Sagulu Outreach

“Whit meri kum!” Children from the remote elementary school rushed to touch me, to stand close to me, to look up at me and say nothing. Unlike Zambian children they do not hide behind their mother’s legs in fear. We jumped, we danced, we stood on one foot just as Simon said. Within moments I easily identified children with cloudy eyes, draining ears, extended stomachs and infected skin. Anton, the nurse with the Deaf Education Resource Unit (DERU) team, cautioned me of the muddy ground as I ran with the children. I was the only woman in our team and the men were protective. My game of chase ended quickly as the ground was in fact extremely slippery. The children continued; their slips and slides adding excitement to the game. Even after a year, I am still shocked by their aggressiveness. Powerful smacks across the heads, shoves that propel them 3 feet forward. No reflex of self-protection, no eyes set in revenge. Like a child in Zambia when flies swarm his eyes, they hardly blink.

Although it was just the eight of us, things were still quite formal. After the prayer came the introductions including your name and family name, where your parents are from, whether you are married, how many children you have, your job title and how many years experience you have and of course many thank yous. All in the Pidgin language. Our knees were pressed to our chests and our feet rested on the dirt floor of the classroom as we balanced on 4-inch wide by 6-inch tall stools. Our group included the three teachers from the school and the chairman of the school’s Board of Management. Our team from the Creative Self Help Centre included me, the inclusive education advisor; Ketso, the community-based rehabilitation (cbr) officer; Michael, the deaf education promoter (who comes up with these titles anyway?) and Anton, the nurse. The Sagulu community was identified by Ketso, the cbr officer, due to the high number of elementary students who appeared to have ear and eye infections. As a part of our outreach across the three days, we screened over 130 students’ eyes, ears, vision, and hearing. In addition, we provided a community awareness on child development and care and conducted a teacher in-service training targeting teaching strategies for children with special needs.

Buai break—I am not offered any. I came prepared to chew a lot of buai over the three days. Why wasn’t I offered any? Gender? Race? I ate an apple imported from New Zealand I had shoved in my bilum instead, feeling guilty with each bite.

It was arranged for me to stay with one of the teachers while the men stayed in the chairman’s haus boi (house for men). The house was an hour walk away and I was again warned of the slippery path. I, of course, slip and the teacher held my arm. I slide, his grip tightened. I take off my Keens for a better grip, his eyes filled with worry. I fall, sweat coveed his brow. He remained quiet. The ‘American’ in me, feeling the need to fill the silence, chattered on and on about the Gum River pukpuk and about how the guys will get a good laugh when we tell them I fell after all their warnings. All in Pidgin.

We passed women returning from the market. Their brown wrinkled skin, buai filled bags across their foreheads, naked breasts revealing the law of gravity resting barely above their laplaps which were wrapped securely around their waists. Red smiles. Extended hands. Translations from Pidgin to Tok Ples. A beautiful sound, not a distinguishable word.

We crossed a river; the mud was washed from my legs. Spectacular views of thatch roofs hidden between palm leaves, naked children filling the porches, an old man weaving a mat from sago palms. Sitting on a bench were two boys with red fingers. They were preparing body paint for the singsing later that night.

The Medo Clan treated me with warm PNG style hospitality. “Taim go long waswas, taim bilong kaikai nau, yu go malolo nau.” Being told when to bathe, eat and rest was annoying at first, but I knew this was how they showed respect to guests. So when they insisted I waswas (bathe) while it was raining, I knew it would be disrespectful to decline even though I didn’t want to bathe in the dirty river where there had been recent pukpuk sightings. The teacher’s three teenage daughters were to escort me down to the liklik wara. I grabbed my laplap and bar of soap full of dread. We grew in numbers as we made our way to the river. Several young children joined our group to obviously watch the white meri waswas in the rain—how absurd?! Only when the girls stood over me with an umbrella did I realize I was the only one who was to waswas. My usual tactic of “watch and learn” wasn’t going to work in this situation. What do they expect me to do? Do I undress under these watchful eyes? Maybe I’ll only remove my shirt-breasts are commonly exposed in the village. The water barely reached my calves, do I squat? What’s that floating over there? Why were they holding an umbrella over me when I was obviously expected to get wet during this process? Why couldn’t they just waswas too? I ended up just sitting on the river bed fully dressed, Keens and all, pretending to wash in 6 inches of water while teenage girls held an umbrella above my head and the group of young children watched my every move. I could do nothing but laugh.

I enjoyed being a part of village life. Fetching water from the river, cooking over a fire, bending down for everything. Taro for breakfast. Taro for lunch. Taro for dinner. The mats I saw the old man weaving covered the walls of the liklik haus (pit latrine) which was just okay. The most amazing experience of my stay in the village was the singsing. The Medo Clan is famous for their singsings and they had been asked by the Governor of Madang to perform a singsing the following week during a meeting for the Local Level Government delegates. I felt privileged to watch and be included in this significant part of their culture. By the light of the stars and two Coleman lanterns, the clan practiced their singsing throughout the night. The elders stood close by and guided the younger boys, as young as 3 or 4 years of age, learning the songs and dance of their ancestors. Over four hours I witnessed this incredible part of PNG culture being passed from one generation to the other, pure and intimate. Their voices never faltered, their legs never grew tired. With each passing hour, their movements grew stronger and the beats of the kundu drum louder.

On the afternoon of our last day the women of the community prepared a huge kaikai (feast). This is the customary way to showing appreciation. Pots were filled with taro, kaukau (sweet potato) yams, and tulips (literally a plant with ‘two-leaves’) all soaked in coconut milk. Until this time I really never cared for PNG kaikai, but after days of taro, taro, taro I was never so happy to eat leaves! Maybe the food tasted so good because I felt like I truly earned it. Many children were identified and treatment and care tips were given (breathe, blow, cough..BBC). This outreach was a definite highlight if not the most significant part of the past year. I felt connected, fulfilled, and I believe as a team we made a positive impact in the lives of the Sagulu community.