Kitava Island, Trobriand Group, PNG
I was late and alone, but I had finished my tasks, and I was finally ashore which is unusual for me. It’s not my job; I’m the Undersea Specialist, yet I needed to be here. At the beach there were three men, short and lean, more copper than bronze, sitting on a large dugout canoe, taking their leisure, watching the ship, talking in voices I couldn’t hear. Was I too late? Where do I go now? The island men stopped talking, looking at me, curious at what I was about. It seemed so familiar. I pointed at the trail, their eyes brightened, they smiled too and pointed the same way as I was headed, nodding their heads and laughing. I hesitated for a moment, and we shared the pleasure of ‘Good morning,’ and it was, a morning shower had just freshened the land and the air. I hurried along the hard-packed trail, two trails really, tracks from a vehicle I never saw. Kumwagea Village is at the top of Kitava Island, a pleasant walk up and across several ancient marine terraces. This is a hard land, limestone karst, sharp rocks with little soil, but there are gardens everywhere, and every homestead is carefully manicured, yard swept clean, chickens and pigs in abundance. The young pigs are very cute. I watched a pair run together, they cavorted with a strange hopping gait. What else can you do with such short legs?
Most of the homesteads had people, outside, in the shade, quiet, waiting for my ‘Good morning!’ Then it came back to me with smiles and hand waving. I remembered now how extraordinary their gardens were. They can take years to prepare, rocks removed, soiled prepared from clay and compost. I knew some of the gardens needed magic too, where the special yams grow. Memories drifted through my mind, like smoke in a light breeze, the homesteads were old. I silently nodded at well-tended graves of parents and grandparents. And there was more here than I remembered--banners of carefully cut and folded banana leaves along the trail, in front of each home… something special?
There were a few people on the trail, mostly children. I passed a group of boys, the oldest one leaning over and tickling the youngest who tried to escape on his hands and knees laughing. They were still smiling when I came upon them, and they were very polite, ‘Good morning!’ There were two girls a little later, shy and carrying some betel nuts… for their father, their uncle, their grandmother? Then at last I was at the schoolyard with the rest of my shipboard companions, on a freshly swept field, bordered with trees in flower. On the ground, near one of the classrooms, we admired amazingly beautiful carvings, dark wood with mother-of-pearl inlay, bowls, figures, yam houses, walking sticks and clams too! Much trading took place, dollars for art and memories, smiles for free.
Then the children came, the performers, not like our children, young and proud, of themselves and their culture; excited and knowing; playful and very unsubtle. First the girls, very pretty in the short skirts of the unmarried girls, flowers and shells, woven bands, tight, high on their arms, sitting, singing a quiet song, words and arm gestures carefully caught and mimicked by the youngest members of the group. Then the boys came, rowdy and raucous, laughing and brazen, doing the ‘Yam Dance’ symbol of fertility and life. Later I learned that the yams had just been harvested, and there were now competitions and celebration, with many pigs killed and cooked this day; shared among neighbors, beneath the banana leaf pennants. I learned this from Bob, our expert on all things people in this part of the world. He was next to me, talking to a man from the village whose sons are named after him! He placed his hand on one child’s head, there was trust and certainty all around, then compared foot size with the father, a promise made? I could be jealous, but I am just amazed, at this place, the people, this whole day. Little has changed in 20 years, the smells, the colors, the sounds, and this does make me a pinch of jealous and a dash of wistful, their headlong rush into life rather than just into the future.
I was late and alone, but I had finished my tasks, and I was finally ashore which is unusual for me. It’s not my job; I’m the Undersea Specialist, yet I needed to be here. At the beach there were three men, short and lean, more copper than bronze, sitting on a large dugout canoe, taking their leisure, watching the ship, talking in voices I couldn’t hear. Was I too late? Where do I go now? The island men stopped talking, looking at me, curious at what I was about. It seemed so familiar. I pointed at the trail, their eyes brightened, they smiled too and pointed the same way as I was headed, nodding their heads and laughing. I hesitated for a moment, and we shared the pleasure of ‘Good morning,’ and it was, a morning shower had just freshened the land and the air. I hurried along the hard-packed trail, two trails really, tracks from a vehicle I never saw. Kumwagea Village is at the top of Kitava Island, a pleasant walk up and across several ancient marine terraces. This is a hard land, limestone karst, sharp rocks with little soil, but there are gardens everywhere, and every homestead is carefully manicured, yard swept clean, chickens and pigs in abundance. The young pigs are very cute. I watched a pair run together, they cavorted with a strange hopping gait. What else can you do with such short legs?
Most of the homesteads had people, outside, in the shade, quiet, waiting for my ‘Good morning!’ Then it came back to me with smiles and hand waving. I remembered now how extraordinary their gardens were. They can take years to prepare, rocks removed, soiled prepared from clay and compost. I knew some of the gardens needed magic too, where the special yams grow. Memories drifted through my mind, like smoke in a light breeze, the homesteads were old. I silently nodded at well-tended graves of parents and grandparents. And there was more here than I remembered--banners of carefully cut and folded banana leaves along the trail, in front of each home… something special?
There were a few people on the trail, mostly children. I passed a group of boys, the oldest one leaning over and tickling the youngest who tried to escape on his hands and knees laughing. They were still smiling when I came upon them, and they were very polite, ‘Good morning!’ There were two girls a little later, shy and carrying some betel nuts… for their father, their uncle, their grandmother? Then at last I was at the schoolyard with the rest of my shipboard companions, on a freshly swept field, bordered with trees in flower. On the ground, near one of the classrooms, we admired amazingly beautiful carvings, dark wood with mother-of-pearl inlay, bowls, figures, yam houses, walking sticks and clams too! Much trading took place, dollars for art and memories, smiles for free.
Then the children came, the performers, not like our children, young and proud, of themselves and their culture; excited and knowing; playful and very unsubtle. First the girls, very pretty in the short skirts of the unmarried girls, flowers and shells, woven bands, tight, high on their arms, sitting, singing a quiet song, words and arm gestures carefully caught and mimicked by the youngest members of the group. Then the boys came, rowdy and raucous, laughing and brazen, doing the ‘Yam Dance’ symbol of fertility and life. Later I learned that the yams had just been harvested, and there were now competitions and celebration, with many pigs killed and cooked this day; shared among neighbors, beneath the banana leaf pennants. I learned this from Bob, our expert on all things people in this part of the world. He was next to me, talking to a man from the village whose sons are named after him! He placed his hand on one child’s head, there was trust and certainty all around, then compared foot size with the father, a promise made? I could be jealous, but I am just amazed, at this place, the people, this whole day. Little has changed in 20 years, the smells, the colors, the sounds, and this does make me a pinch of jealous and a dash of wistful, their headlong rush into life rather than just into the future.
