two years in, without electricity, drinking rain water and learning from the welcome of these fierce, gentle people. Although, as in every traditional culture modernism is corroding some of the foundations, people's daily lives are still guided by traditional values for good and bad. I wonder where I can purchase an anthropology degree.
East New Britain and New Ireland – A letter homeHere things are a bit in limbo. I have done all I can to set up the disabled persons organisation with a chance of moving forward. We are now waiting to see if proposals to donors bring in the required money for them to employ people and establish a programme of setting up groups all over PNG. If the money does not come through, then there is little to stay for because disabled people here are not sufficiently motivated to drive things forward on their own. This is because operating at a national level is not really how things work here. Because of geography and poverty most things happen at a clan level i.e locally. All of the national structures are really western models set up by us western coves e.g. Government institutions, elections, etc . So most things set up from outside tend to work at a low level of energy, commitment and thus efficiency. Our own ministry has blocked our proposal to the National Planning Ministry for 4 months to a point that it is likely to be too late for consideration. The politics, greed and corruption make progress very difficult . I more and more feel that people at all levels behave like Pavlov's dogs. They learn the tricks required to get the goodies but have no real desire to perform the tricks for their own value. On the positive side I am also waiting in the hope that one of our disabled people will be able to get funds locally for a workshop on Bougainville in January, one of the furthest Islands. It is a place I haven't visited and is recovering from a long conflict. We have the interesting situation of one of our best disabled people - an ex-policeman blinded by bullets from an ambush during the struggles - forming a very close friendship with an ex-rebel man reported to have been severely injured when thrown from a helicopter by defence force personnel. The conflict was, as usual, about copper mining benefiting everyone except the local people. There has been peace for more than two years, but Tony tells me that wounds have not really healed as there has been no process to help people to move on. The Island is supposed to be very beautiful and people generally very friendly as long as you don't mess with their women. Interestingly, the people look very different to any other tribe around these parts. Many have probably the darkest pigmentation of any people on the globe. Their skin is almost literally black. The nearest I have seen anywhere else is Sudanese Dinka people. I have not yet met anyone who can tell me where they migrated from. ( I later found that they were Melanesian people, not exotic African visitors) In the late summer I took two weeks off to visit New Ireland and East New Britain. Rabaul on East New Britain was the site of an erupting volcano some ten or eleven years ago. The town, which was the centre of colonial administration, for many years and an important island port was covered in black volcanic ash. Most of the population was relocated further along the coast, but some will not leave in spite of the fact that the volcano has continued to pour out sooty smoke since the major eruption. I asked a man from the village at the foot of the volcano whether they can grow food. He said that nothing will grow now, and they survive by fishing and selling fish at the market, now way over on the other side of town. I asked why they stayed. It is simply their home; the place of their ancestors and they do not want to leave. Within an hour you were grinding grit between your teeth and black soot was forming in the web of your fingers. People told me of high incidents of respiratory and skin complaints. I took a long walk from the port area, where the Islands shipping line still operates through the old part of the town that had been destroyed. It felt like one of those early sixties ‘after the bomb dropped' movies. I passed a solitary man digging three feet of black ash away from an old church. He wanted to re-open it. Large buildings that were once shops and offices were simply abandoned to nature and the few people who colonised them for housing, cloth draped across long broken windows. The museum that probably held fascinating historical material was closed and no-one was around. The yacht club, once the preserve of the ex-pat community was a local bar with few customers. I stayed most of the time in Kokopo a thirty-minute drive along the coast. The village has now grown into the new centre for the Island. I stayed in a huge Catholic Mission, which for all of my anti-church sentiments filled me with admiration for the fantastic dedication and organisational structures of believers. They run a hospital and have parishes all over the island, each of which has a duty to establish a church and a school. Pomio has a Parish and yet it has no road leading to it. The only entry is by boat across rough seas that take lives. Last month my blind policeman's older brother lost his wife and two children when their boat capsized. The other reason to go was to that the National Mask Festival was held during that week. It was notable more for the backstage events rather than the disappointing turn-out. The Bindings tribe are famous for their body length costumes and masks and their fire jumping. However, they decided not to come for political reasons probably based on cash. The Tolai tribe who are the majority in this part of the Island have their own tamburan costumes which are made by layered feathers of leaves covering the head down to mid-thigh. The costume is topped by a pointed, black, conical, head-covering mask with spiral eyes, like sunglasses from a joke shop. The dances consist of a large group of initiated males who sing to the tamburan , which then twists from the waist to make the leaf-feathers swirl around them. At the same time, they move up and down from the waist. The belief system is based on ancestors. These tamburans from several villages were supposed to arrive to open the festival in canoes from the sea. Everyone was told to be at a particular beach and jetty at 4 a.m. I was sceptical about people canoeing in the dark but did notwant to risk missing it. As I arrived the jetty was packed with standing people, and the beach was lined with people ten deep and more for a good hundred metres. As we waited the sun rose at 6 a.m. – no tamburans . At 6.45 the crowd was entertained by a hapless dog that found itself trapped beween a howling, object-throwing mob on one side and the sea on the other and ran the gauntlet the length of the beach. By 7.30 the school children started to leave for school, and I decided to go back to the mission for breakfast. At 8.30 I looked down from the mission on a hill to see below me the very tamburans assembling in their canoes and dancing to each other. This was a far better view than I would have had from the beach. I followed them the kilometre along to the beach where those who had waited six hours welcomed them ashore. The highlight of the festival was not so much the dancers as the tourists. Being the national festival those few companies that charge people a great deal of money to be taken around brought their wards for a grandstand seat. On the first day it was difficult to see the dancers in the circular dance space surrounded by people. They were surrounded with a largely aging phalanx of people with enormous lens, themselves producing intriguing arthritic dances as they searched for that perfect angle that would deliver the perfect shot. The organisers were caught in two minds. They resented the intrusion of the tourists, ignorant of the offence they caused, but desire for their money was strong. The tourists could not be expected to know differently – no-one had told them anything and they were simply getting what they paid for. The next day everyone was told not to come into the arena and to respect the fact that the dances were spiritual and should not be applauded at the end. An older man was concentrating on taking photos at the edge of the field drawing the wrath of the speechmaker who irritably asked if he spoke English. An embarrassed middle-aged woman tourist ran twenty metres over to him to put things right. By the third day it had all become too much for the poor M.C. He had yet again been constantly questioned by tourists who could not understand why the events did not seem to match the nicely typed programmes. The M.C. snapped and approached the microphone. He launched into a fifteen-minute tirade against tourists. The rather rambling lecture covered some of the following: Who did they think they were? This is PNG and they should respect the PNG culture. We are not interested in your appointments, ATM machines, catching planes etc etc . We do not care about time. Things take place when we are ready. If you do not like or respect us, then you can go back to where you came from……. The festival had peaked. At the end I took a small ship over to the next big island – New Ireland. An over-night boat trip. The fight for the seats soon showed itself to be futile as lack of comfort forced me to the floor where ideas of sleep proved just as futile. Over-excited women and ship's engineers searching for liaisons led to a night-long barrage of laughter and loud discussion. New Ireland was a peaceful and friendly tropical island covered in vast wealth-producing oil palm plantations, established by Germans more than a hundred years ago. The Germans forced the natives to build roads and even shipped some off to Australia and other Pacific Island plantations. Now people will tell you that it is one of the safest islands in PNG. This I found out when walking the two kilometres from the boat to my host's house. I passed through a group of young men with red lap-laps (sarongs) clearing the grass and ditches. Each greeted me as I passed with cheery waves of their bush knives (machetes). I mentioned this to my host – a woman disabled in her teens by a falling coconut that cracked her skull. “Oh yes” she replied, “they are the boys from the prison. ”. I spent a happy week with her and her disabled sister and also travelled up the coast to have long talks in my best tok-pisin with the ex-MP for the area in his grass-roofed beach side guest house. Since then life has been somewhat routine , relieved at times by the growing band of Africans who turn up from time to time. There is quite a group of Ugandans. Two of our acquaintance have been here for nearly thirty years, having left at the time of Idi Amin. Interestingly, although they claim to have fled from his regime, they do not regard him with loathing. They see him as an amusing man who did some good for ordinary villagers and allowed space for Africans to become involved in business by driving out the Asians. Armstrong, my young housemate also describes how the problem was those around him and sees Uganda's problems as tribal in origin. We also met an energetic and challenging woman M.P. from Uganda who breezed in, told PNG that it ought to get its political system sorted out, advised women to pull their socks up, and breezed out. I managed, at last to get up on top of some hills over-looking Port Moresby, which I had always been told not to risk on my own. I went with a local man, whose wantoks lived at the foot of this hill. It was interesting to see just how small POM is from above. Areas that seemed a long way distant from each other when approached by bus were only walking distance apart as the crow walks, but separated by hills. Now people are beginning to think about Christmas, which I suspect is already in full-swing in UK. I have posted my xmas card to you, but wonder if it will get through the postal blockade. In PNG and most developing countries Christmas is a time of increasing theft and danger as people look for the means to stay drunk for a week. I will probably stay in POM as the rains will be falling by then and the last thing I want is to be in a strange place with everyone drunk. Looking forward to seeing you again soon. |
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