Greetings

Day 6. Thursday, May 29th 2008. Today was my first time to go out unaccompanied. It felt great to have a bit of independence. Remembering the Peace Corps sessions on safety and community entry, I began my assimilation into PNG. As I walked from my apartment to the bus stop, my intentions were to stop to greet and introduce myself to everyone along the way. The first house outside my compound, known as the house made of cardboard, is filled with Papua New Guineans and I believe they are the ones with the roosters that keep me up at night. I waved and shouted “Moning tru,” (good morning) and all I got was a wave from a naked child sitting on the stairs. Maybe they didn’t hear me. Next, I passed two women. I slowed my pace ready to stop and shake hands. “Moning tru,” I said in my most cheerful voice. They hardly stopped their conversation to mutter a “moning” in return. Next, I passed a stand selling buai, a betel nut chewed with a mustard seed and lime mixture that gives you a buzz similar to a double espresso or an after dinner drink that turns your entire mouth blood red. I gave another cheerful greeting and the man responded “Moning tru,” with a big red smile! I reached the large shade tree where my road meets the road into town. Men were sitting under the tree splattering large amounts of bright red spit onto the ground. The women and children stared up at me. Unlike Zambia, the children didn’t run from me out of fear, they had seen a white meri (woman) before. I didn’t stop to introduce myself; I simply gave a greeting which was returned. I continued my walk to the bus stop across from the hospital. Men were typically dressed in western clothes and the women wore colorful, floral print meri blouses and meri dresses. Most wore flip flops, some shoes and a few were barefoot. Many carried bright colored umbrellas to shield the merciless sun. Everyone carried bilums of all sizes, patterns and colors. I was glad to reach the bus stop as it was under a tree that provided a break from the sun. Above the noise of the buses and Tok Pisin, I heard the familiar squeaks of the flying foxes. I looked up to see hundreds of bats hanging from the tree. As I stood among the hurried people, I decided that greetings in this culture must not be regarded as important as the greetings in Zambia. I had to leave my village 30 minutes to an hour early just to make time for greetings along the way. Zambians stop to not only greet but to ask where you were going, when you planned to return, about your health, your home, and your work. Granted this was initially challenging as I thought they were invading my privacy and my western individualistic lifestyle, but I quickly embraced the sense of community it provided. PMV 6A arrived shortly and I crawled into the crowed bus where everyone quietly sat facing forward (and didn’t ask me to hold their chicken).