Octopus was not the only gift we received. Many Papua New Guineans chewed Betel Nut ‘buai’and this too our benevolent Kukurai’s wife brought us, together with Daka, the root, leaf or catkin of the Betel pepper vine, and lime. The nuts would be crushed, together with the Daka and mixed with the lime to produce a red paste which was then chewed and eventually spat out. The mixture turned the teeth red, tended to swell the lips and was reputed to give the individual a bit of a high. From my observations its long-term use tended to blacken the teeth and was probably responsible for the prevalence of tooth rot too. More expert opinion suggests there are quite severe, wide ranging, health risks associated with its use, and I am sure that is so. Needless to say, we did not use it ourselves, but as it was considered only courteous to present visitors to one’s house with a gift when they arrived, and Buai was much appreciated, even expected, that was how we disposed of it without causing any offence.
All the coconut trees, originally planted by the Japanese during occupation in WW2, and growing on village land seemed to belong to the wife of the Kukuai and at the time of harvest, working parties of villagers were expected to donate their time to the task of obtaining the nuts, removing the outer husk, splitting them in half and drying them in smoke houses. The resulting product was termed Kopra which would be sold as a cash crop on the mainland and eventually find its way on to the international market and, after further processing, on grocery shelves as desecrated coconut. Coconut had other uses as well, the hard shell contained oil and was good for use in fires, while the green coconut contained a clear liquid Kulau which proved to be a most satisfying and refreshing drink. During a long trek a boy would be instructed to climb a coconut tree and throw down a few nuts which would be stripped of the outer husk, a small hole made with a bush knife through the eye of the nut and the liquid drank directly from the nut.
I was allowed to go up the mountain with Lawrence to view one of these events. Young boys would expertly climb the trees, sit in the crown of the tree and throw the nuts down. Men would remove the husk, split the shell into half and remove the central mush, while others would stack the outer shell together with the coconut meat, into a smoke house.
Upon our return both Lawrence and I were taken ill. I completely lost the use of my legs and was violently sick. Word quickly passed throughout the village and much to my wife’s concern, three of the village elders entered our house, pushed past her and came into the bedroom where I lay. Serious and animated discussion took place between the elders as to the cause and remedy. Their conclusion was that when climbing up the mountain we had crossed a certain Baret, a mountain stream, and in doing so had offended a Masalai or evil spirit. The obvious antidote was to appease the spirit by making an offering of a chicken, but since chickens were a valuable source of food a young boy was nominated to take some chicken feathers, return to the place where we had crossed the Baret, place the feathers there and perform a ritual by acting like a chicken. After about three days I did recover and so did Lawrence. The elders claimed that their ruse had worked but the younger members of the village believed it was their prayers that had effected the cure as it was customary for the young people to meet at our house most evenings, bring their guitars and we would have a time of open worship around a blazing fire.
On one of these occasions a small group of us were sitting around a fire outside our house when suddenly someone cried out and everyone jumped up dragging us to our feet. Seems a small hairy-like caterpillar was noticed making its way into the group. Just a harmless caterpillar I thought but was quickly assured that this particular one was deadly poisonous if its hairs so much as came into contact with the skin. Needless to say, it was quickly dispatched by means of a bush knife, a universal tool carried everywhere by both young and old, male and female alike. Seems it was customary to tie one of these to the tip of arrows when fighting so that if the arrow wound did not kill the adversary the venom from the hairs of the caterpillar would.
These were precious times of completely spontaneous worship, voices, both male and female, harmonising beautifully, guitars expertly plucked in the classical mode – all a far cry from the contemporary ‘worship’ we now experience in western churches.
Each week the whole village would meet together in Bik Ples for worship. On one occasion a couple started to argue and the husband struck his wife. This caused quite a commotion which rippled rather disturbingly through the assembled crowd. We were commanded not to move when suddenly we heard the pounding of bare feet upon hard earth. The husband had run away followed by a group of men in hot pursuit. The offending husband was caught, brought back and immediately ‘tried’ by the village elders. Not sure what the punishment pronounced was, but we were given as compensation a piglet for any embarrassment caused. Later, our little piglet was brought to our house by a group of men who proceeded to castrate it with the use of a razor blade. The resulting cavity was then packed with fine ash taken from a fire pit and the squealing animal released whereupon it fled into the bush. Needless to say, we were concerned for the future of this innocent little creature, but we were assured that it would be OK and would return after a few days, and so it did spending most of its time, when not foraging for food, under our house. I suppose one could say that we lived on top of a pig-sty!
We never did ‘enjoy’ our pig because we left before it grew up. But we did ‘enjoy’ another pig, or more precisely a large portion of one. A group of men decided to go into the bush hunting for a wild pig. I was allowed to join this hunting party and eventually one was found, and the hunt was on. The general idea was to run the animal into a thicket and then three or four men would leap upon it and hold it down until others could immobilise it by tying its two front feet together and also its back legs. A long pole was then cut from a tree and passed between the legs, front to back, so as to enable the animal to be easily carried upside down by a couple of men each with one end of the pole upon their shoulders. My wife became very distressed when we returned to the village with our quarry placed down just outside our house and exposed to the hot mid-day sun. After half an hour the animal, still alive, was taken to Bik Ples and killed by means of a spear thrust into the heart. Once dead the body was thrown into a blazing fire to remove all bristle and then immediately cut into pieces. This was a rather interesting procedure in that much discussion took place during the process as to who was entitled to which part. Although I took no part in these discussions a large piece, amounting to about four kilograms of choice pork was delivered to our house. With no refrigerator we roasted the joint immediately, together with sweet potatoes, in our drum oven and shared it with our neighbours. Normally meat would be boiled in sea water, so our roasted offering was considered to be swit tru or very good, thoroughly enjoyed by all.
We would bake bread in our drum oven too which was also well received and although we taught the younger women how to do so and offered the use of our drum oven, it never did seem to catch on. Old customs die hard I suppose.
Cooking bananas were roasted by literally throwing them into an open fire on the ground. Once the skins were burned black, they were considered cooked, flicked out of the fire by means of a long branch, skinned and eaten hot. I can’t say I was a particular fan, but then each to his own.
My wife, as well as spending maximum time with the villagers cooking, treating minor medical emergencies and generally getting to understand their culture, revelled in the whole experience. Sometimes she needed to fetch water from streams higher up the mountain, there being no water supply available in the village. To accomplish this task, she was taught how to carry heavy pots, etc. on the head. Our house was less than 100 yards from the beach and frequently she would bath in the sea. I was privileged to have the use of a priest hole in the village church enabling me to shower in fresh rainwater collected off the corrugated tin roof.
Other tasks, for me especially, but also shared by my wife, were to collect language data, both written and recorded. Frequently we did this through the use of Tumbuna, ancestral, stories. These would always be related by the Kukari, or village headman, helped out by other village elders. A story would be repeated numerous times before we were allowed to record it so as to make sure it was correct in every detail. This method ensured that important tribal customs were passed on from one generation to another accurately. The fact that only the Kukari could render the story had the purpose of giving it authenticity.
On one occasion we were warned that a group of men were approaching the village playing a pair of pipes. Since women were not allowed by custom to hear the pipes, they had to vacate the village quickly and hide in the bush out of earshot, until the pipes had moved on. The procedure was somewhat unnerving for my wife since she had no idea what was happening until it was explained later. The sound of the pipes was quite eerie but incredibly musical. They were played, alternately, and in such a way that they seemed to talk to each other, indeed this was the idea, and they were known as ‘talking pipes’.
Our time in the village simply flew by and it was soon time to leave. Parting was an emotional affair with the whole of the village, men women and children, gathering on the beach to see us depart. Looking back as we sailed away with fond memories, we took one last look at the volcano in whose shadow we had spent so many happy hours, now disarmingly quiet, rising majestically out of the sea. Little did we know then the utter destruction that was to follow with the eventual evacuation of the entire population of the island.
Arriving back on the mainland we were met by truck and travelled along the coast back to Nobanob for a week of debriefing before departing, again by truck, for Ukarumpa in the Eastern Highlands; home for the next seven years.