Death and the sanctuary of home

Ok, sex has been fobbed for the moment (well, personally for more than a moment !), and my observations and thoughts regarding the I-Kiribati and such things has been overtaken by  it’s cousin - Death, and the sanctuary of home.

The last few weeks I have experienced 2 more deaths and another outer island trip. As I have said before death is at my doorstep (2 graves just outside my door) and is a constant reminder of the fragility of life here along with it’s acceptance of being part of life’s journey.

I have now experienced deaths of people aged from 8 months to late 30s, three female and one male, one who took their own life. Apart from the baby whose death occurred early on in my time here I had had shared experiences with each of these people. One I flew to an outer island and back with, one I worked alongside in a mentoring role and the other was at my house the day before leaving this life.

 "Old life"

  

"New life"

 

A cultural thread and response binds the I-Kiribati people and each of these deaths.

The bodies were laid out in their given homes wearing their finest clothes adorned with flowers (artificial) as family and friends gathered. I have heard it said that people going to hospital take a set of their best clothes, they may be needed -and far too often they are.

I paid my respects to each of my friends families and sat alongside three of their bodies. In the process of grieving, funeral and burial arrangements family members and friends sit with their loved ones, they may cry, stroke them, talk to them, re arrange the flowers, or in the case of the baby I watched as the blind father tried putting his daughters hair into little pig tails.

On one occasion I spent 12 hours at the family village (some people will stay for days), many of those hours were alongside the body both sitting and sleeping. 

l cried and cried, how could a woman of such power and passion have died just hours after I has seen her (in hospital), what was done, or more likely, had not being done for something that was so preventable,  why do these people accept the non-acceptable ? My questions and emotions raged at the same time as I heard pigs and chooks being slaughter for the feast, watched the hole being dug for the backyard burial, played with kids including her son, smelt the food being prepared and listened to the voices of angels coming from her people, others with abilities that far outweighed their disabilities. 

It has taken me some months to write of this experience. It’s funny how and what a death does to ones being, offering reflections on past deaths, thoughts of ones that may come at any time and wonder at the cycle of life.

Two days after the last burial a baby was born to one of the people in attendance, I have yet to meet her but on inquiring as to her name was told “Junior Leigh” !

Two days before giving  birth to "Junior Leigh" 

The sanctuary of home

There are many things I have learnt to endure, enjoy and love about outer island trips with the I-Kiribati people I work alongside, this includes the joy of returning to my ocean view nest here on Tarawa.

I really am a homebody at heart, it’s where a balance can be achieved for my physical, emotional and spiritual being. After another week of collective living in accommodation run by the local island council, people that have never seen a kitchen sink, experienced a flushing loo (or toilet seat) and can sleep anywhere, my humble home is paradise.

What is it about bodily functions that seem to flow (or plop) much easier from ones own private loo, I’m sure hovering is strengthening for the legs but comfort and contemplation come much easier from a relaxed position.

Planning for the I-Kiribati is not part of their culture (neither is the letter “P”) but many “know” that a trip away means some things are needed such as toothpaste, toilet paper, soap, clothes etc. It’s just the planning part of actually taking them along that gets in the way. Being a westerner I pack these things and more, this includs the only torch and insect repellent in our group and simple food items such as sao biscuits, my version of muesli and powdered milk.  In the interest in having these when needed I keep in my room, the torch did shine the way to and from various kava bars (without me), the saos found a home by someone that recognised them as food and took to self serve, but I did struggle trying to explain what rolled oats were and why I was eating muesli when there was literally bucket loads of fish and rice.

 Outside window to my "Guesthouse" bedroom

One of the joys of being home is the quiet, just the sea, occasional dog squabble, or talking and singing from my neighbours. As much as I love the jubilant, frenetic, and joyful sounds of one or 200 odd I-Kiribati people singing my body can chill and mind can rest from the “OMG, will I have to dance for this one…”. Today it’s no Audrey Auld, Paul Kelly or String Chickens pumping out of my itunes, no white noise or I-Kiribati top 10 blasting out of bass induced speakers. Just the sound of silence.  

My day has been filled with washing in a twin tub where water needs to be bucketed from the kitchen, clothes manually moved from washer to spinner to rinsing bucket and back to spinner before making it to the cutest clothesline this side of the date line.  Meanwhile seven newly hatched chicks and muma hen wander past my door and stop at the water overflow from my kitchen (don’t ask) for a drink and any food scraps and it’s almost 3pm and I’m still in my sleeping attire. 

 A homemade mini hills hoist

This is my day, the breeze is flowing through the open doors, the sky is filled with clouds and the hammock awaits as does another meal of the fish and rice, a yoga session and a real coffee.

Up next : It’s in the lap of the dogs or gods   

Collective living

        This last week I have been thrown  boots (well thongs) and all to collective living.

There are many times when the gulf in our “western” thinking and living is far, wide and poles apart from the collective way of being as lived here by the I- Kiribati people.

I’m sure many others join me in shaking our heads at the way people here share every thing, be it food, clothes, kids, houses, smokes and money, virtually anything and everything appears to be shared. The lack of sense of “I” or “me/mine” for the most is very refreshing, especially from a distance but actually experiencing a collective life was not so simple (for me).

So far much of my experience has been on the edges, now I have slept, snored, ate and sung under the same roof as the people I am here working with.

I have just come back from a 6 day trip as part of a group of 11 people from my work taking a community awareness drama and workshops to an outer island. I have travelled to an outer island with these people before as part of an invitation to a specific celebration. (as written about in an  earlier post). This trip was different in that we were the people running the “program” rather than being the invited, we were there for specific tasks and activities.  

 Performing the drama at a school, curtians are strung up between the trees.

  

Good to know where your cup is. Both these wonderful performers are blind.

Most I-matang (foreigners) who visit outer islands stay in local council guesthouses or hotels. I was quite happy with little knowledge of what these places offered and my expectations were not gleaned from "trip adviser" or worldly travellers. The project budget allowed for each of our group members to stay in a guest house/hotel. Arrangements and negotiations to book accommodation, tee up performances and workshop arrangements were undertaken by my counterpart, sounds simple enough but I have learnt enough to kerb my questions preferring the KISS approach.

Many outer islands don’t have Internet access and phone contact is via a pay phone (as in one physical phone) which is contactable through the local phone provider here on the main land. As far as I have gleaned the phone rep makes the call (to god knows whoever answers the phone) and requests the person sought to be near the phone at a given time, they then tell the caller when to call them.  As in this case arranging phone call/s can take days if not weeks to happen. If that takes a bit to fathom then welcome to my world,  I just know it works but I am really starting to befriend the notion of …

“….the more one thinks they know the less one does know“ !

Part of the planning and communication to the outer island was that the people I was travelling with were happy to stay in a “local” house and on arrival we are shown what was to be our home for 5 nights. A kia Kia (grass roofed raised hut without any sides) for the performers and me in the little stick house right next door, sweet, I lay around with everyone else and start eating fish and rice.

Meanwhile the community is a buzz at the thought of an I-matang not staying at the hotel (which of course I thought I was in). Without any flashing lights, daytime power, signs or any idea how to differentiate between a hotel or any other building I stayed oblivious to the commotion until it was suggested that we all move to the hotel. With a guitar, keyboard, data projector and screen, stage (well coconut tree) curtains and an assortment of bags we head to the hotel and I am directed to one of a few rooms. The room was simple, louvre windows on three sides, a locally made bed, mattress and a mozzie net and located right next to a local bathroom. This was when I was to sleep and everyone else would fill the floor space.

Floor space is floor space, and that means sleeping space, it didn’t take long and I had 3 people sleeping just outside the windows and door of my paper-thin walls.

For 6 days and nights of singing, snoring, smoking and eating I shared the floor with blind people who felt their way around, (one announcing he needed a torch to find the bathroom !) a wheelchair user and others with physical disabilities.

Since a trip to Australia several of the people are now wearing watches, it didn’t appear to matter that the time was incorrect or be of any relevance when attending performance bookings or local invitations. For many people not a lot happens in a day so waiting isn’t a problem, everything that needs to get done will get done at some stage.  As for the never ending eating, it is a cultural ritual, what and when you eat doesn’t seem to have much importance, grace may take 15 minutes to be preformed and it is fish and rice whether it’s 6am or 10 pm.

Sometimes the singing finished not long after the power went off (normally about 11pm) other times it re-started in the wee hours and subsided as the sun peaked through. Given the nocturnal activities sleeping was a popular day-time activity dispersed with smoking and more eating. The Kiribati people are known to be able to sleep anywhere and at any time, I just wish their snoring was a tuneful as their singing !

As a rule I do OK with the local food. I just can’t pile my plate quite as high as the locals do, I like to call mine a taster plate with small selections each sitting alone. One day I asked about papayas, next I’m handed 5 and was then presented with more every meal, they were the only fruit available so I wasn’t complaining.  Noodles come a close second to rice as a daily offering, easy, open a packet, empty the sachets (of scary stuff), pour in hot water, and present alongside the rice, tinned meat, papaya and what appears to be meat from who knows where.  (only pigs live here and they are kept for botakis and special occasions).

 Little pigs that will grow to be big "botaki" pigs

After days and nights of being the roadie, curtain girl, tech geek with the data projector etc and sleeping companion my desire to be part of this collective waned. I declined an evening invitation (of which I learnt it to took a 20 minute speech to convey my apologies and a whole story was given as to what had happened to the I-matang ! ) but I hadn’t missed it all. My morning sense of enquiry as to what was simmering on the kero cooker was taken back a bit when I came face to face with a snarling roasted pigs head. The evenings occasion was a big one, 3 pigs had been slaughtered and offered and they bought one home !

Another meal of papaya was just fine. 

 

I was happy to get back to the main land, albeit more that half of our group stayed on as we couldn’t all fit on the plane and I’m still trying to find the projector screen. It made it to the aisle of the plane but didn’t get unloaded when we arrived back. Last I heard it’s gone to another atoll in a totally different direction but have been assured it will be back for the next trip (in 3 days time !).

Hope is a wonderful thing, it certainly beats stress but maybe I’ll cross my fingers too. 

Up next :  Time to talk about sex