First and foremost, this is not an
entry which aims to be informative. I think it’s pretty clear that I lack the
sort of plumbing required to know what it means to ‘be a man’ and I’ve
certainly never given the concept of masculinity in any culture much thought.
(OK, I may have done some wondering whilst in Japan – a land where a man can
never over pluck his eyebrows or own two many manbags.) Here in PNG, my
understanding of manhood is somewhere south of nothing – so, in this entry, I’d
just like to raise a few things, throw out a few ideas, share my observations
and all that.
Here are
some of the things I’ve observed about men in PNG which, according to my
western whitey ways are somewhat contradictory, or at least worth pondering…..
Men in PNG carry bush knives.
Correction, males in PNG, including small boys, carry bush knives. This makes
them look really tough. The other day I was walking down the street and I saw a
couple of young men, shirts off, upper bodies ripped, swinging machetes to cut
grass by the side of the road. I was on my own and given all the scary stories
you hear from PNG, this kind of situation can makes one a little nervous. There
were also some little boys playing on the footpath in front of me. Suddenly one
of the young men, lunges forward towards the path (and me – ahh!) but only so
he can use the back of his knife to give the kids a little smack to get them to
move off the path and out of my way. He follows this with ‘sori misses’ and
smiles shyly at me.
 |
| This little tacker practices with a knife. His parents gave it to him to play with to keep him quiet. |
So far,
all of the men I encounter around town greet me in a very old fashioned and courteous
way. This is only comment worthy when you can picture them also carrying a bush
knife and speaking with a mouth full of buai. Buai, or betel nut, is chewed
here with mustard and lime. It’s gives the chewer a high as well as a mouth
full of thick, blood red saliva. It also seems to rot their teeth. This means
that sometimes when men speak to you they kinda look like recently satiated
vampires who have lived in eras pre-dentistry.
On the
flip side, the buai also makes their lips really red, so although they come
across partially like tough men of the land, they also, at times, look like
kids who’ve gotten into their mums make up.
Now,
for a parallel with Japan – everyone carries bags here. Men, women, kids, all
carry bags either over their shoulder, around their neck like a necklace, or
with the strap like a headband and the bag hanging down their back. So I’m
thinking it’s us in the west who have peculiar ideas about men not carrying
small bags. Everyone here carries woven bags called bilums, and stylistically,
they are completely non gender specific.
Also,
men sometimes stick leaves or feathers in the centre of their afros. The women
don’t do this where I live (although I’m told in other provinces, women
sometimes put a flower behind their left ear to show they are married or the
right ear to show they are single). Many of the women do however, have facial
tattoos. Sometimes these are small dots on the forehead, sometimes long
straight lines cutting diagonally across the cheeks (the markings relate to
where they are from). It certainly makes them look tough – significantly
tougher than a man with flora in his hair :)
Anyway,
when you combine handbag carrying, bright red lips, hair adornments, a laplap
(sarong) and a muscular arm wielding a machete, you get a pretty interesting
visual representation of a manliness which defies and challenges what we think
of as ‘manly’ in Australia. I really love living outside of Aus for these kinds
of culture readjustments. Travelling definitely gives you an insight but living
somewhere, just going about your everyday life in another context, really
messes with your sense of ‘normal’ in the best possible way.
But I
digress. Moving on from the aesthetic stuff, through the research I’ve been
involved with, I’ve encountered some really interesting, and at times
confronting things concerning cultural expectations of men in PNG.
We (the
research team, who are all PNGn except for me) have heard from locals about how
men don’t want to accompany their wives to antenatal clinic visits because,
wait for it, they’ll be teased by the
pregnant women at the clinic. Or, they’ll be picked on by others in the
community for walking around with their pregnant wife. When I asked what kind
of terrifying things others might say about them, we were given examples like ‘oh, yu papa pinis!’ (oh, you’re already
a father!) or they might be called a dog for following their wife around, or,
someone might say ‘traim na isi liklik’
(try and slow down a little – as in, you’ve already had sex and gotten her
pregnant, now leave her alone and stop trying for more). Seriously? Their manhood
is shattered because they got their wife pregnant and people know that – gasp -
they actually care about their wife and want to accompany her? We’ve also heard
stories of men creeping into labour wards at night to visit their wives and
give them food. Of course, they had to sneak in so no one would see them. Oh
the shame!
One of
the health workers also told us that men shouldn’t accompany their wife to the
baby’s immunisation visit because women can handle it but the father will get
too upset when the baby is in pain. I mean really. When I heard this, I
couldn’t help but mutter, ‘sounds like they need to man up’ – which then meant
I had to explain the term ‘man up’ to my colleagues who thought it was very
funny and readily agreed (they are women and all have a background in health
work).
Just in
case I’m giving the impression that men in PNG are 100% pansy, I should also
present to you an alternative scenario. A few months ago, Geoff and I attended,
along with Hannah and Mike, our awesome NZ buddies who live across the road, a
fire dance performance. The performance was held to honour the outgoing
archbishop, who is originally from Germany, but has lived in East New Britain for
decades and is greatly respected in the Catholic community here. In particular,
he has worked closely with the Baining people, who live in inland ENB and are
culturally and linguistically different to the Tolai, who live along the coast.
The Baining do not usually conduct any cultural activities on Tolai land, but
an exception was made for the archbishop.
We went
along, and to be honest, I expected some sort of running across hot coals kind
of thing. Instead, men dressed only in heavy, elaborate headdresses and strips
of vegetation ran through a huge fire of burning logs. Flames were leaping to
head height and the logs were all stacked loosely on top of each other so that
even if they hadn’t been on fire, running over and through them could easily have
resulted in some bad ankle damage. To the side of the fire, men chanted and
beat drums. The whole thing was pretty crazy and the men doing the fire runs –
brave or insane depending on your take. The audience also had to duck and weave
at times as flaming logs were accidently kicked out of the fire and sent flying
into the seated audience. (Anyone who sooks about Australia being a nanny state
should really move to PNG.) The performance took place on a local school oval,
where our friend Mike is a PE teacher (amongst many other roles). As we
marvelled at the dancing fire men, he looked on wistfully as his sports field
was set alight and a large section of grass turned to a pit of ash. Ahh the
challenges of life in the ‘land of the unexpected’.
But,
the point of this story was not to highlight the challenges of teaching PE in
PNG, but that here is a place where some men are scared of being teased by a
bunch of pregnant ladies in oversized floral dresses or of seeing a baby cry
from a needle jab, yet at the same time, men are willing to run through six
foot flames to say ‘thanks for being a tops archbishop’.
So,
what does it mean to be a manly man? Is it mainly about how you present
yourself, physically, to others? Or is it more about the level of hardship
you’re willing to sign up for? The more time I spend outside my comfort zone,
the more our expectations of gender seem highly arbitrary.
I
wonder what people from PNG would make of men in Australia? Walking around
holding hands with their women, a mouth full of straight pearly whites, no
skills with anything bigger than a steak knife…….
Anyway,
those are my observations of men in PNG. Sorry for the lack of photos today but
I didn’t think it very ethical to take photos of random men and post them
online. I don’t want to get myself into trouble and have to purchase a pig.
I’ll explain that one another time.
Lukim yu
na gutpela wiken bilong yu J
One
popular thing to do is to climb one of the many volcanos. This is an activity
not to be undertaken lightly, a few years ago an Israeli man died after he fell
into the volcano. (I’m not very good at this tourist promotion thing am I?) I’m
told that it’s perfectly safe to climb if you don’t try and go leaning in near the
edge. I haven’t climbed any of them yet but we plan to climb Turvavur soon,
(the little one that’s smoking in the pictures) I certainly won’t be trying all
that hard to get a look in. Of course, you don’t have to climb the volcanos to
enjoy them. I see them every day, and never tire of doing so. They look so
different, at different times of the day, with different weather patterns. They
truly are remarkable geographic wonders. You can also visit the volcano
observatory if you arrange to do so beforehand and see the work they do there
(which may involve watching them watch volcanos?).
Still
on the subject of ‘historical sites’ the Bitapaka war cemetery (just out of
town) is a strangely beautiful and contemplative place. Many of the Allied
troops who died here (including many from India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka) lie in
graves marked ‘soldier known unto god’. The grounds of the cemetery are huge
and immaculately kept. The truly paradise like surrounds somehow
make the senseless deaths of many young men all the more sad. It also seems somewhat bizarre that so many men, from such different parts of the world
were united in fighting in a place so remote and foreign to them where the
local people had absolutely nothing to do with the war other than it landed on
their doorstep. 
