Holuwon - Tues., March 11, 08

Another market morning. "No peanut butter ", as Yariut says. But, we stock up with other food. I'm finding it easier to walk on these paths. After watching for directions from the locals, I am taking smaller steps and anticipating more. Plainly, the correct foot on the rock is important. Otherwise, I get crossed up. Smaller, more well placed, is the key.
Children are seldom acknowledge by adults by greeting in passing. Whereas, every adult male acknowledge another. Few women are spoken to by a man when passing on the path. To greet a woman usually brings surprise from her-turning away from me. Disputes are decided in the village by the offended party yelling and walking through the village drawing a crowd. The issue is talked over loudly by the parties with all of the village hearing the dispute. In this way, it is all in the open. Children are mostly cared for by women, although there are times when men take a turn. All women are wet nurses-some for nourishment, others for comfort, for all children.
Lunch is a grated sweet potato fried in oil - enough oil to choke a billy goat. Lord have mercy, Yariut cooks some greens which are so bland. They taste like eating cooked leaves, which they are. they are fried in oil and then noodles are added. I make a quick decision and pick out all the greens to be eaten first. If my stomach gets wind of what's in store, the greens won't go down. Eat fast, eat now. It works! With no seasoning except salt, I'm beginning to long for something more. Where are you Michael B when I need you?
A plane from the Catholic organization AMA flies in and unloads some supplies for the secondary school's new building. The plane lands and out come 2 dented barrels of gas, a generator, tin and sacks of cement. Then, the fun begins. With boards, sticks, and muscle, the barrels are pushed, pulled and lifted first down off the airstrip, past the radio house, across a log bridge which sags but holds and up the steep incline to a house. Most everyone stands and watches, including me. 6 or 7 take hold and work. I half expect a slashed hand or a crushed foot. But, it all gets done. Cement is transported thrown over a stick supported between two shoulders.
The rain begins and I hurry out to retrieve my pants and shirt from the wash line. visions of my mother scurrying against the rain, pulling clothespins and throwing laundry over her arms accompany me.
These Yali are a noble and gentle people with an uncommon sublimity. Yet, they have been only recently "found". The first missionary into this area, and thus the first foreigner, was mid-60s. That ended with two missionary deaths by more than 100 arrows each. What happens when the individual and collective psyches of a people are jerked so violently into this modernism?
Lightning and rain are thundering through.