I love clouds

Flying back to PNG from holidays I was reminded of how much  I love clouds. 

It was a love affair that started at sea, where the clouds herald changes of weather.

It is a love affair I continue on the rivers, where the clouds paint the blue canvas that dominates the view.

The best view of clouds though is from a plane, preferably a small one, where they are a landscape in their own right.

Sometimes they fill the valleys like a giant bubble bath of foam.

Other times they define a valley, like a strange tropical version of a glacier.

They play peek-a-boo with the mountains.

They are just beautiful.

Except when they block an airstrip and prevent us from landing.

Still, I love clouds.

Fortnight

On the way to Teredau

It is Friday afternoon on ‘fortnight’, the day when people get paid. There is no paid work in Ubuo village, but everyone has family somewhere who is getting paid today. The nearest waged labour is at Teredau, a timber mill upstream from us. All sorts of people are heading to Teredau on the rising tide, taking baskets of crabs and other things with them. They may give these to family there and receive other goods in exchange, or they may sell them at the market and use the income to buy other things.

Teredau

The teenage males in my household are also heading to Teredau. They’ve been sent with baskets of crabs from the women and instructions on who to give them to and what to return with. The teens are just looking to have a good time and try to escape before the crabs are ready for transport.

Each lad heads out with a bush knife and a paddle. Someone comes back to get fire to take with them. It looks like some crabs may be eaten on route and not make it to Teredau!

Hanging out when the work day is done

There is a sense of fun in all the preparations. The teens are off to have a good time with older relatives who’ve just been paid. The people staying home know they’ll return with goods to share.

Other canoe loads are getting ready to go to Kikori (the nearest town) or Sirebi, also to sell goods at market or to spend time with recently paid family.

Loaded with cargo, ready
to return to the village

Saturday is quiet, as so many people have gone away. On Sunday many start to return, when the tide is right. There is extra food at dinner, from the store at Teredau or from the gardens. There they have enough elevation to be safe from flooding, so can grow different foods.

Fortnight in the village.

Kikori

A foggy sunrise over the river at Kikori

I was in Kikori having a few days break with my friends at the hospital and had gone for a walk to town when suddenly there was action all about. Two drunken men came running down the road towards me and disappeared into the bush. Behind them came a car full of police with guns, chasing down the drunks. I walked the other direction and took the long way home, away from all the action.

In some parts of PNG people have a reputation for being bel hat (short fused). This is not one of those areas, but I’ve spent time in those areas and have learnt to walk away from all public disturbances in case they escalate.

My detour brought me back to the quiet of the hospital about 2 minutes ahead of the police car arriving loudly. I should have known that police chases are likely to end at a hospital! The ones on TV sure look like they will. I had assumed police violence and that a drunk was the patient, but was I wrong. While chasing down the drunks, one of the police had dropped dead. Most likely it was a heart attack.

The helicopter arrives for the Medivac.

My doctor friend and her team spent the next half hour doing their best to revive the policeman, but in the end they pronounced him dead. The wailing coming from the emergency room as people gathered to say farewell was very loud. He was a much respected man.

Meanwhile, a helicopter arrived at the hospital to pick up a patient for a medivac to a bigger hospital. An oil company in the region will use their helicopters to help in this way when needed. The helicopter buzzed overheard, the crowds came out of the wards to watch the action and the people in emergency kept wailing. The patient was carried on a stretcher through the watching crowd to the helicopter that carried her away.

The next day there was a constant stream of people passing the hospital, bush knives in hand. The hospital staff joined the stream, carrying their bush knives also. My inquiries into what was going on revealed that everyone had been called out to cut the airstrip. That explained the incomprehensible shouting I’d heard through the loud hailer all morning. The policeman was from another province and was a respected man, so the whole community was expected to contribute to cutting the airstrip to allow his body to be flown back to his family.

A foggy sunrise over the river at Kikori

Joining the crowd, armed with a camera rather than a bush knife, I chatted with some locals about the state of the airstrip. My pilot friends had told me the strip was closed due to the Marsden matting (metal sheeting) coming up and creating sharp edges that popped plane tyres. My local sources told me that previous plane crashes had occurred because the pilots were idiots who didn’t know how to fly. I think I’ll trust my pilot friends on this one, as they are certainly not idiots. There was a team walking the airstrip with a mallet beating the edges of the matting back into place, so it seemed like the actual cause was being dealt with, even if it was not being believed. The next day a plane successfully landed and took off again, without any flat tyres, to retrieve the body of the policeman and fly it across the country to his family.

So much drama in such a small town!

Prophets of Climate Change

Baimuru in the mud. 

The prophets of the Old Testament and the preachers of climate change have a lot in common.

The Hebrew prophets would declare to anyone who would listen, often via dramatic means, that people needed to repent and be saved. Repent means to acknowledge wrong and commit to a changed path. The salvation was a combination of the changed path and the work of God in no longer condemning.

Baimuru in the dry. That’s the same path as the other picture.

Modern prophets also use dramatic actions to tell us to repent and be saved, they just don’t use those terms. What they do tell us is that unless we recognise the effects of our actions and dramatically change how we live, we will suffer. If we do dramatically change, then we may avoid disaster. In other words, repent and be saved.

Last year when we visited Gulf Province there had been major rain in the Highlands causing major flooding in the Delta area. This combined with king tides to inundate gardens, kill crops and leave people hungry. At the same time this year, there is a drought in PNG, caused by El Nino. When El Nino last struck PNG with drought in 1997, many people died, and they are predicting that this cycle will be worse than then. The Highlands are crying out for rain and the Delta area is experiencing a rather dry wet season. Once again, people are going hungry. The same time of the year, two very different seasons, but the same result.

King tide at Kapuna hospital. I can’t usually

bring the boat to the front window and

unload directly inside!

I was recently reading that respected scientists think that a 1m rise in sea level is now unavoidable. During king tides, water already floods many villages in the Delta area. At regular high tides, the water level is less than 50cm from flooding the village. An increase of 1m will cause regular flooding, permanent destruction of gardens and probably result in people having to leave their traditional lands and seek refuge elsewhere.

Something else the Hebrew prophets were big on was care for the widow, the orphan and the stranger. Climate change looks like creating a whole lot more of these categories. Will we listen to the modern prophets as they tell us to repent and be saved? Will we listen to the prophet who told us to love our neighbour as ourselves? This will mean sacrificing some of the comfortable ways we like to do things so that others may continue to live at all. Will we listen to the ancient prophets when they remind us to love the vulnerable and the outcast? 

The ‘why?!’ of death

In any community death causes grief and raises questions. How we express that grief and how we answer those questions varies widely. The wailing I have heard associated with a haus krai (house cry) in PNG bring tears to my eyes, but it is the questions and methods of answering that cause me ongoing discomfort.

After returning to the village from the funeral of a relative, a man commented to me that everyone had heard whispers and sounds from the coffin and that these sounds were the deceased telling everyone who was at fault for his death. It was a younger man, so people wanted to know who had caused it so that they could, well, even the score.

I’ve not looked into what a body is like three days after death in the tropical heat…and neither do I want to… but  I suspect decomposition may have something to do with the sounds. There was no doubt in this man’s mind, a respected church elder, that it was the dead man talking. I look for scientific answers for what caused a death while others are looking for spiritual answers as to who caused the death.

Part of looking for the guilty person is looking at who attends the funeral. It is important to show one’s face at a funeral so that people know you were not involved. Apparently the guilty will not attend; as if they do something will point to them and their guilt. On a practical level this causes much disturbance as people take the time to travel great distances to show their face. On the justice level it is not a very accurate measure.

I feel for my friends in the medical field when the question of ‘who’ not ‘what’ comes up. I’ve had someone in the village tell me that when someone died in hospital that the staff ‘must have made a mistake’. There was no sense that sometimes, the staff do all they can but still cannot save a life. I know that it grieves my friends when they lose this battle, and having relatives blame them does not help.

These approaches to death are a challenge for me in the village. Being from a scientific society, it is hard for me to accept spiritual causes for physical things. Even though I’m a Christian, my worldview has been shaped so that science gives us cause and effect. I am being challenged to take the possibility of spiritual causes for physical events into account. I can theoretically accept it, but am not as good at it in practice.

Living in a society whose worldview assumes spiritual causes to physical events, it is also a challenge for me to bring the physical causes of events into conversations in a way that is respectful and helpful. I do not expect to make radical changes, as worldview and the practices it drives, are notoriously slow to change. What I do hope to do is start the conversation that will hopefully lead to a broader understanding for all of us.

A cemetery near East Cape, Milne Bay Province, PNG

Modesty

Traditional men’s attire, thankfully withloin cloths rather than penis gourds.

What is modesty in clothing is very much culturally determined and changes through time. The next little bit you cannot see is the tempting bit. I was once told (and have not researched) that in the Victorian era ankles were sexy, because they were usually hidden. Even table legs were hidden at times, in case their curves suggested ankles and led someone into temptation. These days, ankles are no big deal, or calves, or knees, or… you get the idea that western culture has been raising their standards.

In PNG, the standards are different again, and also changeable with time and place. The traditional wear in some areas was a grass skirt for women (topless) and a penis gourd for men. Few women go topless these days. Those who do are usually older women who have had several children and have nothing to hide. Their breasts are purely functional and been put to good use over many years. Not exactly appealing by western standards! Even when in traditional dress, younger women will wear a sports bra or a singlet top these days, as outside standards have caused them to cover up. Thankfully penis gourds are only seen in tourist shops, as I’m not sure I want to see that sort of traditional dress.

School kids in traditional dress, adjusted for their modesty.

Compared to traditional dress, the dress that was introduced by missionaries and colonials is very covering. This has then become the standard dress for church and official events. Women are common in their meri blaus and men in collared shirts and trousers. Men from areas influenced by missionaries from other Pacific nations, Fiji in particular, will wear an islander man skirt for formal occasions.

Boys are allowed to run about naked until they are five or six years of age. Girls are taught to cover their crotch from the very beginning. While the boys run around with everything on show, the girls always have a nappy or a skirt on. A three year old boy in one village I visited refused to wear his trousers, taking them off as quickly as his family tried to put them on. An affectionate toddler would come to me for a cuddle, which is rather awkward when one is trained in child safety but the child coming for a cuddle is naked. While nakedness is fine for small boys, there is a line. One small boy would get in trouble for standing with his hands on the ground and looking at people between his legs. ‘We don’t want to see your ass’ he was told. Apparently it is the bottom that is dirty and not to be flashed about.

A formal occasion and a church elder is in his islanderman skirt.

As well as appropriate clothing, being clean for certain events such as church is important. In my area, this means being seen to have a wash before you go to church. Having had my wash earlier, I admit to being annoyed at this standard. I chose to meet it by washing my face and arms, rather than having a full wash. If people question me, I point them to John 13:10.

Much of PNG is clothed by second hands clothing shipped from Australia and New Zealand. I have a lot of fun seeing what bargains I can find. My wardrobe has more brand name items in it now than ever before! Locals tend to choose function over fashion, which includes not reading what the shirts say. I have had many giggles from inappropriate slogans. One of my favourites is a wise and gentle village uncle who often wears a shirt that says ‘Sex Panther, Time to Musk Up’ with a picture of an 80s porn star twirling his handlebar moustache.

Small boy is wearing clothes for once!

So what is appropriate clothing in PNG? I hide the shape of my crotch and upper thighs, either by wearing a skirt or by wearing a long top with trousers. I usually keep my shoulders covered, either with sleeved tops or broad straps. My skirts are usually just past my knees, not so much because knees are risqué, but because it is a practical length that the wind can’t make mischief with and I can still sit on the floor with. It does not matter so much if the shape of my chest is seen, but figure hugging clothes are hot and loose clothes are cooler, so I tend to go with the latter. I keep a Sunday meri blaus for church and wash my face before I go. I adjust my wardrobe for village or town.  I am happy wearing what I do here, then come back to Australia and feel like everyone is half naked.

Hospitality and Independence

I was sitting by the rain water tank washing my clothes when a well meaning woman came up and told me that I should give them to her to wash for me. I’m not sure if she thought I was not doing a good enough job (I certainly don’t scrub as much as locals do), that the work was somehow beneath me or she was just being helpful, but my answer was a polite no. This is but one example of the times I’ve found myself seeking a balance between local hospitality and being independent.

I don’t really enjoy hand washing, but neither do I want to hand over everything for other people to do for me. When do I let someone to help me and when do I hold on to my independence and do it myself?

Another time I was walking through a muddy village and a lady insisted on holding me by the elbow the whole way. It is true that I may have slipped if she wasn’t there, but the chance was small. I felt that slipping over, although embarrassing and messy, was not the biggest deal, but to my friend it would have been a slight on her care for me. If I fell over, she would have been seen as a poor host. Recognising this, I let her guide me by the elbow, keeping her dignity intact, even if mine was a bit bruised by what felt like babying.

There are many things where I am glad that I can ask for help and that people are willing to help me. Drawing water from a well is something I’m yet to try, as I’m worried I’ll fall in. It is also something people are unwilling to let me try, as they have the same concern. They’d much rather draw water for me, than let me take that risk. This situation is a win for both of us.

I have enough trouble sitting in a small canoe,

let alone standing!

Being allowed to go out in a small canoe has been a contentious issue. Children here grow up in canoes, and many are in fact literally born in a canoe, as they did not get to the hospital in time. Their sense of balance is trained from birth and they are unlikely to tip the canoe. On the other hand, I have little experience with small round bottomed dugouts and am a liability to anyone else in the canoe. Often they are too small for me to sit right down in, so I have to crouch, making me less stable and raising my centre of gravity to make the whole thing less stable. People do not want to see me injured, so do not want to let me in a small canoe.

I on the other hand, would like to go out with the ladies sometimes, to check fishing nets or crab baskets. The first time I went with my village sister she got told off by numerous people afterwards. I spent a lot of time assuring them that I’d wanted to go, I’m not afraid of falling in and I know how to swim. They weren’t convinced. Thankfully it was a successful trip and I did not tip the canoe. This was not so much for my dignity or my sister’s standing in the community, but because there was a bumper catch in the fishing net and I would have been horrified to tip the canoe and lose everyone’s dinner!

The second time I went in the canoe I managed to fall in before we left the river bank. The news had made it around our village and down to the next one in about half an hour. Who needs the internet to spread news fast?!?! Wet, I got back into the canoe and we went to check the net. My village sister is pretty amazing for still letting me go with her, even though she knew she’d face disapproval from people later. The catch was not as good this time, but I felt more comfortable in the canoe and we made it back in one piece. As I was already wet, I then jumped in the river for a swim. This was both a nice way to cool off and proved to those watching… and those who heard the news later… that  I indeed know how to swim well.

Kids on their way to school by canoe

In my own world I am a competent, intelligent, independent adult. In the village I am a cared for guest who is still learning how to do the most basic things. Finding the balance of hospitality and independence is hard. I want to relate well with people and accept their generous care, but I also want to be able to be myself and not always have a baby sitter looking after me. I suspect it will be a long time before I find the way to balance these things.