Chapter 16

It didn't take John long to learn that life in Papua New Guinea would be quite different from his days as a high powered business consultant, starting with his wedding to Fiona as choreographed by the elders of their village. This excerpt is a portion of the chapter. More is to follow. 

PIGS 

We hiked from the Village of Tabuane, crossing streams and walking through coffee gardens to our home. The late afternoon sun was at our backs, casting shadows on the mountain tops overlooking the land where our house was built.

Orchids, impatiens, and bougainvillea were blooming abundantly. The entrance to our dwelling was a canopy of orchids. Fiona once had an orchid farm. To spend an evening with her and a botanist is to listen to poetry.

I looked over the cliffs down to the river and saw the waterfall and pool to my right. The gardens were manicured and the grass freshly cut with bush knives. The villagers were expecting us.

Tom, our gardener, cook, guard and friend, instructed the young men and women to remove the luggage and supplies from their heads. I am amazed at the loads they can carry and the balance they possess. The terrain is challenging. Their eye-hand coordination is impeccable. They chat, sing hymns and village songs, and laugh as they snake through the coffee garden on a very narrow path.

I gave them a few kina and thanked them. Fiona, speaking pidgin, was connecting much more deeply. The village women prized her. Their 50-year-old Singer sewing machine, lugged up to Tabuane from Australia, created a ton of goodwill with this new sewing circle, generating cash for their families.

We were fading from exhaustion. As I was extinguishing the lanterns and blowing out the candles, Tom grabbed my arm and sat me down. Fiona was in the bedroom.

In his broken English and with elaborate gestures, he gingerly instructed me not to touch Fiona tonight. It would be inappropriate before the wedding ceremony. Besides, everyone would know. "Tom, how would they know?" I asked. "They will smell you and Fiona tomorrow, John, that's how they know."

The image of my father quickly appeared. I could see him in the back yard in Grosse Pointe (circa mid-1950) drawing on a cigarette, sipping a Miller High Life beer at nightfall in its fullness. "Johnny, if you make a habit of masturbating, one of two things can happen and possibly both." I was sitting on the porch steps looking up anxiously awaiting his pronouncement. "Either your cock will fall off or you will become mentally ill." Thanks, Dad. I went upstairs, locked the bathroom door and whacked myself off. Never gave it a second thought. My cock is still working, though the threat of mental illness still plays on my mind to this day.

This time, I obeyed. The tribe spoke. I knew they had keen senses. I kept my hands off of Fiona.

Tom abruptly woke us up at 6:30 a.m. Standing in a half-circle were six village men and women dressed in traditional wedding apparel in front of our porch. Every feather, ring, shell necklace, bead, string, belt, and traditional clothing including penis gourds for the men had a place and purpose. Innumerable paintings covered faces, arms and chests. Dyes and pigments fresh from the garden would be used to decorate the bride and groom.

Our separation was immediate and lasted until the ceremony. Three men escorted me to a room on one side of our home; three women took Fiona to a room on the other side.

We were washed, dressed, and painted in a ceremony that was dead serious and perfected to the smallest detail. They have had much practice, following traditions established over the course of 12,000 to 14,000 years.

Within two hours we were readied to walk to the village. Fiona was escorted to one home representing her clan and I to another representing mine. Both of these clans would be our tambu (kin for life) with its all rights, privileges, and demands.

My tambu-to-be, Ezekiel, mentored me the best he could, in light of the language barrier. The other two men spoke better English. I was instructed by this group of elders to be clear on the number of pigs I would be giving away to receive permission to make Fiona my wife. The normal village ceremony would last for days, with ongoing bartering between clans until agreement was reached on the number of pigs, shell money and yams. I got off cheap: Fiona cost me three pigs and compensation for the feast. But the pigs were the clinchers. This was not chump change!

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