Asia – 6explorers.com
A Global Family Adventure
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Don’t steal my soul!
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Tue, 16 Feb 2016 21:04:40 +0000
(Dana) A group of ladies from the Akha Ghepia hill tribe are gathered to make a headdress for their friend who will marry this week. One bends bamboo into the hat frame. Another stretches the hand-spun, hand-woven, indigo-dyed cotton fabric over the frame. Several other women sew coins onto ribbon pieces, thread colored beads and connect vibrant pompoms together… all decorations for the new headdress. Around the core group sits a 20-year old mother nursing her fourth(!) child while 7-year old children carry their own siblings on their backs. As I approach, the conversation stops. All eyes turn toward me. Those carrying babies drift away. But it’s not me… it’s my camera. The Ghepia still believe that photographs steal their soul. I squat down with my camera tucked away and the women return to the circle. I settle in to enjoy the experience.
Spending four days in the hills of Northern Laos, I met many people afraid of cameras. One older woman said in her native dialect, “don’t take my picture; I don’t want to get sick.” Children ran away, and babies were shielded, as apparently, the young and the old are most susceptible to having their souls taken. Fortunately, two bolder Ghephia ladies allow me to photograph them at another village.
In each of our ten village stops, our first task was the find the village chief, greeting him with a water bottle full of home made rice whiskey purchased from the market out on the main road. Escorted around the village by the chief, we were often able to talk with and take photos of the people in the village. The chief would translate the local dialect into Lao, which my guide Thongkhoon would then translate into English. The women wore most of the traditional costumes, with men and children in well-worn, well-loved, cheap Chinese clothing. Often, our stops ended in the chief’s house, preparing a meal of rice, vegetables and some smoked meat while toasting our new friendship with small shots of rice whiskey… again and again and again. Their hospitality was touching.
Our stop at the Akha Loma village went exactly like that. Along with the chief, we wandered from wood-house to wood-house, meeting people like a beautiful 16-year old, attired head-to-toe in her native embroidery. The work was stunningly intricate and colorful. I was in awe of her jacket, her apron, her collar, her leg gaiters and her headpieces. She shyly posed for our photos, although she started laughing when I put my phone in selfie-mode so that she could see herself. Given her handiwork, it was likely that she was recently married or soon to be married.
After our time with this lovely girl, we ended up in the chief’s house for an impromptu lunch. Four or five whiskey shots later, somehow the group determined that it would be hilarious to dress me up in the Loma traditional attire. My hair was wrapped and covered in fine embroidery. The apron was affixed. But as expected, the jacket was a few sizes small for my large, Western frame. With the jacket draped over my shoulders and the wood basket slung over my back and held by a strap to my forehead, we posed for fun photos.
At the end of my time with the Loma, I was hoping to leave with a memento of some kind and asked about purchasing or trading for an item of their handiwork. They looked at me quizzically, as no one had ever asked that before. There was no market for their work. I quickly backed-off, wanting in no way to be the reason that these gentle, traditional people started selling their prized family possessions. As my guide shared, there are already merchants moving through the hills, buying up antique works for sales to collectors. I definitely did not want to be part of that; my photos would be enough.
Finally, we visited several Akha Oma tribal villages, replicating the meet, greet, eat, whiskey, repeat, repeat, repeat. The Oma women embroider and decorate yet another kind of headdress, adorned with old coins, beads, pom poms and cowrie shells, which represent ancient trade in this land-locked country. While the men sit around the fire, smoking home-grown tobacco through a bamboo water pipe on a cold, damp day, the women are cooking rice, feeding the pigs, managing the children and sweeping the dirt floor of the house shared with chickens, dogs and cats. Although I am truly out of place, they welcome me warmly, even allowing us to stay the night in their modest house.
Exploring the Northern hills of Laos is about as far off the standard tourist track as I can get. Why do I yearn to do that?
* It is like looking back in time. These villagers are living the same way their families have lived for centuries. Subsistence farming, burning wood for warmth and cooking, making their own clothes, relieving themselves outside without even an outhouse. It is the way that my own ancestors lived as well.
* In our world of perpetual globalization, traditional customs, clothes and cultures are disappearing rapidly. As cell phones and Chinese satellite dishes proliferate this area, villagers will be increasingly exposed to other cultures, and their own will begin to fade away. This is an opportunity to see these tribes “while I still can.”
* Spending time with these lovely people is connecting at a basic human level. We do not speak the same language, but communicate through hand gestures and smiles. At one point, the great-grandmother grabbed my hands to warm them up. It reminds me that at our core, all humans care about survival and our families – a great reminder in my comfortable, material, fast-paced life.
* Women are the engines of these villages. I find it empowering to be reminded of women’s value in bearing children, making clothes, gathering wood, farming, cooking and managing the family. Their strength is inspiring.
* Unstructured touring allows the experience to unfold around me. I never knew what was going to happen. For example, it rained the entire first day as we were meeting villagers in their houses. It was dreary, muddy and wet. It was only the next day, after the rain stopped and adults returned to the fields and forests, when we realized how lucky we had been to find the villagers in their houses out of the rain. And I certainly was lucky to come across a group of ladies making a traditional headdress for their friend.
My four days in the remote hills of Laos were magical and memorable. Huge thanks to my indefatigable guide Thongkhoon as well as my travel partner Remote Lands for such a gift. Now that I’m back, maybe I should convince my teenagers that photography steals their souls…maybe that will make a dent in their social media.
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Fading traditions
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Tue, 16 Feb 2016 20:07:05 +0000
(Dana) In 2014, hundreds of thousands of visitors to Myanmar followed the standard tourist loop, including the stunning sites of Bagan, Mandalay, Inle Lake and Yangon. As I learned in 2014, the former Burma is a fantastic country filled with lovely people and perched on the brink of a tourist explosion. In 2015, I wanted to get beyond these primary locations to experience tribal Myanmar. With the help of my wonderful guide Thurein, dressed always in his pristine hand-woven longyi (sarong), we wandered way off of the tourist track.Our first stop was Loikow, capital of the Kayah state, southeast of Inle Lake toward the Thai border. From my rustic headquarters, we would visit three different tribes — Kayaw, Karen and Kayah.
First, we headed deep into the hills, toward a Kayaw village that had only been opened to tourists for about six months. After picking up our local guide who would translate from the local dialect into Myanmar language, our 4WD climbed through the hills for hours along a one-track road. Suddenly, we were stopped in our (single) track with a broken down truck. With a several hundred foot drop to the left and a hillside to our right, we were stuck. Fortunately, a motor bike soon appeared. Thurein negotiated for him to ride to the next town, bring back two friends and give the three of us rides on the back of their bikes to our destination… all while our car turned around to navigate a much longer route. Speeding along the bumpy road on the back of a motorbike, I couldn’t help but think about my mistake in neglecting med-evac insurance! Fortunately, we made it safely to our destination, the Htekho village.
To break the ice, we shared our lunch with several village women. Surprisingly, these ladies in full traditional attire made the sign of the cross and prayed before they began eating. Apparently, even though few tourists have been here, Italian missionaries have worked this area for centuries. After our meal, we wandered the village, meeting some of the hard-working women as they separated rice from husks, pounded rice, dried grain for alcohol, carried firewood and cared for babies. We offered gifts of cooking oil, salt and noodles in exchange for our intrusion and our photos. I definitely scared some of the youngest children, who clearly hadn’t seen many large white tourists before. At one point, a truckload of militia holding AK-47s roared through the town, apparently on their way to guard poppy fields only 3-5 miles away… a clear reminder of why this area had been closed to tourists for so long.
Returning to civilization, we stopped to marvel at the road crew paving the single track into these hills. A swarm of workers, comprised mostly of women, lay large rocks along a laid out string. Medium rocks were dumped on, filling the large gaps. Baskets full of small rocks filled in the smaller gaps. Tar — heated over fires on the side of the road — was layered on, binding the rocks. A steamroller crushed down the top with a final layer of tar. Like make a huge lasagna. Incredibly labor intensive process, with almost no machines. Their progress was relentless, although I couldn’t help but wonder what impact it would have on the blissful isolation of the villages I had just seen.
The next day, we visited two villages of the Geykho or Kayan, also known pejoratively as Padaung, “long-necks” or “giraffe women.” Starting at about 7-years old, girls are fitted with brass rings around their necks. Twice more in their life – 25 and 50 years old – the rings are taken off, lengthened and returned, reaching a total weight of about 8kg (18 pounds!). Once on, these rings do not come off, although there is a creative locking mechanism that allows the stem and the base to unlock for sleeping. Hmm… that’s more comfortable? No one knows the origin of the brass rings (which supposedly used to be gold), and the legends vary: the original wearers wanted to 1) resemble the dragon who was their father, 2) avoid tiger bites on the neck, 3) repel men from other tribes to protect themselves from slavery, 4) attract only purebred Kayan men who would recognize their beauty and 5) carry their wealth.
Those who know anatomy would already have figured out that the neck itself does not stretch. Instead, the weight of the rings pushes down on the collarbones, compressing the rib cage and giving the illusion of a longer neck. Although I met several Kayan women in Bagan and Inle in 2014, spending time with them in their own village introduced me to their real way of life. The women gather wood, farm, make alcohol and provide for their families. They are also master weavers, making their own fabrics and scarves. Interestingly, not all of the women had started to put rings on their daughters. In fact, one teen I met in 2014 in Inle wears an adapted version of the rings that she puts on for the tourists every day. In today’s world, as the reasons for wearing rings become more distant, this tradition likely will begin to fade.
Our final stop in this area was a Kayah village that sees even fewer visitors. Although only a handful of women still wore their native, hand-made attire, the older ladies who did were happy to pose in exchange for some soap and butane lighters.
One lovely lady saw me as a traveling oddity. We were taking some photos with our arms around each other. She stopped, patted my backside and laughingly made a comment about my healthy size! We dissolved into giggles as I learned the Kayah word for “fat!” As I was admiring the waxed cotton bands that she wears around her calves/knees, she decided she wanted to put some on me. Unfortunately, we found that she had to take off her largest ones to have them fit over my American calves. It doesn’t sound as hilarious as I write this, but we were all very entertained!
After connecting with my friend Julie, we flew to Bagan and drove six hours west to Mindat. Again, way off the standard tourist track. Our goal here was to spend time with the ladies of the Chin state who tattoo their faces. Although the genesis of the custom is unknown, it is believed to have made the women less attractive to the marauding Burmese king seeking concubines. This striking tradition is fading quickly. Of all the women we saw, only the older (>60 years) were all tattooed. A few women in their 30s/40s. But the majority of the younger girls were not. When we asked the older women if they planned to tattoo their granddaughters, the answer was a resoundingly “no.” This is not something that people will be able to see other than in photos in the next 20 years.
This was the first time since our 2010-11 trip that I spent time connecting with native people who were not posing for tourist photos. I was reminded of how much I love seeing things “while I still can.” I am blessed.
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You went where?
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Thu, 27 Feb 2014 04:20:21 +0000
(Dana) In January, Cambodian Living Arts annual board meeting took me half-way around the world. To justify the expense and travel time, I opted for a second week away and detoured to Myanmar. Where? Myanmar…the country formerly known as Burma.
Like many Americans, I had the impression that Myanmar was still romantically undiscovered. After all, travel to the country by Americans was discouraged before 2011 due to the repressive and often reprehensible military government. Although I feel fortunate to have explored Myanmar at this point, it is far more discovered than I expected. It turns out that before 2011 – when the country’s transition towards civilian-led government and parliamentary elections restored diplomatic relations with the US, President Obama and Secretary-of-State Clinton visited and world icon Aung Sang Suu Kyi gained more freedom – there had been hundreds of thousands of French, German and British travelers for over a decade. So the atmosphere is optimistic and highly capitalistic. The people are kind and peaceful, although the handicraft makers and souvenir hawkers have learned their trade well from their Indian and Asian neighbors. Fortunately, the vendors aren’t yet jaded, so most accept a “no thank you” gracefully.
I was on the standard tourist loop – fly into Yangon (formerly Rangoon), then fly onto Bagan, Mandalay and Inle Lake, spending only one or two whirlwind nights in each location.
The days were exhausting, packed with tourist destinations of pagodas, handicraft makers and historical sites. The circuit is highly scripted, in part because they haven’t expanded beyond the obvious in each location. My fear is that within 5 years, Bagan will be overrun and the airport with whiteboards listing the flights and the dirt roads to hotels will be replaced with infrastructure able to handle tour buses.
Myanmar was endearing in so many ways. A few of the things I learned/idiosyncrasies that I appreciated during my time:
There are seven states representing the seven primary tribes of the Myanmar with each tribe having multiple sub-tribes. In 1989, the ruling military government officially changed the English translation of the country from Burma to Mynamar. The US did not recognize the name change until 2012 because it did not recognize the legitimacy of the ruling military r its authority to rename the country. Actually, both names are derived from the name of the majority tribe. Myanmar is the literary form of the tribe’s name, while Burma comes from “Bamar”, the colloquial form.
In general, credit cards are not accepted and ATMs are just beginning to appear (although I found 2 ATMs in the famous Yangon Shwedagon Pagoda). So to get kyat, the local currency pronounced “chet,” I needed to change crisp, new US dollars at the government regulated money-changers. Interestingly, $100 bills gave me a 1% better rate that $5-$50 bills and 3% better rate than $1. Fortunately, I suspect that the days of travelers arriving with stacks of clean $100 bills is waning.
The written language is beautiful but completely indecipherable to me.
Traditionally, both men and women wear a long arong called a Longyi (lon-jee). The urban, working men pair their elegant navy or dark green checked longyi with a crisp, ironed white shirt. On special occasions, women will wear colorful, intricately woven longyi with color-coordinated tops. The more manual the labor, the more stained and dirty the longyi. However, this may be a dying tradition as increasingly, young people are opting for jeans, much to the chagrin of their elders.
Cars have their steering wheel on the right, yet drive on the right side of the road. Apparently, around 1970, the military leadersdecided to part with any residuals to British Colonialism and decreed an overnight change to the side of the road on which to drive. The cars didn’t change, just the rules. Today, those old cars are joined by cheap imports from Japan. This seems oddly fine until you need to pull out to pass a slower vehicle and the driver is the last person to see if the coast is clear.
Myanmar food is all about curries. For lunch or dinner, you are served a plate of rice and several small dishes of curries and salads. After spooning the variety onto/around your rice, you then eat with the spoon in your right hand, using the fork in your left to push the food onto the spoon. It’s endearing, especially when you realize that the spoon has recently replaced eating with your right hand. And it’s still a country where a 600ml Myanmar or Mandalay beer is cheaper ($1.50) than a Coke and your entire dinner costs about $8-10.
As one guide said, “our people are poor, but they are rich in their donations.” Predominantly Buddhist, the people visit pagodas frequently and pray for help and luck frequently during the day. I was repeatedly struck by the overflowing cash donation boxes populating the pagodas. Daily, the monks go out into the neighborhoods with their bowls to collect food donations for their two daily meals at 5:15 and 10:15am. The only exception to this ritual was the Mahagandayon Monestary in Mandalay. With 1502 monks, the community actually brings the donations to them. A full procession of the monks from 6-7 year old white-robed postulates to the older red-robed men was an incredible sight. Buddhism is fascinating to me. One very wise monk explained it to me as a belief system that asks you to “look inside yourself, then open yourself up.”
I would put Bagan in the category of world-class sites. Thousands of red brick pagodas/stupas dating from 1000-1200 AD dot the plain, punctuated by a few gilded, renovated ones. They rise from the farmed fields and are tucked among the trees with beautiful contrast between the red brick and green vegetation. From elevation, they appear to march off to the horizon. Each holds 1-4 Buddha images as well as painted frescoes and other statues. Like Angkor Wat, it’s hard to imagine that these were living places of worship in neighborhoods of hundreds of thousands of people in wood and corn-husk houses.
Diverse tribes dot the area around Inle Lake. Members of the P’aoh tribe wear brightly colored turbans, now often made out of towels! Ladiesfrom the Kayan tribe used to be called Padaung or literally, “women with long necks with rings.” Rings of brass are put around the neck andonly taken off when exchanged for a longer coil at age 9, 25 and 50. Interestingly, the neck itself is not made longer; the weight of the brass – up to 8kg or 15 pounds! — pushes down the collar bone and compresses the rib cage. It is merely an illusion of a stretched neck. A lock in the back keeps the coil in place during the day but allows movement for sleeping. Three legendary reasons for this tradition: 1) The original patriarch was a dragon and this imitation pays respect; 2) it is an indication of being pure-bred Kayan which would attract a Kayan husband and repel a man from another tribe and 3) they are a migrating people who are afraid of tigers who bite the necks of their prey. Or maybe a combination of all 3!
I had the privilege of a 1+hour conversation with a monk while standing on the U Bein bridge (the longest teak bridge in the world). Having learned English in grade school, he now hones his language skills by listening to the BBC and Voice of America on the radio. He has used the Internet and has email to keep up with old friends, after all, “it’s important to understand technology and how to use it.” As curious as I was about his life as a monk and Buddhism, he wanted to know about the US. From geography to population to average wage and work-week, he was full of questions. My favorite was “what do you think about Obamacare?” Seriously, a 24-year old monk in Mandalay, Myanmar is asking me for my opinion on Obamacare and what democracy means to me. He believes that Myanmar is 20% better than it was 5 years ago because they have freed the political prisoners, people can vote and they can protest with permission. But there is still much corruption and bad leaders, and the monks are not allowed to vote. He thinks that there are lots of people with knowledge, but no wisdom.
English is now part of the pre-K and up curriculum, which will certainly change the country over the next decade. As one guide put it, the education is slowly changing from “parrot education.” Until recently, the High School curriculum did not include Myanmar History because, “the government wants the people to be idiots.” All of these changes add to the spirit of optimism among the young people.
Because real people still live in the touristy locations, it is possible to stumble onto real Myanmar experiences. For example, we happened upon a Novitiation ceremony where boys as young as 6 (or even younger as it looked) on robes and commit themselves to 7 days studying Buddhism and living a monk’s life. The parents were so proud, dressed in their best including several tribal outfits from the hills. Technically, monks do not eat after noon, but the rules are stretched for these young guys. After 7 days, many will revert to being little boys, only to spend another 7 days off-and-on through their adolescence until they determine if being a monk is really for them (or necessary due to the poverty of their family). I was so fortunate to feel the excitement at this pagoda.
Wow. What a week. Being in Myanmar continues to fuel my desire to get off the beaten path and experience these places “while we still can.” How lucky am I?
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The Wigmen
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Wed, 18 May 2011 06:24:24 +0000
(Alex) The Huli wigmen are the fiercest, most warlike tribe in all of Papua New Guinea. Ironically, the main goal of the Huli wigmen is to look and act like the beautiful endemic Bird of Paradise. The men do their best to “be” the beautiful birds. First, the men cover themselves in a shiny oil to make their dark skin glitter in the sunlight because the male Reggiana Bird of Paradise’s feathers shine. Then the wigmen cover their faces in yellow and red paint to reflect the colors of the birds. As their name suggests, the wigs are the most important part of the costume. The wigs are the cushion for rare feathers and plumes from Birds of Paradise, cassowaries, parrots, kites, hawks and any other
A hornbill and wild pig tusks adorn a Wigman
beautiful birds found. They wear necklaces made from cassowary quills, hornbill skulls and snake spines. Their grass skirts have green vegetation coming out of the back which bounce up and down like the long, elegant plumes of their models. We were laughing so hard because before the performance, all the men were grooming themselves and checking their makeup in tiny pink Barbie handheld mirrors. The image is the most crucial thing to get right.
Wigmen mid-dance
Now that the wigmen look like the Birds of Paradise, they need to dance like them too. Their dance reflects the mating dance of the male Bird of Paradise. The wigmen jump up and down to the beat of their possum-skin kundu drums chanting and singing. Men in two lines, facing each other, bounce around in a circle so their “tail plumes” sway and fan out. The bouncing up and down may not seem hard, but every few minutes or so, the men stop, breathe heavily and catch their breath. We giggle watching these huge, buff men jump up and down imitating the Bird of Paradise. After spending so much time with local New Guinean tribes, the Huli wigmen just blew us away.
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Cannibal Sleepover
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Fri, 13 May 2011 09:20:26 +0000
Villages along the Karawari River
(Andrew) I was not looking forward to this village stay even though Papua New Guinean people are very friendly.
We left our lodge on the Karawari River and boarded a very long motorized dug out canoe. We passed many small villages and I hoped that none were ours because I was looking for the 5-star hut and all of them were mud huts on stilts. I had to accept my fate though; it would be one of them. We waved to the little boys and girls on the river banks, and they screamed back to us as loudly as they could. We stopped at a camp where they produce sego, which is their staple food, to have some lunch. When we reached our village, which is a very lengthy village, several kids ran along the shore shrieking. The moment the pack reached another house, 4 more kids would join in and they would sprint with the others. As soon as we got to the biggest house, I knew it was ours. When we got out of the canoe, over 100 children were waiting for us. The kids were wearing ripped and faded clothes donated from western countries, most were not wearing shoes and many boys were naked because it was so hot in the afternoon sun. They were all laughing and screaming because we were the first white-skinned kids that they had ever seen in their entire lives.
Our hosts greet us
Then the local villagers did a sing-sing (a festive performance) for us. Many adults dressed with grass skirts and painted faces did a dance that was a victory dance for when the cannibal warriors came back with a mauled enemy body for a feast. After their dance, which included many hops and forward and backward steps, they made a fire by rubbing a fiber strip on a piece of wood. When they finally got an ember (the strip snapped 13 times) they blew on it until it was a growing flame. While trying to make the flame they sang a special fire song, though I thought they mustíve mistaken the fire song with the not fire song because they were failing miserably.
Alexandra entertaining the troops
After the dance, we walked through the village accompanied a mob of children. The kids were using leaves and their hands to make a really weird popping sound. When I tried, all I did was smack my hand really hard and listen to the kids laugh at me. My hand was red and stung after that,
but when I ultimately learned how to do it, they cheered vociferously. When we reached the school, we went inside and saw some logs as benches and a blackboard. There were many things on the blackboard including a chant that went like this, “Walking to the market what do I see? A big fat man selling a big red fish.” I always thought that they had to rhyme! When we made it back to the village with our horde of 100 kids, we were hot and exhausted. Since they didn’t speak much English, we interacted with them by teaching them the song Alouette and how to do the Hokie Pokie and the Macarena which was really amusing. As soon as it was dark, we ate dinner and went to bed after a long day.
Running to say goodbye
In the morning we left to visit another village. When we arrived, we learned that we were the only white people to ever step foot in their modest village. They also performed a dance representing a fish swimming around. It was really amazing how enthusiastic the people were when they showed us their traditional dance. They gave us some huge coconuts and we drank the cold, refreshing milk and ate the squishy meat on the inside. When we reached the lodge again, I was said to have that final village stay be done but happy that I could finally drink some cold water.
Today, these kids saw their first white kids ever. At home, we walk in the school hallways and pass a random kid and we don’t acknowledge him/her. In PNG, we walk in the remote village, and we are followed by a throng. What a contrast.
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Wig School Diploma
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Thu, 12 May 2011 10:06:52 +0000
(Reis) We pulled into a muddy lot in the Middle of Nowhere in the Papua New Guinean Highlands. We climbed out of our private Public Motorized Vehicle (ironic, huh?), and nimbly stepped through the mud to a set of rundown grass/mud/stone stairs. We climbed with great care, not wanting to slip and fall. We entered a muddy clearing, with a traditional PNG hut and are greeted by men smoking bamboo pipes. They are all wearing their traditional Huli (extremely cultural tribe, around the Tari area) clothing. The men wear apron-loincloths and have numerous cassowary quill necklaces. What strikes me the most is that the men all have bushy mushroom-shaped hair emerging from their scalps. Because of course, we were in a wig school.
The Huli wig men grow/use wigs to decorate themselves, using them as pin cushions for their Bird of Paradise and other spectacular feathers. An unmarried boy can pay 400 PNG Kina (about $160) to attend wig school for 18 months, to grow and cut a wig. Men must be unmarried because manhood starts when you get married, and the hair knows if the guy is wed and won’t grow. For 18 months, instead of math or history, they have “Look through and primp each other’s hair.” They cannot have girlfriends or interact with women. During that time, they grow and shape it using a wire-frame into the traditional mushroom shape. After 18 months, they can either keep it or sell it in the market. An everyday, mushroom-shaped wig will cost 700-800 Kina (aka 280-320 USD), and a ceremonial wig, which is a rectangle with a half moon on top, and requires two sessions of wig school will fetch 1500 Kina (aka 600 USD).
Spitting the magical water
A man, the teacher we later found out, escorted us down another set of rundown stairs to an area that a river ran through. Our guide translated that the teacher was going to give us a demonstration of how he blesses the hair to make it grow. The teacher gave each of the traditional students a hollowed-out bamboo stalk filled with water from the clearing’s river. He had previously put a powerful spell on the water, that would coax the hair into growing wig-shaped. They all took sips of the water, then spit it out in a flourish of vapor. They repeated that technique two more times, then finished off the water left in their bamboo gourds. Then, the students each took a bundle of ferns, and the teacher started putting spells on the water, also to entice the hair to grow like a mushroom. When he was done, the students started dipping the ferns into the river and watered their hair. Like a plant. Again, after the first time, they did it twice more. When the students finished, the mentor lined them up, just like a modern USA teacher would do for an assembly. He told us how many times the students had grown and cut their hair, and how long they had been growing their current batch. The oldest student at wig school was growing his sixth wig after 90 months — over 7 years!
How the wig scholars sleep without damaging the hair
Finally, a pupil demonstrated how they sleep at night. He sat down and laid his neck on a elevated stick, because they couldn’t afford their wig being smashed by sleeping on top of it. Ouch! When we asked about lice, the teacher told us they were warded away by powerful spells. We were very respectful of their traditions, but we couldn’t help thinking that the whole thing was kind of amusing. We concluded our visit with a lot of “Arames” (Thank yous) and handshakes. I was glad we visited and we learned a lot! Very, very, cool. We walk out, all with the same thought on our mind. Are they monks, or sheep?
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Land, Women and Pigs
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Thu, 12 May 2011 09:54:27 +0000
A typical PNG sunset
(Greg) We have been on the road for almost a year, putting ourselves into the middle of some of the wildest, most untouched places on Earth. We are pretty salty veterans, so I thought it unlikely that we would be wide-mouthed and pie-eyed by anyplace or any people again. Then we came to the Sepik river basin and the Highlands of Papua New Guinea. Everything about this place exceeds hyperbole. It is greener and more fertile than Hawaii, more warlike than the Maoris of New Zealand, more chauvinist than Archie Bunker’s house and more uniformly friendly than any country we have visited.
The testosterone here is intimidating. The men all look like the baddest dudes IN THE WORLD. But every time we smile, they smile back broadly with nasty teeth and blood red tongues stained by chewing betel nut. Even the nineteen year old cool guys on the corner smile and wave back. This is significant since Dana and I have been doing a nineteen-year-old-cool-guy test in the 27 countries we have already visited. Our thesis, until recently, was that there was an implicit universal prohibition on any nineteen-year-old-cool-guy from smiling and waving at visitors. The antithesis was proven in Papua New Guinea. And believe me, if any of the scrawny nineteen-year-old-cool-guys from India or Borneo or Peru saw the PNG guys, they would abdicate alpha male status to the PNG bad asses in nanoseconds, just after they wet their nineteen-year-old-cool-guy pants. If only that would happen, waving and smiling would truly be universal.
A local chief with four of his five wives
But even smiling testosterone can alter society in problematic ways. The men of the highlands state outright that they value and defend three things: land, pigs and women. In that order. A local highlands landowner recently sold a bit of his land to Exxon Mobil for the equivalent of US$100,000. He proceeded to buy 50 cases of beer and 300 pigs (at about $300 each). He then bought his third and fourth wife wi