Hagen Show

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Well, it was rather remiss of me to blog about Mt Wilhelm and neglect our other major outing in August - Mt Hagen’s biggest annual event, the Hagen Show. The Wilhelm team actually started the Highland adventures up here in the Western Highlands capital, where I finally got to show some friends this is not the dangerous place it has the reputation for being. And the highlight of the Hagen stay would have to be our biggest annual cultural festival.

So before Lyn and Stan, Kate and Alex, Soli, Anthony, Camille, Hu and his parents made the trek up from their respective parts of PNG and Australia, I organised us some show tickets and prepared for the hordes to arrive. We were a pretty funny sight crammed into either mine or Dylan’s little kitchen to share dinner of an evening that weekend.

The show ran for two days – Saturday 19th and Sunday 20th August. On Saturday morning at about 9 o’clock, we jumped in the back of a couple of 4WDs and headed down to the showgrounds for some serious singsing entertainment.

A singsing is a major event in the Highlands and a traditional means of expression through dance, song and decoration (think Aboriginal corroboree). The style in which each group exhibits is individual to their clan and while it would take many visits to many parts of the country to normally see these groups in full swing, the Hagen Show brings them all together at one major oval in a fabulous outdoor spectacular. The groups take days to prepare their bilas (decorative costumes). On the day, they grease themselves up with pig fat, paint their faces up and parade around the oval in song as part of a massive competition. Prize money and prestige are the main drawcards for participants. The Huli Wigmen are particularly well known for the attention they give to their hairpieces and are the major drawcard for photographers.

It felt a bit strange for us, though. Rather exploitative. We felt very much like tourists running around with our cameras amongst the other international visitors. There were plenty of beefy looking lenses, but few photographic credentials, we suspect. And to be honest, it was pretty hard to take a picture without copping an American or a section of cyclone fencing in the background.

But we did pick up some nice souvenirs.


There were plenty of gourds (yes, Johnboy, I bought one – but not the one being modeled in the picture above) and tons of options when it came to buying musical instruments. I bought two bamboo flutes, a clay flute and a juice harp on that day alone.

So, now for some more pics...

The famous Asaro Mudmen




This young Mudman tried to sell me his little clay head

I asked him how much and he said five kina (about A$2.10). I told him in Pidgin that he should go put the price up to 30K and sell it to an American. He ran off grinning.

The Engan women
(...possibly the most beautiful of the Highland meris)




Hageners




Huli boy


Huli Trek - the Next Generation


Tending to the famous Huli wigs…


On the march


Old Chimbu Warrior


Painting up


Singsing groups taking a breather (I love the guy on the left with the cigarette in his mouth)



This guy was desperate for me to take his picture. Still don’t know whether the removed glass was bilas?

The tourist throng


The home-time volunteer sandwich

Hagen Randomness

So I posted this on Sjoerd's blog yesterday but figure I should give my regular readership the random updates too...

Before Sjoerd left for the Madang Medical Symposium on Tuesday, he rang me on my office extension to let me know a lovely young Croatian man was in town who would like to be entertained for the evening. No, Sjoerd is not my pimp, he just thought I might be interested in meeting Davor because, like me, he’s a journalist. Unlike me, he takes some rather professional photographs for National Geographic publications (see: www.davorrostuhar.com). So just before I left the hospital for lunch, Sjoerd introduced us. Davor was indeed lovely. He quickly explained how he and a good friend Mare had just returned from trekking through the north west of Papua New Guinea and were desperately in need of a good meal. That’s when he said, “I have a strange request. Can my friend and I come to your house and make pancakes this evening?” Pancakes with some fresh faces? How could I refuse?
So Davor and Mare met me after work, laden with ingredients for a big cookup - and a cardboard box. That’s when things got interesting. What was in the box, you ask? Only this…



So you can imagine my amusement when Davor said,
“I have another strange proposition for you…”
The Croatians had met some street mangis (boys) near the hospital who sold them this fabulously large green python, which was now fast asleep and being swiftly carried to Hotel Poroman where I live. Apparently, they wanted to cook it. But not before we made friends with it first…



I felt terrible killing it later in my kitchen. And the meat was rather tough, so I can honestly say I preferred it alive. But Davor got some pretty funny pictures of me swinging my hefty bushknife to break the backbone in several places. Luckily he didn’t photograph me beating its head to a pulp with a heavy stone vase…

So, I think I can officially say I’ve crossed that one off the list. No more eating snakes for Jo.

But on the upside, the pancakes were delicious and it was lovely to have some new company (no offense, Sjoerd-o!)

The Mt Wilhelm Adventure

Bonney. The most legendary mountain guide in PNG


The A-Team


Stepping out of the A-frame and onto the tundra with bellies full of hot tea and crackers, it was a good thing we couldn’t see the looming mountain ahead. Due to the cold and anxiety about our pending adventure, most of us hadn’t slept the three hours needed for rest between dinner and the alarm sounding at 11.30pm. We’d been warned by those who had previously completed the Mt Wilhelm trek that if we wished to avoid cloudy views at the summit, we must get to the top by sunrise. And so it was that our motley crew of 12 – seven expats and five local guides – paused briefly by the lower of the Pindaunde lakes under a starry Chimbu sky at 1am to offer a prayer to God and all ancestors sundry for a safe return. This satisfied both the religious and superstitious members of the group and gave even the most cynical among us a memorable case of goosebumps. “Safe and victorious” – the parting wish of our support crew in Hu’s parents, who had left us to return to Betty’s Lodge near Kegsugl earlier that afternoon – became the motto for the trek. And although the safe return should have been the primary concern, victory was foremost in my mind as I volunteered to be the first of our group in line behind the lead guide. If I was going to be breathing hard on this mountain I certainly did not want the psychological disadvantage of bringing up the rear.

Our brilliant guides


Part one of the journey took us through relatively flat grasses, around the waterfall connecting Lake Man and Lake Meri (we women had earlier rolled our eyes in mock surprise when first told that Lake Meri ‘woman’ was the smaller and lower of the two) and up the first steep section of slope leading towards the WWII plane crash site. Of course, the wreckage was indiscernible in the dark. In fact, with no moon, there was little visibility at all – probably just the thing for getting up three quarters of a 1000m ascent. With some knees screaming after a particularly difficult first section, Bonney the boss guide called the procession to rest and drew us all in close to explain we had “just completed the first hardest part”. This was, of course, just what we needed to hear and sustained most of us until we reached and conquered “the second hardest part” – at which time we started to wonder just how many difficult parts made up this crazy hike! About halfway up the mountain we reached the saddle – a sheer grassy ridge connecting the two main sections of mountain. We were surprised to feel the sudden upsurge of wind from either side, and our head torches confirmed both the sheer drop left and right and a sudden flurry of snowfall. It was hard to believe that after snorkeling together on an island off Port Moresby just a fortnight earlier, we were now experiencing full alpine conditions!

Panorama of the Pindaunde Lakes


Inevitably, some members of the group dropped behind and the guides chose to separate the team according to speed to ensure the faster among us would have early clear views from the top. Potential separation had been factored in earlier and was part of the reason we hired so many guides. About three quarters of the way up, one member of our group noticed what seemed to be first light but was quickly corrected by a guide who explained it was the light emanating from neighbouring Madang Province’s Ramu Sugar processing plant. The Yonki hydro power station could also be seen as a section of urban-like glow in the distance.

After many hydration, rest and scroggin stops (our energy food of choice on the trek), Bonney stopped us for a quick systems check. Unbeknownst to most of us, two of our guys were not doing so well. Hu was suffering from a serious case of headaches and nausea and Alex was noticing a creeping asthmatic complaint. To his credit, Bonney didn’t even give the guys a choice. It was safety first as he turned Alex around, sending him back down to the thicker oxygen reserves. Hu was given the choice to return with Alex or stay at the current location with another guide to watch the sunrise. He chose the latter and we were later appreciative of the photos.
And so, for the final leg, Stan, Lyn, Kate, Bonney and I continued on, stopping only to photograph one of the most intense sunrises we had ever seen or to acknowledge the various memorials and makeshift graves marking the final resting places and fated sites of earlier explorers. A young Israeli who had lost his footing. An airline executive who had suffered a heart attack. A national who had made a barefoot attempt at a short-cut between Chimbu and Madang Provinces. The number of fatalities and variation in circumstance seemed to rise exponentially and unnervingly with the altitude.

Sunrise on Mt Wilhelm




The terrain quickly changed to resemble a barren Mars-scape in the last section and around every sheer ledge we expected to see the summit. But, surprisingly, it wasn’t until just 20 minutes from our destination that we saw the metal sign atop the final rocky outcrop. Looking at it, the summit seemed to have a high degree of difficulty but, in fact, wasn’t so hard to climb. We were all weary and cold by the time we touched the tin but exhilarated at having finished. Bonney told us it was the coldest ascent he had ever made in his 17 years of leading Mt Wilhelm expeditions. My frozen, swollen fingers concurred. High winds ensured obscuring cloud kept screaming across the summit, but this gave us rare glimpses of the coast. But despite the obstruction, nothing could have dampened our feelings of achievement.

Me with the legendary Bonney on the summit


Lyn enjoying the 'views'


After a series of photos, we looked down and noticed Agnes Ambele (a doctor from my hospital who had joined us on the trek) trudging up the final leg with two guides in tow. We cheered her on and were so impressed by her determination (she had turned back just an hour into the climb with a group of my friends who had attempted the trek two weeks earlier.) Unfortunately Aggie’s camera batteries had died and so our group was forced to wait just below the summit while she took my digital to the top for posterity. We drank and ate and tried to keep warm, then set off back down the mountain once Aggie had descended. At this stage, our legs were shaking in protest with the knowledge we had to do the entire trek again! But thanks to physiology and gravity, we employed entire new sets of muscle groups and tried to get back into the zone.

Again, the two groups parted – but we were no further than 20 minutes back down the mountain than we were hearing calls from behind us on the upper ridge. Ambele was in trouble. Bonney went back, sent Talita – the owner of the A-frame and Aggie’s friend and walking companion – down to us, where we gave her some altitude sickness medication, clothing and Panadeine to take back. We weren’t sure the Diamox would work but thought that even if it was an effective placebo, it might just get her down those couple of hundred crucial metres to thicker air. The guides got her moving a little and we backtracked some, meeting part way. By this stage, she was sitting on the track, eyes rolling back in her head with nausea and a headache, so we were rather concerned about her condition. We knew the best thing for her was to descend but there was no way she could possibly move. I knelt down in front of her and asked her to tell me what her symptoms were. Well the symptoms were soon all over the path in front of me. She seemed to feel a bit better after that and so what was originally an emergency plan devised by Bonney for us five to descend as quickly as possible and call for a rescue chopper, thankfully became just a request to send the couple of extra guides for assistance (the ones who had turned back for base camp earlier with those walkers who had aborted the mission).

An hour later, we had reached a sun belt and were breathing much easier. We stopped to look back but could only see the figures of the two guides in the distance. My entire body went cold as I assessed the situation. There was only one possible scenario in which two guides would leave a sick hiker on a mountain, and I started to panic at the thought of breaking the news to our hospital’s Director of Medical Services! Then, relief! Talita told us she could make out three figures! Aggie was moving. So we started off again, knowing we now had the luxury to stop for the occasional Kodak moment and to rest our weary legs.

Girls on the final descent


Back down at base, we were welcomed by our proud comrades with hot soup and noodles. Never has sun on my face and warm food in my belly felt so good. After a couple of hours rest, we begrudgingly decided to make the two hour trek back down to Betty’s Place – the lodge below base camp. None of us could imagine walking any further but the thought of smoked trout, hot tea, fresh strawberries and a warm bed was enough to set us all to our reserve auto-pilot functions. A terrific thunderstorm began ten minutes from our destination but none could be bothered fishing around in their packs for wet weather gear. We knew showers were imminent. Once more, Hu’s parents were there to photograph the weary travelers, dish out gratefully accepted sympathy and listen to our tales of adventure. Suffice to say, no one had trouble sleeping that night.

Our indefatigable support team

New Beginnings

So, many of you will know that I’ve got a new job. I’m the new Media and Communications Advisor for Mt Hagen General Hospital. As for the old job – it ended in disaster. Let’s just say the boss of my former host organisation was a little on the too-corrupt-to-possibly-work-with side. Corruption is unfortunately a common problem in PNG but nowhere is it more disappointing than in the charity/NGO/not-for-profit sector. Sadly, “Not-For-Profit” is all-too-often a euphemism for “Not-For-Profit (Unless Nobody’s Looking)”.
So anyway, back in April, I had become so frustrated with my work situation that I started looking for ways out. I had challenged my boss (over the phone) one too many times (he was always in Moresby) and much too often found myself listening to the sweet sound of dial-tone after he had hung up in my ear. I don’t think being challenged by a white woman over poor transparency, constant travel and failure to pay staff for more than six months was what he had in mind when applying for a volunteer. So when I discovered he found a way to gently let me go (sorry *insert relevant Australian aid organization*, we don’t have any funding to properly support a volunteer and we’d rather not waste your resources…), I breathed a sigh of relief and started talking turkey with some key locals. My problem was to find a new job quickly or be sent home. Thankfully, I had started a community development initiative called Friends of Mt Hagen a couple of months earlier and with the CEO of the hospital on the committee, we were able to create a new role for me at the Haus Sik (hospital: literally “house sick”). And so… here I am.
Life at the Haus Sik is unpredictable but always interesting. This morning I arrived at work to find about 100 people anxiously milling about the hospital entrance. This usually signals a major car accident, so I knew this meant a busy day was ahead. A PMV (public motor vehicle: usually 20+ seater vans) had overturned on a bad corner on the highway south west of Mt Hagen and a truckload of people had just been delivered to the hospital in varying traumatic states. My counterpart – the information officer – wasn’t in his office when I arrived, so it was up to me to venture into the Emergency Department to take notes and photograph the injured for possible later media requests and for hospital records. Sadly, four people were killed in the crash. One was the boskru (literally “boss of the crew” – the guy who collects the fares) and three passengers. The wailing from the women is the first signal of fatality after an event like this. In Emergency, it was like a warzone. Bodies with broken limbs, facial lacerations, head wounds, major dislocations and an unknown number of internal injuries, were lying everywhere. One mother was moaning in agony on a gurney. She had suffered a broken pelvis and her six month old was drifting in and out of consciousness in an attending nurse’s arms. It was thought the baby had been thrown from the vehicle. Passenger restraints are non-existent in this country and, even if they are available, nobody uses them – despite the relative frequency of motor vehicle accidents in the area. To make matters worse, the van had been carrying a load of timber and so, many people were crushed unnecessarily when it overturned. What never ceases to amaze me is the average Papua New Guinean’s tolerance for pain. One man with a suspected broken femur was sitting down and recounting the event for me as best he could. As far as I could tell, he had not been attended to yet and so, with no painkillers administered, I was amazed by the clarity of his recall. Similarly, the patience of the nursing staff amidst this chaos was something to be admired. With little resources and family members getting in the way, they still seemed completely in control.
I certainly have a newfound appreciation for A&E staff, and my office – although only on the opposite side of the hospital to Emergency – feels like an entire world away.


A patient’s head being shaved in preparation for stitches


One man with suspected major dislocations and an almost-completely split bottom lip being tended to by nursing staff

Conjugal visits

Long-distance relationships might test your mettle as a couple and give you opportunities to grow that you might otherwise not experience – but at the eight month apart mark, I must say the whole concept is highly overrated.
When I arrived in PNG someone asked me why any pair in their right minds would put themselves through such a gruelling experience. At the time I seemed to have a dozen good reasons. Right now, another four months feels like a lifetime.
Nick left Mt Hagen on Monday after a month-long blissful visit. We did all the usual Hagen things… trekking, visiting villages, baking, hanging out with friends and second-hand clothes shopping (if I haven’t mentioned before, the second-hand clothes here are BRILLIANT. I recently picked up a Scanlan and Theodore top for 70 toea [about 30c] and a pair of Hauser pants for just a couple of Kina [$1]. Nick was quite addicted to finding just the right shirt but only had a little luck in comparison to my finds).
It was interesting seeing his reaction when he got here. All the things that are normal to me now had him wide-eyed from that first drive into town from the airport – and all of those new-to-the-country feelings came vicariously flooding back. The number of betel nut, soap and vegetable sellers on the side of the road is pretty amazing at first. But then you realise that the country basically rides on the back of its informal sector.
Hagen is the kind of place that people fear to visit but is really not that much of a security risk. The highlander reputation of violence – though justified at times – generally relates only to the way villagers and townsfolk deal with their own family members or those from warring clans. Apart from the odd middle-of-the-night domestic violence issue, it’s not generally something you see out in the open. Unless there is a rock concert (see earlier blog entry).
So anyway, in a month, Nick was able to lose that startled newcomer look and even experience some of the frustrations of being one of only a few “waitman” in town. Being the local freakshow is something that never really subsides – you just find ways of tolerating it. Hagen is a big enough place that there are always new people in the main streets staring straight at you, motioning toward you and whispering to their dumbstruck children or just brushing past to touch you. For good luck, presumably? In the non-contact arena, Nick discovered the best thing to do was to wear sunglasses. Eye contact seems to be a major attention-grabber here. But for the most part, people are extremely friendly and just want to say “moning!” or “apinun!” and shake your hand.

Some pics of Nick's time in the Highlands....


One of our tireless Protect escorts driving Nick and me back from Rondon Ridge - the new TransNiugini Tours lodge overlooking Mt Hagen town


Nick watching his first mumu being prepared. A bit like a NZ hangi. Here, the food is wrapped in leaves and cooked in the ground over hot stones. Mumu means 'to steam'


Maggie Wilson serving Nick's welcome mumu. We bought the chickens and Maggie provided village-raised pork. Kumu (greens), corn, peanuts, pit pit (kind of like asparagus), beans, taro, kau kau (sweet potato) and cooking bananas abound...


Yes, that's a good inch of fat on the pig


One of the village children we met on a visit to Avi block settlement. This little one comes from a particularly progressive area in the province. Her elders have done away with compensation, instated welfare officers for settling inter-clan disputes and host regular multi-denominational church gatherings


Me and Nick in the Nebilyer Valley after trekking down Mt Kuta. The Nebilyer is the infamous site of the First Contact, Joe Leahy's Neighbours and Black Harvest documentary films

"Kickboxing... 24 hours A DAY!"

Con Petropoulous (Eric Bana), The Castle

Back in Melbourne, my weekly exercise consisted of yoga classes during lunch hour on a Thursday. We had a fantastic instructor but the only equipment available were mats for the cold lino floor and some straps for resistance work. I remember several conversations with my colleagues about how extra equipment – like foam blocks and blankets – would have made our classes better, had we the money to spend.
Here in Hagen – my kickboxing classes put such fancies to shame.

Training consists of running, pushups (supposedly on your knuckles), situps and formation kicking and boxing work – all barefoot on a filthy concrete church hall floor. Positively hardcore. And the only equipment used – two pairs of dilapidated gloves and some shin-guards that have lost their elastic – surface for sparring sessions on Fridays.

Training is three times a week – Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays – with half of the Friday session dedicated to contest. The official start time for training is supposed to be 3pm but, as is the PNG way, classes generally start a little after four and last for almost two hours. When I turned up to my first training session a few weeks ago, I was petrified. There looked to be about 80 people warming up – of varying athletic states. But the ripped, experienced students (proudly in their satin shorts) certainly looked the part. Seriously, these guys seem to have grown a second set of quadriceps. I was quickly told to remove my shoes, pay the one Kina training fee (about 42c) and stand to attention in the student grid formation. And if you think it’d be hard enough doing pushups on a dirty concrete floor under the watchful eye of a national kickboxing champion, try being the only white woman in the room – and add 100 spectators for good measure.

A few days ago I turned up for my first Friday session and it seems everyone else in town had the same idea. The hall’s population doubles on sparring day. Men and women of all ages – even mothers with babies – all gather to watch Highlanders do what they do best – fight.

The women start first. This isn’t just a sport for the men. There’s probably an equal representation of men and women in the class but the men, on the whole, are the more serious. But put two ladies inside the circle and their eyes get the same fierce glint as their fellow male students. These people have NO FEAR whatsoever. Admittedly, they wear shinpads but this, the odd mouthguard and constant reminders from the trainers to keep their guards up are the only things standing between them and a black eye – or worse. Contests only last for about two minutes – but when the ref declares a draw, an extra ten seconds acts as a tiebreaker – and all hell breaks loose as each contestant tries to land kicks and punches to score crucial points in the final moments.

With a tournament in Madang (on the coast) scheduled for this week, the sparring seemed to take on a greater significance on Friday. Champion instructor Joseph (pictured below in the blue shorts) was dealing with a bout of his own – conjunctivitis – but that didn’t stand in the way of him directing his lesson to all and sundry on the dos and don’ts of combat: no kicking knees, no striking a man when he’s down (but on the way down – that’s another story), keep your guards up and NEVER drop your eyes from your opponent’s. When the men took to the floor, it was ON. Several times the (literally) man-made ring had to scuttle back to avoid being caught up in the action. No ropes here. Cheering is loud and spontaneous, laughing in the crowd is met with piercing stares from club members and mortal combatants always finish a fight with embraces best reserved for blood relatives. It’s a fascinating study in human behaviour and – I’ve found after feeling VERY sore for days after training – is a hell of a way to get fit.

Apologies for there being just the one picture. This is the only one that came out clear enough in the dim light of the hall. If I ever end up working up the courage to spar, I’ll be sure to instruct someone to work the camera.

Weekends in Hagen

All my life I’ve been spoiled with access to country getaways. As a child, the excitement of visiting my grandparents’ farm in the Western District of Victoria was a joy reserved for Christmas and Easter. More recently, my man and I relished city life in our beloved Melbourne town but would escape to his parents’ property in Romsey for some country air. To get away in PNG, I go ap antap.
I might have mentioned already that Mt Hagen town is not really all that much to look at. Just a few dusty main streets crawling with locals entering and exiting basic trade stores and kai (food) bars, footpaths stained red with buai (betel nut spit) and roads badly in need of repair. In stark contrast, just 15 minutes’ drive away, Haus Poroman Lodge perches on the side of verdant Mt Kuta and is my little piece of sanity. In fact, some days, the thought of a pending trip ap antap (literally “up on top”) is what keeps me here.
Despite the fact that it’s still the wet season, most days are sunny and mild in Mt Hagen. And you can pretty much set your watch by the rain – about 4.30pm. So when a group of friends and I do our last-Sunday-of-the-month early morning walk up to the lodge, we’re pretty much guaranteed almost an entire day of sunshine in one of the most picturesque settings you could dream of.
But the walk from town up the mountain is no stroll. Sure, the first four kilometres or so are a breeze – no incline – just a trek past hordes of smiling families in their Sunday best, walking in the opposite direction towards their weekly lotu (church) worship. Then you get out of the city limits and start seeing some of the roundhouses and kunai grass thatched huts peppering the landscape. Finally, the asphalt ends and the last hour of walking is a cardio nightmare if you’re trying to beat last month’s time and not trip on the large rocks on the mountain track in the process. After sikirap maket (‘scratch’ market – because the vendors scratch out a spot on the ground), beyond the local church and primary school and just past the lodge’s generator house, the entry appears on your right and a valley fit for an Impressionist-era painter opens out to the left. A village shelter sits just outside the main entrance and so arriving visitors can often catch a glimpse of an inter-clan court proceeding or local kids mastering the art of rolling tyre rims around with sticks in the dirt. The entrance is at the top of the hill and so a quick descent around a corner and into the grounds lays the entire lodge village bare below. Little roundhouse accommodation rooms surround a central traditional main thatched lodge and meticulously maintained tiered gardens filled with poinsettia trees (nothing is pot-plant-sized here, guys!), orchids and greenery frame the pathways at every turn. The main lodge serves as a dining room and lounge area surrounding a central fireplace, where visitors are often found with their feet up and an SP lager in hand. Wood, wood, wood is everywhere. Sepik carvings of crocodiles, shields and arrows adorn the walls and only some of it is for sale. Smiling staff potter about and offer regular chances to improve your Tok Pisin. On walking Sundays, we enjoy cold glasses of cucumber and pineapple juice around a solid slab table on arrival before venturing outside for volleyball and soccer with the kids. Lunch is a must and, for the truly adventurous, the walk to a nearby waterfall might be a little hazardous but if you fancy an icy swim to cool off, then it’s bliss!
So if you haven’t all gathered by now – I think you’re all MAD if you don’t take the opportunity to visit while I’m here!!! I’m pretty sure you can guess where Nick and I will be staying when he arrives in 40 sleeps!! (But who’s counting?) ;)
Ap antap pics...

A typical Highlands view on a Sunday walk complete with PNG washing line

Mumu haus win: an outdoor house under which a mumu (typical Highlands feast) is cooked. Traditionally pig, sweet potato, greens, taro, corn, etc. are wrapped in banana leaves and left to steam in a hole placed on top of hot coals. The hole is positioned under the haus win

One of the lodge workers - a local elder and medicine woman - preparing a mumu

Me with friend Bernadine - Haus Poroman Lodge manager and daughter of Maggie Wilson (of First Contact fame)