Marau Sound,
Guadalcanal
There are plenty of web sites and travel books to tell you that the Pacific Islands are magical and largely unspoiled. This essay is an attempt to speak fairly and honestly about living in the village as a Peace Corps volunteer. I'll tell you up front that I believe whole-heartedly the Peace Corps program is one of the U.S.A.'s most worthwhile and enduring contributions to the welfare of the world, and that Rachel & I would go again at the drop of a hat. But it is not really the Peace Corps program I want to discuss.
Instead I want to tell you about a little girl named Efeli, a river that swelled dramatically in the rain, an old Massey-Ferguson tractor, which, though ready to die, was the only motor transport, and a 15 mile walk to get the mail. These things, the normal aspects of a Solomon Islander's daily life, were what made the passing months more than an assignment, but the discovery of a new family and an amazing old world.
Efeli was probably the most headstrong and self-directed five-year-old in all of East Guadalcanal. Her people, the Birao, were known for being quiet, acquiescent, bush folk who spoke softly and avoided conflict with their more agressive and outgoing neighbors, including the traditionally warlike Malaitansand the husky, brash, seagoing Molei. But the Birao's ancestors knew war and cannibalism in the not-too- distant past, we were told discreetly. If so, Efeli had the temperment of a raid- party participant. Bratty, loud, agressive, demanding and plain spoken, she also emanated a stoicism and a dignity absent in most children of pre-school age. This little girl won our hearts by being the one who brought our plate of beiho (dry-prepared root crops) and bits of Birao-language discourse every evening.
The evening meal in our little group of thatch houses was cooked in one or two central places using a motu, a traditionally used stone, leaf and fire oven. The meal was divided up by family and distributed by the smaller children to the various houses. We were almost certain that Efeli must have strong armed another child, possibly an older one, out of the privilege of bringing our beiho.
Efeli was affectionately called a devil by her elders, on account of her headstrong attitude, unpredictable behavior, and deviation from ordinary village child behavior. Her complete lack of fear about being around Rachel and I was an initial clue as to what the villagers saw as anamolous about her. All the other children treated us as strange and awe-inspiring at first, most of them never having laid eyes on white skinned people, but Efeli marched right up and tapped on the front door, beiho in hand, announcing in her husky voice, "Recholo." Her Melanesian intonation of Rachel's name sticks in my mind along with a hundred little scenes a few seconds long, scenes with dozens of other people besides her, but it is her face that one sees when the village comes to mind, and her mother's house that we imagine visiting when finally we return to the village of Kare Vaulu.
The husky voiced little girl was less afraid of us at first than even some of the adults, who were at first somewhat confused about the purpose of our "visit" to their community. As we came to know the people better, and as the stories were told and re-told in both the North American and Solomon tongues, it became clear to us that there were many good reasons for their confusion. While a seemingly large misunderstanding in the early months, the issue faded into nothing as we grew to be a part of the community and began to contribute to the general well-being.
But Efeli acted natural from the start, inasmuch as anything she did could be called natural. For she conducted herself as one who secretly sees into another dimension and into people's minds.
One day in late 1993, shortly after our arrival, Efeli took Rachel's hand to march her off after some spectacular discovery. "Recholo", she intoned, "Bolo muta muta". Well, we knew that "bolo" was pig, but muta muta was as yet unfamiliar. It turned out to be vomit. The little girl had noticed our Westerner's aversion to such bodily functions, so she felt inclined to warn us of their nearness.
We also noticed that among the large groups of children in the post- toddler stage of life Efeli was the only little girl who stood out as a leader. The girls were normally softer spoken and more passive than the boys, but we'd frequently see a roving band of bodies rushing throught the village with Efeli at its head, pointing, shouting orders, demanding things of the other boys and girls, and narrating in that cool-headed tone of voice she always used. But Efeli could lose her cool too, to such a degree that even some of the Olos (older folks) in the village raised their eyebrows. We think this was why her aunties and her mother called her a devil child.
To be fair to our young niece (for we did come to think of her that way), the Birao use of the word "devil" was not a reference to Satan, who was only mentioned in church, but to the more commonly discussed veilei , which was a bush-dwelling wild man of sorts, one who possessed the speed of light, the power to heal and to kill, and who was regarded as the greatest danger to a person alone in the bush. To call someone a veilei, then, was not suggesting evil alone, but also noting a propensity to the magical, the independent, the ability to deal with nature on a higher level.
I don't mean to say, however, that Efeli's temper tantrums weren't somehow Satan-like. The normally stoic and gravelly-voiced young child became a screaming, weeping machine who hurled objects and insults around the cook- house and spoke words unintelligible to even her mother Ella, who laughed quietly and puffed on her pipe. The two were bonded as tightly as a tree and its fruit, but Ella was in the process of what seemed like a belated and gradual weaning, which became clear the first time Rachel and I saw Ella placidly ignoring one such tantrum.
Efeli in the village (right) with extended family members
"Why is Efeli crying?" asked Rachel, noticing that the women in the cook- house were watching my wife's reaction to the girls explosive anger.
"She wants to know why Efeli's crying." said Francisca, a teenage commentator of conversations.
Ella's eyes shone with what might have been pride. "She wants to come to the garden with us today. We told her to stay behind." Then I noticed that indeed it was the time of day the women usually took off together to the fields, knives sharpened by their sons and daughters and husbands, empty bags over their shoulders which would be overflowing with produce later in the day. The hours of labor under a burning equatorial sun began this way, with a little girl raging to be included in the work. I thought I knew children before this, but this was a different being, one who saw beneath life's skin and desired the sweat, the sun or drenching rain, the real struggle over the play time.
Efeli's vain insistence on demanding fruit when there was no fruit to be had was a universal exclamation of childhood and its wonderful power to demand against all hope. It was very funny to us in a truly amazing way, to compare this child with a Western child, who might cry for a candy bar that's very certainly within his grasp except for his mother's firmness in refusing to buy it. Efeli cried and screamed for bananas when there were no bananas to be had, not for money or effort or prayer. Ella wouldn't have shown such firmness in denying the bananas had there been any to give the child. As months passed, our city-bought supply of food began to dwindle and the thought of fresh fruit became a daily inspiration to us, Efeli's tears ceased to be comedy, almost pricking at our hearts. We wanted bananas, too, damn it.
Each day a group of villagers went to the garden plots and another group stayed behind in the village. Efeli's mother was known as one of the hardest workers in the group, so the two of them were at home among the crops of cassava, white yams, taro, and kumara (a Pacific Island sweet potato). The two were known as very "bush", meaning, most simply, having understanding of and connection to the forest, able to work endless hours in the burning sun, and most unaccustomed to contact with outsiders. Ella had no husband that we knew of, which intensified her bond with Efeli, and which made me think of the two of them as one person living in two bodies simultaneously. Still, Rachel and I marvelled at a young child who responded violently at being forced to live childhood rather than the fields. Wouldn't she rather be playing? As the new comers we did not fathom the explanations in any language. Experience would be the only explanation for Efeli.
The Birao people spoke no English, and we North Americans spoke no Birao. At first the communication took place in Pijin, a Pacific Island dialect of traders, travelers and conquerers which borrowed its content from English and its structure from the vast pool of island languages. Pijin was a natural occurence in the Pacific, where one island could be home to over a hundred languages, where every seagoing nation of the world had come to explore, conquer, trade, and steal humans for forced labor in other lands. It was natural also for reason's solely grown in the Pacific, such as the historic tendency to wander the ocean, to visit, explore, to raid, conquer, subdue, and consume other groups of people. Rachel and I were grateful for Pijin, for it was our road into the heart of Birao life. The road in was narrow, and Pijin's roughly 3,000 words soon became too few to express all the wonder and emotion, ask all the questions that came to mind, and build on the new friendships we'd acquired. Soon we found that this traveller's language was spoken by those who'd been somewhere: kids who'd had school with children from other villages, men who frequented the capital, young hopefuls who'd gone to live in one of the many missions in the country. But bush women like Ella and her mother and the devil Efeli were uncomfortable speaking Pijin, and therefore initially cut off from direct communication with us.
Months later it would began to seem funny to us that we would wonder why Efeli cried. There were generally two reasons. She'd cry for fruit, or she'd cry at being left behind with the other children. Really she was quite like us. Wanting to be with her mother, disliking the feeling of being left out of the grown up activities. Wanting to never miss out on potentially interesting things. As a child I would have gone anywhere with my mother, even to work at the nursing home, if she'd let me. Only after she was gone would I realize I was better off being a child while I still had the chance.
I'm not sure, though, that childhood truly suited Efeli, for she was the consummate observer and explainer. I think she'd have been fascinating to see as an old woman, with a memory as indelible as the tiny work scars on her aged skin. If I could have captured all the observances uttered by Efeli in our presence I could fill a book that the whole world could relate to, for she was not a creature only of the village or the garden but of humanity, simultaneously given to the mischief of childhood, the need for more activity, love and attention- and possessing the stoic bearing of a life-long laborer.
Ella was a single mother, very "bush", as her more travelled and educated sister Laurencia would point out. Nothing was strange about her lack of husband until she and Efeli began to stand out as such an amazing pair. The we wanted to know what sort of man could have taken part in the human chemistry the mother and daughter shared.
In the early days I only took Rachel's word for it. Our first lodging on arriving in Kare Vaulu was set apart from the rest of the village and people weren't as communicative as we hoped they'd be. Who on earth opens up to strangers right away? Not Melanesians, not New Englanders, not most of the world. Though the hospitality of the village was unsurpassed from the moment a stranger entered the village, their hearts are like their homes: humble; unassuming; difficult to see into because of the cool, comforting shade inside; ultimately welcoming and possessed of an irresistible charm and love. People would tell me stories about other westerners they had met, or they would share some anecdote about 'European' living, which I was all to happy to recount. But when it came to the true friendship, I was missing that window into the souls of the people around us.
Rachel, on the other hand, had discovered the cook house.
To understand the importance of this familial domain took us several months. Not until we regrouped with the rest of our training group of 24 North Americans at a conference in early 1994 did we understand that if the people of the village opened their hearts and minds, it was either while cooking or while working in the garden. The group, by and large, had not seen the inside of the cook-houses, had not held the babies in their arms, had not made the walk to the garden plots, had hardly spoken to any of the more 'bush' individuals such as Ella, Hearing our fellow North Americans share these facts, we understood how incredibly lucky we were.
The kitchen and its importance became as natural as a thousand other fact about living in the forest, facts which at first were all part of a large unknown which would gently unravel, exposing a tiny portion of its mystery to the two dazed and excited North Americans. Along with the kitchen, the woman's role came into focus, as the leaves of a tree reveal their beauty upon a slow, ambling approach along a dirt path. There, in the kitchen, was gradually exposed a phenomenal lopsidedness in the gender roles, one which seems in retrospect to be more common in our world than not: women do much more work and suffer far more than men over the course of a lifetime. No one disputed this assertion in our two years of living in Kare Vaulu. But neither did it occur to anyone to initiate any type of comparison. Comparison was apparently not as rampant in Birao culture as it was in our own.
Each day our tendency to measure comparative effort was naturally
inspired
to calculate some human debt, as we witnessed a woman, baby lashed to her
breast with a yard of Chinese polyester, firewood chopped into tiny sticks
in a 15-kilo bundle and balanced on her head, an equal weight of potatoes
or yams or cassava wrapped in a makeshift carrying pack and mounted on
her shoulders, and a toddler at her side. A moment later would come her
husband, 24 inch bush knife in his right hand, with an ember from a
cooking
fire at its tip-for keeping his cigarette lit. He might have an axe on
his left shoulder, or carry with him a slain wild pig the size of a
beagle,
but he was as likely to have his left hand free, but a married woman
returning
from a day's work without a prodigious burden was a rare sight
indeed.