Lewa

PNG is about as heterogeneous as countries come.   It has, by some counts, around a quarter of the world’s languages.  Its myriad parts have been bundled together for the sake of administrative and political expedience, and even almost 30 years after independence, some identify themselves by their provinces long before they will call themselves Papua New Guineans. 

With such diversity, it’s impossible to make generalisations about how Papua New Guineans celebrate life’s major milestones.  But I can definitely generalise about my experience with major milestones, and in the last month, it’s been all about relationships.

Firstly, the very happy, very exciting news that Heather got engaged to her partner Kelvin.  In Australia, getting engaged is a Big Deal.  I’ve watched the reaction from our Australian friends.  The news is usually greeted with screaming, champagne, impromptu parties, and the inquisition with the same questions that a newly engaged couple will be asked hundreds of times:

Where did it happen? (At the lookout.  At lunchtime.  There were no drunks, thank God).  Were you expecting it? (No – I just turned around and there was a man on bended knee – got the shock of my life!).  Wedding? (Military, apparently).  Show us the ring! (Size of a house, fyi).

But this breathlessness isn’t shared by our PNG friends.  The standard response (with a few notable exceptions) has been ‘Oh, that’s nice…’

The thing is, Heather and Kelvin have been considered to be husband and wife ever since Heather got here.  They’re obviously in a committed relationship, which is recognised by their family and friends.  They basically live together.  And that is enough.  When everyone knows you’re already together, why do you need to tell them again?

‘Honestly, we would love it to happen’ a friend at work said. ‘The whole proposal thing.  We see it in the movies, it’s so romantic.  You know, we wish the men did that.  But to be honest, as long as the parents are happy with the partner, then well you’re husband and wife.  You just slip into it without much of a fuss’. 

Relationships aren’t necessarily more fluid here, they just look different.  And different again, depending on where you’re from.  A man will be introduced as your ‘friend’, but he is your beloved and the father of your child.  Where bride price is practiced, it might take years to save up hundreds of thousands of kina to pay the bride’s parents before the deal is formally done.  Sometimes, all it takes is for the parents of the woman and man to meet, acknowledge and consent to the relationship, then it’s official.

But full-on weddings, with all the trimmings, also occur.  Particularly when the family are the faithful, and they want it formalised with a religious ceremony.  I’m coming to the stage of my 20’s where holy matrimony is catching like a cold, and I couldn’t have asked for a better start to the marathon of weddings which I will face over the next three years, than my friend Becky’s wedding last week.

Becky and her husband come from different faiths, with their sacred days on different days of the weekend.  In a masterful compromise, the service was held on Friday (with day off work for attendees) on the Switzerland-esque grounds of the Gentle Whisper Hall, United Church. 

The saying ‘good things come to those who wait’ is a useful, sanity-saving mantra in PNG.  Usually, it will be a good thing, and the wait is worth it.  And so it was, waiting with the rest of the congregation for the wedding party to appear.  The groom’s clan on the other side of the aisle, dressed in blue to match the hall’s trimmings.  Silent, except for murmured conversation and the sound of the blue-and-white balloons popping at infrequent intervals.

Then all of a sudden they were there.  The groom, with an embarrassed smile, followed by his best men.  Flower girls spreading red and white petals along the aisle.  Beautiful bridesmaids with measured steps and intricate hairstyles. The bride, in white and veil,  gripping her father’s arm, bathed in camera flashes. 

Then the ceremony, its composite parts both personal and religious, in three languages, psalms sung in perfect harmony, the sermon riffing off Genesis 2:22 and how God created Woman from the Rib of Man (a fable definitely out of vogue amongst my inner-left Melbourne friends).  Signing the official papers, and then the kiss, and announcing the new couple to the congregation, to applause and foot-stamping.

Between the ceremony and the reception, my friends and I retired to my place, which was still in total disarray from our primping beforehand.  We blasted 101 More Housework Hits, a five-disc compilation CD sent by my friend Alastair which has shed any ironic intention to become our number one soundtrack for life.  We practiced our two-step, and drank tequila shots in lick-sip-suck form in what turned out to be a first time for the majority.  Some of the mad cats downed six and still managed to waltz into the reception like they’d just finished their morning coffee.

The reception was held at the Evil Place, at Dynasty Chinese Restaurant.  It’s already an incredible space, totally opulent, but it looked even more beautiful that night.  I left our gift perched on top of the gift table, already stacked high.  Gift registries aren’t big here, so apparently some newlyweds end up with three deep fryers and four rice cookers, which they palm off to friends, and everyone’s happy. 

Afterwards, we squeezed seven people in the one car (two in the boot, if you must know) to drive the block and a half to Lamana nightclub.  Nights at Lamana vary.  This one involved: bribing a security guard to mind our doggy bags; introducing a first-timer to vodka and red bull, fully cognisant of what I was unleashing; at least seven engineers from out Tabubil way called Steve; boomer white men slinging their arm over my shoulder and bawling at me about how they met their love of their life here, it didn’t matter that she was young, or didn’t speak much English; truncated songs for the dancefloor’s microscopic attention span; two-step with my friends in the members’ section.  Then home for a few more ill-advised tequila shots at 4am.

A fantastic, unforgettable day.  And night.  If there was ever an argument for increasing the marriage rate, that was it.

This weekend just gone, I skipped forward to the linear life’s next major event – children.  More specifically, the naming of a child.  In Vabukori village, after birth, a baby remains nameless until the family officially announce its name to the community.  This is done with great ceremony and a big feast – pig on a spit, tables groaning with kaukau, banana, taro, potato salad, rice, noodles, greens, ice-cream.  Sure beats leafing through ’10,000 Popular Baby Names’, or flipping a coin next to a hospital bed, as I distinctly remember my youngest sister getting her name (I think it was heads, Georgia).

The father of the special girl was Amin, a colleague of mine, and I was invited to join his family to celebrate the day.  I had planned to be as inconspicuous as possible, fade into the background, but sadly you can’t sneak two white girls into a village without drawing a major amount of attention.  In fact, I was given the honour of announcing the girls’ name.

Standing in front of a giant cake box, with the community watching on, Amin whispered to me that the name was written on top of the cake.  There was silence as I lifted the lid off the box, deciphered the red-and-pink cursive icing, and read it out: ‘The name of this precious girl is PATRICIA SAMANTHA TONY!  Congratulations from your Family.  God Bless You’.  Everyone applauded, I cut the cake, and slipped back into the fold.

Relationships.  They take their proper place in PNG – above work, above money, above status.  Where they belong.  Nambawan.  Number one.