Away from the dreary skies of Goroka, the weather unfolded as we sailed on the blue skies. The twin otter plane of Missionary Aviation Fellowship usually flies low, so it was a scenic flight, as we flew south over mountains and hills whose spines were lined with red dirt roads and treks.
These dirt roads grew less and the treks became more, I suddenly felt a surge of gratitude, that my fathers village was within the periphery of a growing town so I had ease of access to basic services such as the hospital, education and basic amenities such as bus service and shops etc. This was a privilege not many people had as nearly all 85 percent of Papua New Guineans live in rural villages.
There was a slight ascension and then Papa John enthusiastically nudged me, to look at the mountain so closely beneath the plane, ‘That’s my mountain, We are in Marawaka now’ . And then a jolt as the plane lowered.
‘Oh ok', said I.
We descended from a far I could see that the airstrip little more than a kilometre of runway was at the base, surrounded by mountains, I could see why it would be impassable on a cloudy day.
The plane slowly and surely went around and around the inside of the towering mountain ranges, slowly descending to the bottom where the airstrip was. Then another jolt and touchdown! Im here!
Finally, a wide grin flashed across Papa John’s face, We are here! He announces in tok pisin.
As I got off the plane, I could not help but feel that I was being stared at quite openly by everyone, I think my height gave me away, though im not considered tall at 1.66 m. Even in Goroka, people openly stare at people especially foreigners or ‘white man’ and its accepted but not by people who have the same skin colour.
My Marawaka family were all there to welcome me, the airport was in the center of the station. This I realise was the classic lay out for most rural outposts and towns in Papua New Guinea, airports were at the center of the town and around this was built all the government services and amenities.
As we all walked towards their village, the air was filled with laughter, and chatter in the local dealer r, none of which I understood, as I shook a myriad of hands belonging to the new faces of people we met on the way. All staring at me inquisitively, I felt something like what a new model of car might fell when being showcased for the first time.
The dwelling of my Marawaka family was near a raging river, the area consisted of three houses where in the middle of a garden of taro, sugar cane, greens, cucumbers, passion fruit, with a small hedged trek that connected all the houses. The pit toilet was located towards the edge on the southern part of the fence. As I entered the house, I was to live in for my stay it was very different to the huts I was used to but very impressive as it was built on stilts and had fireplace made of stone slabs, they carved themselves.
Papa John sent his youngest son Baik, to get mattress, blankets and teapots from his house in the bush. I enquired where that was and they all pointed to an imposing mountain nearby, as I was estimating in my head how far it must have been. Behind this house, literally ten steps away ( I counted) was a sizeable pool of water created by two huge rocks on opposite sides of the river. Standing on the side and dipping my feet in it I could see fish swimming in the pool . It was very quaint and surreal.
The family I stayed with was Papa John’s son, John Jr ,who at that time had two children, Noel and Dilla. Noel, had been burnt in a fire accident and had his hands webbed together, like most of the children there suffered from nutritional deficiencies, he had a large abdomen and was abnormally short for his five years, like most of the children there. Most of the children there were half naked, wearing either just a shirt which Noel did or bottoms, and this was normal. Most women wore these brown fibrous capes, made from tree barks, fastened to their heads that rolled off their back, some of the women were still in traditional regalia while, others wore shirts or blouses and grass skirts, but strangely all the men were in modern clothes.
As the day progressed, we had visitors mostly relatives, distant ones, and casual acquaintances visit to say hello to my family’s guest, me. People bought in loads of corn as corn grew literally everywhere like a pest weed, we would sit around the fire cooking corn and baking sweet potatoes in the ashes as they inquired of me, how many siblings I had, For two days we received guests and gifts of food.
The nearest place I could get reception was literally a mountain top climb away, the same place that they receive t.v reception. Every year when the rugby league worlds most anticipated series, the State of Origin happens, people walk to Menyama, which is a days walk through mountainous terrain to get diesel and then walk all the way back to the top of this mountain which would probably a nearly 3000 meters just to watch an eighty minute game. To me the hike wasn’t worth a telephone call to my parents.
Marawaka Station was well kept despite its remoteness. The community’s sense of pride in the few government infrastructure, remnants of colonialisation presence was purveyed in the preservation, the community’s longing and hope that one day this outpost will be a town, one day they will have functional road that links to the outside world. The community organises voluntary clean up of the school and offered fresh vegetables and fruits to government workers in the hope to hold them back in remote areas.
The only shop was a tin roof building with thatched reed walls, in it was a scanty display of the basics of sugar, salt, noodles, rice some soap and detergent. The shop was on the main street of the station near the houses of district workers and the old court house.
The market was on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, the locals sold traditional food such as greens for 10 Toea for a kilogram, and a Kina for a kilogram of sweet potato, and then there was the occasional pork, where a whole leg of pork was sold for three Kina. Most times the vendors ended up taking back home the food because everyone produced their own
The aid post was brightly painted canary yellow, and the area well kept and yet there was no medicine just some bandages, and few patients and their caretakers waiting for some sort of help to arrive. The only attendant was known as “Dota” or Doctor, he explained that he was employed as a hand to help with booking of flights on the missionary plane in and out of Marawaka, as time passed and government services deteriorated, most of the hospital workers left so he assumed responsibility at the hospital booking emergency flights to Goroka, and in time dispensing medicine. Through his multi tasking to help his people, he had assumed a great status and air in the community and had become counsellor and mediator as well.
It wasn’t until day five when I realised that the food my parents had given were not eaten, and I had to do my laundry. All the food I had eaten were organic, there was no oil, no sugar, the salt we used was the traditional salt they made, and heaps of water. I opened the boxes and offered them to my hosts to cook . Rice for dinner in a place like this was a novelty, they served nearly thirty people from one and a half kilo of rice with loads of vegetables servings filling the plates and make shift banana leaf plates .It was the conversations and the genuine festivity that enriched this meal.
As the weeks passed, my familiarity with the place and the people grew, I went hiking into the thickets of the forests like I imagined, searching for orchids and bird watching, searching for the purest drinking water high up in the mountains I went bare hand fishing in the pool at the back of the house, I learnt how to make traditional marawaka bags and most importantly I started to see the world through their eyes, the innocence where materialism lost its relevance and sharing was the law of the land.
The most riveting story I heard was of a people who had all gone hunting together for days settling in a cave in the mountains , through out this time they killed all the marsupials especially the cuscus and birdlife of the area and had a big feast. In the night,when everyone was tired and sleeping the cave angry with the people slowly shut its mouth, trapping everyone. For days after, the screams of the people echoed throughout the mountains, yet nothing could be done as the captives slowly passed away one by one. The strange thing was that you could see hand prints embedded on what use to be the mouth of the cave. Such stories, guarded places like this, and warned man about respecting nature.
The absence of a government, the skeletal existence of Church presence only magnified paganism and animistic beliefs. The idea of development they believed only depended on what they could do as a people, western form of governance had no relevance here if there is no road. The Church was fighting an up hill battle, it was providing medical relief, air cargo and flight services out of Marawaka where cost of freight was high and the fight to win souls that have been embedded in traditional practices spanning thousands of years was testing.
I visited the school, I had initially hoped to have worked at. Like most other rural places, some of the teachers seemed to have returned from their trip to town, indicated by the pile of vegetables on the door of their houses. Other teachers stayed back in town daunted with the prospect of being isolated. I understood this, whilst I was among so many people each night I was still very much alone I had no one to share my perceptions with who came from my world.
I slowly grew into being a local with my own morning rituals of hiking to the nearby mountain for the morning sunrise and afternoon swims in the cold pool behind the house, following John and his wife to customary gatherings.Ireally had no prospect of leaving this Eden anytime soon.
After nearly four weeks, Dota, arrives one morning at the house to announce that I would be leaving that day at around 11 am, my parents apparently were getting worried about me and sent me a ticket. The plane had already left Goroka. My Marawaka family quickly organised some gifts of bilums and pandanus nuts to take back.As the plane neared I could hear the echo, and reminisced of how much I had missed that sound, the sound of civilisation, the sound of going home.
Whilst waiting for the missionary pilot and Dota to sort out the plane, Papa John, asked me if I could do him a favour and find help for his grandson, Noel and if I could be his guardian. My immediate response was that I would. And so I rummaged through my stuff to pay for Noels ticket. We all contributed and bought Noel a ticket to Goroka.
Arriving in Goroka, and off the tarmac, Noel and I started to walk home, he a short tubby boy carrying a bilum of pandanus nut, and I, definitely lighter with far loose clothes than when I began. Only when we walked to the road that a semi trailer that approached that made him jump and run away back into the gates of the airport, did I realise that it was the first time for him to see a moving vehicle. This petrified the child. All I could imagine were all those people living in regions like Marawaka where there was no road access, man, women and children have lived in ignorance of not interacting with a vehicle.After that fact sank in with me, I held his hand and we walked to my parents house.
My parents were expecting me but were stunned when they saw this pudgy little boy, Noel. They reminded me that he was not a toy, I told them my intentions to help him seek medical care and send him back. The other thing I didn’t realise was that I was unable to communicate with him except through actions since he only spoke in Marawaka language.
Noel lived with me in the village, as the year progresses, he learnt to speak tok pisin and English, we sought treatment for him and with the help of New Guinea Highlands Coffee Exporters , I was able to send him to Port Moresby get him proper medical care where he had plastic surgery which fixed his hands.
Ten years on Noel completely , is now in year 10 at a high school, still living with me. He wants to be a chef.
Of course, the whole time there, I started to learn their struggle with coffee and in many ways my trip to the Marawaka was one of the best things I’ve done because it clearly shaped my life in ways I never imagined.
Wonderful personal history, and beautifully written, Priscilla.