Tonight we found ourselves (at our landlord, Joel's encouragement) in the middle of a field sitting under a tarp in the pouring rain with a crowd of locals. A massive amount of cooked pig and other cooked greens were laid out on banana leaves & then covered with banana leaves. We were at a House Cry. Behind us sat the window--her husband had been the chief of the clan. I sat next to a man (and also under a hole in the tarp) who was pleased to translate for me & thanked me for experiencing some of his culture. One at a time, men got up to thank people for the food and donations. Joel was especially thanked as "he is not one of our tribe an but walked many miles with our chief. Tell your clan about Joel's gifts so all know." (The gathering was on Joel's land & he'd provided lots of the food.). At one point, a late arriving group of relatives came walking up the muddy drive...a distant wailing increased in volume as they came closer. Then the widow and a few others began to wail. A high pitch, mournful sound that pierced your heart. The wailing turned into a song sang with such grief: "Who will I walk with? Who will I talk to? Who will hunt? My Chief. My Chief." When the wailing softened, a man told us how much $$ was collected (about $2800) & exactly how it was going to be spent: $$ for transporting body to home village, $$ for widow's plant tkt, etc.. Next the food was to be divided among the clans--with the deceased's mother's family clan first. I gave the widow a long hug. Many thanked us for coming...and we told them we were honored to be there. We quietly slipped...actually almost literally slipped in the wet, red mud...away with Ruby & a man who offered to drive us home. Got home @ 10...soaked, muddy, but with memories of a unique cultural event: a House Cry. This is the way they share their grief. Had it been their child who died, they would have cut off a finger...or even a hand. And had the House Cry taken place in their home village, many men would be covered with dirt to signify from dust to dust...and would run around with swords & axes charging at others...and this would last for days...each louder & more intense. PNG is but a blink away from the days when only tribal ways ruled. Just 35 years ago, the kina shell was the currency. We see glimpses of it often and feel its overwhelming presence everywhere.
Sent from my iPad
Sent from my iPad
