Eve’s other Eden
Words and images by Paul Rush
Istep ashore on beautiful Kiriwina Island not knowing what to expect. From what I have seen of Papua New Guinea’s Milne Bay Province, this is a South Seas paradise that constantly tests the limits of one’s credibility and reason.
Two thousand islanders are standing and sitting behind a well-defined line under the cool shade of tall, graceful coconut palms. Laid out on woven mats before them is an assortment of souvenirs, craftwork, fruits and produce. Their calmness and patience is virtuous as it takes two hours to disembark an equal number of pale-faced ‘dimdims’ from the superliner Pacific Dawn.
I meet Mr Kagoga, squatting under a tree with his three young children, watching the seemingly endless stream of cruise passengers come ashore. ‘Life is good on this island,’ he tells me. ‘We live off the land and sea and largely limit our imports to clothing, sugar, salt and spear guns.’
Further along a large family has gathered for a picnic in a limestone cave that faces the beach. It takes only a nanosecond to realise that my white face is an object to be feared by the cherubic babes in arms. My toothy smile and friendly overtures are construed as dire threats to the secure infant worlds, so I quietly retreat.
Two strapping fishing gurus named Mwaiwa and Modulata hoist their mammoth catch shoulder high for my photo. Three smaller piscatorial delights are steaming on wooden frames over a smouldering fire. The cave families will dine like chiefs today on a remarkable seafood smorgasbord.
Below a ‘Welcome to Kaibola’ sign on a thatched shelter are others offering tours to a ‘cave of hummen bones’ and ‘diving and snockling’ excursions. I realise that I have stumbled over the Kiriwina Island Visitor Centre. The young man introduces himself as Samuel and says he will guide me to his village for twenty kina (NZ$4).
Samuel soon tells me how mind-blowing his first sight of the great white superliner was. ‘I couldn’t believe how gigantic it is and how close it has anchored to the beach.
Tourism will be good for us but not too much of it,’ he says looking pointedly at the surging crowd of visitors.
Our progress over the undulating 4WD road is slow, punctuated by frequent greetings and high-five gestures with young villagers sauntering down to the beach. Along the route we pass family garden plots with yam, taro, potatoes and corn planted at random amongst the up-thrusting jagged coral heads.
Samuel’s family home beneath the coconut palms is surrounded by seating platforms, store-houses, banana plants and frangipani trees. His 46-year-old father Togesi, offers me freshly picked bananas, which are delicious. Samuel points out Chief Pulayasi’s large house in the centre of the village and leads me to his own, which he shares with his wife and 5-year-old son.
I’m intrigued to learn that the family’s one hectare garden plot is owned by Samuel’s grandfather and passes down through the male line, contrary to Tobriand tradition. As subsistence horticulturalists, the Kiriwinian’s social structure is based on matrilineal clans who control land and resources. While men take responsibility for planting and harvesting activities, women have the land ownership rights.
Because the islands contain one of the most culturally intact races on Earth, the local traditions relating to reproduction are very strong. Many locals still believe that a woman becomes pregnant when a child spirit chooses her and enters through her head.
The ‘baloma’ spirit is regarded as an essential cause of pregnancy. In earlier times the link between sex and pregnancy was not very evident. This was because yam, the staple food of the island, contains phytoestrogens and plant sterol chemicals whose effects are contraceptive.
There is no traditional marriage ceremony. A young woman can stay in her lover’s house and sit with him in the morning and wait for her mother to bring them cooked hams. Once the girl accepts a gift from the boy and the couple eat together on a regular basis, the marriage is officially recognised.
If after one year, the woman is unhappy she may divorce her husband. The man may return to his ex-wife by giving her family yams and other gifts, but only if the woman is prepared to take him back.
I notice that semi-wild pigs are prolific on the margin of the village and learn that they are part of the glue that holds Papua New Guinea society together. They signify wealth and power and are the surest means of exchange for buying a bride, paying school fees or settling feuds in many settlements.
However, the highlight of a family gathering is a pig feast, held for meetings, funerals and coming-of-age ceremonies. The animals are ritually killed and cooked in underground umus. The guests paint their faces and wear a virtual aviary of bird feathers in ornate headdresses that have been plucked from owls, eagles, parrots, cockatoos and birds of paradise.
When we finally return to the beach festivities, a surprise awaits. A game of cricket is being played in the middle of Kaibola Village. It’s a world away from the sedate international sport I have watched at Wellington’s Basin Reserve.
This game is played with an unlimited number of participants over several days. There’s so much singing, dancing, whistle-blowing and inexplicable movement on the field that I cannot identify winners or losers. There is much aggression and shouting! Cricket was developed at the insistence of early colonial rulers to substitute for constant inter-tribal warfare.
My guide explains how the most linguistically diverse nation on Earth (with 850 languages) solved the communication problem. With foreign help they evolved Tok Pisin, a Creole language of phonetically written jumbled-up English, adapted to some German grammar, all spiced up with local words and the odd Australian-ism for good luck.
I learn that Prince Charles visited Papua New Guinea some years ago and introduced himself as: ‘nambawan pikinini bilong Misis Kwin,’ meaning the number one child of Mrs Queen. Other examples of Pisin intrigue me such as: old person – holim stik nau; smoker – kensa bokis; rifle – bigfella iron walking stick him go bang along topside.
Reluctantly I say goodbye to my friend Samuel and his island paradise. I’m soon missing the broad welcoming smiles of the people and the hoards of beautiful children rushing about like happiness personified.
It has been humbling to meet these genuine island people…a cultural experience not to be missed.