One of the goals of Peace Corps is that the volunteer live with and at the same economic level as those they work with. To this end, and to serve as a deep language immersion, a village live-in is a standard part of Peace Corps training.
Peace Corps PNG Group 14 had bonded well. It happened almost instantaneously…on the beach at Waikiki, in the piano bar, the shots (with needles; not of alcohol that is…although…), the prodding, the lectures on the three P’s. The bonding continued as we crossed the date line, had a smelly lay over in Guam, and while fumigated upon landing in PNG. We were tight. And that was before the real in-country training started. It should be noted that group fourteen had a certain reputation. Years later, our instructors would still be talking about “the party group.” Yep, that was us, guilty as charged. We found a reason to have a party every single weekend of training. That too was part of the bonding.
We had initially flown into and spent a week in Port Moresby, the capital. But our base for training was the Kefamo retreat about a kilometer from the center of Goroka, a lovely town and provincial capital of the Eastern Highlands province, known for its huge market and an annual sing-sing festival where groups from around the country don traditional dress and perform. Goroka is probably also known as one of the safer towns to spend time in, if you are in the highlands of PNG. Group 14 had the distinction of being the first Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) group in PNG that were all teachers. We would be sent to areas, typically remote, where it was hard to find/hire enough teachers for the high school level boarding schools. Peace Corps no longer sends PCV’s to PNG because it is deemed too dangerous. Given some stories my fellow PCV’s told, it is truly frightening to think it is now more dangerous than it was. And it does make one stop and question what in the world we were doing there. But we were young and eager and optimistic.
For the village live-in, the eighteen of us were split up into twos and sent to spend a few days in villages close to Goroka. We never learned how they decided to pair us up for the village live-in, but whoever it was certainly was a master of randomness and the chaos theory. The pairings clearly took into consideration who we hung around with the most, and then paired us with other folks. And there was the issue of safety, so many of the girls where paired with guys. I was sent with Nancy to a village that set on a hill that over looked the Asaro River. We shared a small 8’x10’ bamboo hut divided into two rooms with the eldest daughter of the matriarch “momma” of the village. Momma was a sinewy woman with large feet that stood little more than four feet tall. She spent her days in constant motion chasing pigs (pigs are a sign of wealth in PNG), working in her garden of sweet potatoes (a stable crop in PNG), or dashing down to the river to wash clothes in the muddy Asaro. She was hard to keep up with. Sleep would have been welcome come night fall, except that the pigs, without momma to chase them, seemed to collect around our hut to use the low stilts as scratching posts. On a positive note, the shaking hut would temporarily disturb the mosquitoes that would otherwise buzz in your ear with a sound not unlike the ringing in your ears one has after attending a rock concert.
I would sit, on the last night of the village live-in, in the big man’s hunt which was slightly bigger than our hut, but had a dirt floor with a fire burning in the middle. Everyone sat on a bamboo riser that ran around the inner edge of the hut. Through thick hazy smoke from the fire and their cigarettes hand rolled with uncured tobacco and newspaper, old men with grizzled skin the shade of night, told about their first sightings of a white man; the kindness of Americans and Australians in driving out the evil and oppressive Japanese in the ’40′s; and of the changes they had seen. These were brave men who had seen much. Men of the Asaro River. Yes, Asaro Mudmen! (Yes, THOSE Asaro mudmen, for those of you who are Pink Floyd fans.)
And like all good little Peace Corps volunteers do, I came away with a greater understanding and appreciation for a people and their way of life; biases, stereotypes, judgmental tendencies forever altered.
Well, maybe not every PCV came away with a revised and enlightened world view. Jill and Wanda ran into some girl problems and a rat…this is a great story, but not one I am allowed to tell…so they their village live-in only lasted one day. Let’s say their disdain for rats was forever changed.
And then there was Sandy and Kevin. Sandy had been a sociology major, which, according to the ever loquacious Sandy, meant she was uniquely qualified to talk to anyone about anything. Give the girl a cigarette, a beer and a piano bar and she could talk all night long and well into the day. Kevin was, well, a piece of work. If there was mischief about, it’s a good bet Kevin either directly or indirectly was involved. I could attempt to explain Kevin further but I think these stories really sum him up.
Kevin would write me a letter once announcing that he had given up teaching and become a geologist: “All of my students are as dumb as rocks.” Kevin would eventually be stationed on the side of a mountain not far from Goroka. Kevin was known to slip into Goroka on weekends to spend time with a kindred spirit, Bob. One weekend, Bob and Kevin had a little too much to drink (OK, apparently this part happened a lot!). But on this one occasion, Kevin got sick. But not before getting a trash bag. After he finished using the trash bag he tied it shut and put it in Bob’s freezer.
Upon returning from our village live-in, each group had to tell about their experience in show and tell fashion. Sandy had let Kevin speak first when it was their turn. She started her version of their village live-in this way, “Kevin has the cultural sensitivity of a sweet potato.”
Yep, some people are like that.