The Two Villages, Part 2 (11/15)

A nap after lunch before leaving the village of Mios Mengkara.    | Photo by Moira

Seen from the air, the grey-whitish village of Mios Mengkara stood out among the green coconut plantation, which was ringed by white sand, and then enclosed by a large spectacular lagoon of teal waters and dark corals. A long jetty constructed from the timber of ironwood trees cuts into the lagoon. A row of houses faced the jetty, behind a concrete road, then the school and church. Grass separated the houses, stilts driven into the sand between them created a shared area for hanging clothes and salting fishes. Flowering shrubs lined the paved road and in front of houses. A working well was sank into the beach. In late morning, we approached this island village and asked for permission to enter. 

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The breadfruit or sukun tree had originated from the highlands of Papua New Guinea. In Mios Mengkara village, the sukun trees were planted a generation before and were now giants. Their huge leaves shaded much of spaces besides the concrete road, where mats were laid down and villagers gathered. The mats were made at a wooden house opposite the biggest sukun tree, by Agus and his wife. Using spent batteries and coral rocks as weights for lines of hanging synthetic ropes, they skillfully weaved strips of nipa palms together by alternating the lines. They could make 2-3 mats a day, more than what the village needed.

“Tak sini, pulau besar, sini ada kelapa sahaja”, Agus replied when asked where the nipah was from. The palms were from Batang Pele, a larger island opposite our campsite last night.

The village also tended to a coconut plantation, which covered most of this small island. They dried halved coconuts under the sun, and the creamy flesh was pressed to extract the valuable oil. The fishermen built their own prahu, the wooden outrigger canoes. The most beautiful boats were made from the sukun timber, but now any wood would do. Still, they caulked the seams between the timbers only with latex from their sukun trees, applying a knowledge passed down. The seal was not always perfect and lasting but it worked. The fishermen ‘caught anything’, and salted their extra fishes under the sun. 

For money, the villagers of Mios Mengkara regularly sold these excess village’s produce to Sorong. 

In Selpele’s only school, its teacher had went AWOL for two months - and counting. Mios Mengkaran also had only one school, for the numerous children of its 300 villagers. The village children crowded Ling, and excitedly led her to their school house. Being a teacher, she was impressed with the rectangular concrete house. Her job application here would not be approved, for it had already one dedicated guru, teaching subjects in Bahasa and Papuan. They also showed her a new church being built, and the musical influence of their religion was clear. 

“malam ini ada acara...”, she bent forward and clapped her hands. 

“golek ke lempeng gadi undangan...”, the children looked at Ling and sang back.

Yesterday in Selpele, she had asked the children to teach her their songs. She repeated the memorized verses here, swelling moist eyes and drawing laughter from the children and adults alike.

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Our kayaks rested 4 hours in the sun while we visited Mios Mengkara. The lunch was as good as the wait, even though it was simple. While they could sell us fresh coconuts, they had no extra fresh food. Once again we went to the only warung. The Sulawesi shopkeeper had canned sardines and rice imported from Surabaya. It was the “freshest” food we could asked for. We were however, far from fresh and smelled closer to the canned sardines. Our clothes had stiffen hard. The sun had squeezed out impurities of sweat and salt that left a mess of white substance. A few doused themselves with the refreshing water from the well. When Chan tried, with the whole village watching, he dropped the bucket followed with the line...

After the lunch, the villagers cleared the mats so that we could take a nap before leaving. Hot cups of coffee was ordered. There were very few flies as most rubbish, we were told, were collected and sent for disposal at Sorong. Used to an urban life as a series of tasks and activities, an afternoon was a small escape, maybe even a subversive act for some. When the sun was at the hottest and light breeze blew, it was the most natural thing to do nothing. Laboring can wait while our bodies pulsed with the rhythm of the day.

It took a village to raise a child, as the saying went. Allowed to roam, the youngest were watched over by the nearest oldest, who showed them how to run the land and swim the sea. They learned early in life that they were not children of two individuals, but a child of the village. When chased by shadows, many arms reached out to hold them. If they grew up as a fisherman, they went out to sea in peace, knowing their children were always cared for. Older, they were always filled with a place and attachment in their hearts that the village had given them. The kind of freedom the village gave was pure and simple.

We left Mios Mengkara after 2pm. 

It was a beautiful village. 

freedom   | Photo by Moira