1972

The rest of yesterday was most exciting, in some ways a frightening experience. We were picked up to go to the airport about 2:45 for a 3:30 departure. We had expected a small plane but were unprepared for the smallness of this one. It was supposed to be a six seater, but with all our baggage, four passengers and the pilot could hardly squeeze in.

At the airport we had met the Schirmerhorns, who had been on our plane on Sunday. They are from Cleveland, but are moving to Claremont, and he is a Fulbright professor in sociology in Melbourne until next November. Found them to be a delightful couple who had traveled extensively too.

We were all a bit appalled about the minimum space in the plane. They put most of our baggage in, then Burt squeezed into the back seat beside the luggage. Mrs. Schirmerhorn and I sat in the middle seats, and our cameras and straw baskets were piled under and on top of our knees, and Mr.Schirmerhorn sat beside the pilot. They say these New Guinean pilots, Australians, are the best in the world. He really did a beautiful job. We had all weighed our baggage before we got on, but they hadn't insisted on weighing our extras, so we didn't put our baskets and cameras on the scale, but when we started up, I wondered if the plane would make it.

We climbed up over Garoka and flew through a valley, but we had to fly very high for such a small plane. The mountain tops were very close to us on both sides. We could see now how the natives lived on the ridges of the mountains. They seem to scrape off the very top to make a flat place. Sometimes this area is just wide enough for one row of houses, straw reed affairs, much like we have seen on other islands. Other times the flat place is large enough for two rows of houses facing each other with a bare space between. One could see trails running down, often along the ridge, and we could see many small and some larger fields that were cultivated. It was a wonderful sight and I longed to take some pictures, but we were packed in so tightly that it was impossible to move.

The flight was supposed to take 14 minutes the pilot told us, but it was a bit longer. The most scary part came during the landing. We flew over the landing strip of Chimbu and then the pilot banked and I thought surely he would fly right into the hills beside the runway, but he curved around into a small canyon, and then the strip was right in front of us. Once we had landed, I was still afraid maybe he couldn't stop before the end of the tarmac, but then the strip curved around and there was more space to bring the plane to a stop. We had landed safely and all breathed a sigh of relief.

Our Lodge is beautiful, the best appointed we've been in this trip, but the rate is $11.00 (Australian) per person, bed and breakfast. Our dinners are not usually included in what we've charged to Amex, and we think we'll have to pay $4.00 A. for our dinner last night which was very good. We had tea in the lounge with the Schirmerhorns. Then I did a big laundry and walked outside a bit for some birding, but it was soon dark.

After dinner we were taken by one of our guides in a minibus with the Schirmerhorns and a fellow from San Diego by the name of Harry Miller, to a Sing-Sing. That is pidgin for a party, in this case a pig killing. Pigs are one of the Papuan-New Guineans signs of wealth, and they don't often kill them except for special occasions. Mr.Siggs, an Australian civil servant, who had given us a tour in Garoka, said that it was as serious here to kill a pig on the road as to kill a person.

We drove for what seemed like a long time, but very slowly on the road to Goroka, the road that was supposed to be so dangerous, and part of which was closed for repairs five days every week. This was quite frightening, too, in the dark. It was fairly wide, but there were curves with drop-offs, we couldn't see very well how much. There was a fair amount of traffic on the road even after dark, but our driver was very careful, and always stopped if he was passing a car on a curve. He kept asking people along the road where the Sing-Sing was. Some pointed back or forward, and some knew nothing. After driving for about an hour, but at a slow speed, he had a feeling that we had arrived. He parked in a village to inquire, then told us we'd have to walk a ways. We were led up a very steep, rocky trail and it would have been even more difficult if I hadn't packed a flashlight in my basket. One flashlight wasn't enough for all five of us, so we stumbled about a bit.

Then we heard the singing, and soon we saw bundles of cane straw burning to light the area, and we saw this fantastic sight. The singers and dancers were painted all colors, wearing large head gears made of Bird of Paradise feathers, and other feathers. This was the real thing. They hadn't known we were coming; it wasn't being put on for tourists. The people were sitting around in a circle, and the burning straw was lying on the ground, lighting the whole area.

We were told we could take pictures, so we walked around and shot pictures like mad, and we had our tape recorder. The music was pretty monotonous, and we had no idea what they were singing about. It was not a religious performance but just a fun thing for the killing of a pig.

There were perhaps twenty to thirty dancers, men and women, and maybe twice that many sitting or standing around watching the performance. All wore a minimum of clothes, and the clothes were all filthy. Whenever Mr. Miller or I shot a picture, they laughed. They were amused by the flashes and like to have their pictures taken.

A young man pointed out his grandfather who was dressed in a woman's clothes, his face painted with a red paste, and the whole appearance quite grotesque. The young man who spoke a fair English, explained his grandfather was dressed like a woman in memory of one of his wives who had just died. Our driver this morning said his father had recently died, but he had 40 wives and 31 children, 28 of whom were boys. Our driver said he had been the oldest.

After a short while of this dancing - at least after we got there, they brought out a smallish pig, but it was probably a mature New Guinea pig. They gave it several blows on its head and snout, and the pig never made a sound. They apparently then cut its throat, as I later saw blood on the ground. Then the pig just lay there. Our driver said the pig would be eaten by the family who planned the Sing-Sing, but they would sing and dance around until daybreak

However, some people left about the time we did which was soon after. The return trip to the Chimbu Lodge didn't seem as far as the trip up, but it was all down hill then, and we didn't make any stops. Got back about 10:30. I washed everything we had on because it had been so dusty walking up to the Sing-Sing.