From a plane filled with laughter and vegetables to solemn funerals in remote villages, experience the unique flights and rich customs of Papua New Guinea through the eyes of MAF Pilot Bridget Ingham.
Story by Bridget Ingham
“Balus i pulap tru!” I remarked (‘The plane is really full!’) - and the nine ladies on board laughed. They were joining hundreds of other women from Baptist churches throughout the Min area for their annual ladies’ conference at Tabubil.
Telefomin, Eliptamin, Oksapmin, Wobagen, Ok Isai - the response was the same when I got out of the plane and people saw that a lady pilot had come to take the ladies from their village to Tabubil. “Ooweee! Meri pailot! Meri balus! Ooweee!” (‘Ooweee! A lady pilot! A ladies’ plane! Ooweee!’)
I remarked, 'Balus i pulap tru!' ('The plane is really full!') - and the nine ladies on board laughed. They were joining hundreds of other women from Baptist churches throughout the Min area for their annual ladies’ conference at Tabubil.
Since these were special charter flights, the women weren’t limited to the usual 16kg assigned to seat fare passengers. The weight limit was a combined one for the whole plane, so they brought bags of vegetables to share at the conference - sweet potato, taro, kumu (leafy greens), spring onions, bananas. Most of the time there was too much to fit in the cargo pods, so I ended up strapping a lot of it down in the cabin. Balus i pulap tru!
The conference, the mountains of vegetables I flew, and the reception and gifts I was given at the different airstrips (including a bird-of-paradise headdress by the ladies at Wobagen), were a celebration of life. This is one of the foundations of Papua New Guinean culture. If we’re going to have a party, let’s make it a big one! The ladies’ enthusiasm was contagious, and I truly enjoyed flying them to Tabubil.
In a different kind of celebration of life, I flew three body charters in four days. In PNG culture it is important for a person to be buried in their home village. The more status the person had, the bigger the haus krai (funeral), to show respect, so often the coffin will be accompanied by hundreds of kilos of food.
When I land at a bush airstrip with a coffin on board, there is usually a big crowd waiting. Different places have different customs - some are subdued, while others mourn loudly and publicly. If it’s the latter, the passengers in the plane often start wailing just as I am preparing to land - a distraction I don’t need at that point!
At Wanakipa, a group of ladies wearing white tunics were singing and waving tanget leaves as I taxied up to the parking bay. After shutting down, I did what I needed to in checking over the aircraft, removed the cargo straps holding the coffin in place (and the other cargo accompanying it), then opened the door and moved away from the aircraft to allow the community to do their thing.
One of the locals approached me to shake my hand. He often did this when I came to that airstrip, so I obliged. Like the other mourners, he had smeared his face and arms with mud. I suddenly found I was turned from observer into participant, as he grasped my hand, pressed his face into my shoulder and started wailing. He continued for a minute or so, then let go and proceeded to the next person, as others lifted the coffin out of the plane and carried it up the hill to where a noisy crowd was waiting.
“It’s just their custom,” explained a teacher standing nearby, who I would be flying out.
“I know,” I replied, feeling a little awkward but also honoured, in a way, to have been included.