People Laugh When They Play

I've been reading a book called Poking Holes in the Darkness by Jaki Parlier. It's about the author's experience as a Wycliffe missionary in PNG. I've only read the first section, but she begins by describing in detail her first experience in a PNG village, and I found it fascinating. It reminded me of my first moments in a village. So, I thought I should record those moments before I forget them in a flurry of other memories stored in my brain. Here goes!

After an entire afternoon and early evening of traveling up (or down...I don't remember which) the river in Martha's fiberglass boat (which was so loaded down with cargo and people that the boat started to flood when we took off), we arrived at an unknown village at dusk. 

Martha's boat with too much cargo and too many passengers.

The "boss crew" puttered on by the village, but the people called out from the shore warning us that we shouldn't keep going all night. They said that there were many big trees ahead in the river and that we would ruin our boat if we kept going in the dark. So, we turned around and decided to spend the night in their village. This was, of course, not part of the original plan. We were supposed to arrive at Martha's house by nightfall, but as is usually the case in PNG, plans are always subject to change. So, we got out of the boat and started pulling things out that we would need for the night. However, because we had not planned on staying anywhere, nothing was easily accessible. The men spent nearly 30 minutes searching through the cargo for tarps, mosquito nets, flashlights, etc. However, Don and I stood by as helpless onlookers given that our feet were quite unaccustomed to wading around in the 12-inch deep mud that ran along the shoreline. The Papua New Guineans, on the other hand, somehow manage not only to maintain their balance but also to emerge from the muddy mess spotless. One day, I'll learn their secret. I'm determined. :) 

Once they gathered the necessary sleeping materials, we headed up the mud-covered side of a cliff which was a perfect perch for the village houses and overlooked the river below. The villagers told us that they lived in a swamp. They weren't kidding. The sound of the air being suctioned out of my shoes was heard with every step through the muddy and watery terrain. Martha (a villager not the missionary) carried a flashlight as she walked in front of me. She swayed her arms back and forth with the normal rhythm of walking, but each time there was a tree root or any other obstruction in my path, she would hold the flashlight back toward me so I could see the way. But, she never stopped or changed her pace, she just kept walking passing her light on to my feet. When we got to the top of the cliff, there were several houses (more like huts) all gathered in one area. There were lots of little dogs too. There were baby pigs running around at our feet as we made our way to the hut we would sleep in for the night. Once we set our stuff down, several of us gathered around a fire on the ground. We squatted or sat on little "footstools" which were about 2 inches off the ground near the gentle flames. 

Papua New Guineans often squat instead of sitting on the ground. 

Someone had some music on their phone (yes, they have cell phones without electricity), so we listened, and I entertained them with my wild and crazy American dance moves (mainly shoulder shrugs and head bobs) as the night came to a close. This was the night I kept convincing myself to talk with the girls who had come along (see previous post "I'm no conversationalist"), but after asking them what one of their names was and receiving only an embarrassed giggle in reply, I, bewildered and exhausted,  went to my bed on a tarp in the corner of the hut. (They lay tarps down to sleep so that the mosquitoes don't come up through the bamboo floor boards and eat them alive). Typically, you would sleep with a mosquito net hanging up as well, but we couldn't find ours, and I said it wasn't a big deal for one night. I covered up with the blue lap lap I had worn as a skirt (don't worry, I had long basketball shorts on underneath), and I went to sleep. Well, kind of. Those bamboo boards are about as comfortable as they look. I spent most of the night rolling over and trying to find a position that would allow me to fall asleep without simultaneously making my limbs fall asleep. I was not so successful. 

The next morning, we arose with the sun, and we gathered our belongings and got in the boat and headed back out on the river in pursuit of Martha's house. As we continued up (or down?) the river, we stopped at several other villages selling "flex cards" (which are credit for cell phones) and letting various passengers on and off the boat. In one village, we stopped the boat, and everyone seemed to be getting off. I had thought this was just another routine stop, but as it turned out, we were planning (or rather they were planning) to have breakfast in this village because it was the home village of our guide's mother. 

This is what I consider my first real experience in a PNG village. As I walked up the side of the mud-covered (but less swampy) cliff of this village, I was greeted by several Papua New Guineans. At the top, there were many huts scattered about on the flat soil. Fires smoldered in front of each of the houses sending the aroma of fall cookouts in the US wafting into the crisp morning air. 

Each of the houses had a small fire (see bottom right of the photo) which smoldered throughout the morning. 

The Papua New Guineans told me and Don to sit down in the hut while they made breakfast which consisted of roasted bananas, rice, tin fish, and roasted corn on the cob. Truly a breakfast fit for the king (or two Prime Ministers in this case)!

The hut that Don and I sat in while they cooked our breakfast. 

Chickens and roosters pecked and bawked all over the ground. One of the villagers brought us over a slice of papaya. I'd never eaten the orange-colored, soft and squishy fruit, and the texture mixed with my filthy hands, the hoard of flies buzzing around my head, the chickens on the ground, and the smell of smoke was enough to make me want to vomit. Don noticed my queasy expression and told me it was okay if I didn't want to eat it, but I was determined! I lay back for a bit to let myself adjust to my surroundings before making my stomach adjust to the food. And, Don said, "So, this is your first National Geographic village experience, huh?" And, that's precisely how it felt--like walking through a magazine. Everything was so surreal. The houses, the palm trees, the cooking, the animals. It was just like the pictures. But, this was real life! As I struggled to grip hold of reality, one of the Papua New Guineans brought us some corn on the cob to eat. Corn had never tasted so good! It was nothing like our corn in Illinois. It was tough and hard to chew and had a totally different flavor, especially because it was smoked, but it was just what I needed. I felt a rush of closeness to my home. I felt like these people weren't so different. They ate corn on the cob after all! 

 

And, from that point on, I was okay. I watched with intrigue and curiosity, but things didn't seem so shocking. I watched a group of Papua New Guineans kick a soccer ball and hit a volleyball back and forth. They laughed as they played. Things weren't so different here. People are just people. Even when they look different, talk different, walk different, cook different, smell different, eat different. People are people. And, they laugh when they play.