1. Mirror, Mirror

Today is a big day. Really big. For me, it’s one of the highlights of traveling to Papua New Guinea. “How much longer?” someone asks from the very back of the van. “Almost there,” is the response. The small group that I’m traveling with is heading to the Tumbuna Sing-Sing. The annual event is one of the spirited celebrations and competitions honoring the native people before European contact. The day will be filled with tribal dancing, music and expressively unique costumes – many including extravagantly made headdresses from the feathers of birds indigenous to this island. Our alarm clocks went off extra early today to make sure that we would be the first group to arrive. We all agreed that we wanted to beat the crowds and have ample opportunity to watch and photograph each clan as they prepare for their performance. Mother Nature will be their dressing room and a large clearing in a field will be their stage. This remote location outside of Mt. Hagen is tucked away between farmland and the rolling hillsides. And although it looks beautiful through the window, the van door opens and the stench of a farm fills the air. Whoa… I wasn’t prepared for that… I walk past a long stall, filled with huge pigs. I actually take pause with their size since I’ve never seen pigs this enormous before. In a country where pigs represent wealth, I’m assuming the owner of these must be very rich. I continue walking, and our group is ushered behind a small home. There, we find women with fur pelts and layers of shells draped over their chests. I photograph one of the women who has already applied red and yellow paint to her nose and cheekbones. I watch as she carefully finishes her ensemble by putting on her pretty peach headdress. For a moment, I wonder which bird here is that beautiful shade of orange and try to make a mental note to ask my guide, Suzanne. The woman proudly turns and looks at me. I take more images of her, thank her, and then leave the group to wander off on my own. I make my way down a dirt path flanked by different tribes getting ready for the show. I see the Asaro Mudmen, a very well-known tribe and I walk over to join their small group. They tell me, “No photo,” while they continue covering their bodies in white mud. I respect what they say and instead lie on the ground to go eye-to-eye with the enormous clay heads that they’ve crafted and will soon wear. Even at this level they look a little spooky and support the legend that the Mudmen’s enemies thought they were spirits and ran in fear of them. I take a few images, brush myself off and take a moment to watch the small tribe getting ready. One of the younger men surprisingly asks me for money to stay with them, so I decide to leave. The tribe on the other side of them is applying vibrant colors to their faces. One of them holds a mirror as he dips his paintbrush in a small jar of red paint and applies it around his eyes. The rest of his face is already painted white, black and yellow. Black seems to be a dominate face color with a lot of the men here, while I’ve noticed that a lot of the women wear white and another color or two like the group to my right. Naturally inclined to photograph women, I eagerly walk over to join them. Two of the women are welcoming and it’s thrilling to be with them. I stay out of their way as I take images, listening to them happily talking in a language that I don’t know. Between the sights and sounds I almost feel overwhelmed with what I’m seeing through my lens. Between their expressive face painting, headdresses and magnificently weighty neck collars, I almost don’t notice their beautiful arm, hip and ankle bands, along with the full palm skirts that they adorn. Since I have limited time before their performance begins, I ask one of the women who seems to be fully dressed if I can take her portrait. She agrees and then smiles as she looks at herself on the back of my camera. I thank her and then see a woman who must be arriving late. She rushes up and begins the process of painting her face. I stay out of her way and stand behind her as she slowly applies an outline of bright blue paint to the white mask around her eyes. It’s a tedious process, but I patiently observe, waiting for her to look in my direction. Eventually she does, and I take the image of her eyes, reflected in the broken piece of mirror that she is holding. She doesn’t skip a beat but maintains her concentration and keeps painting, seemingly unconcerned with my presence. Another woman approaches her holding a grass skirt, and they get into a conversation that seems to break the intensity of her painting. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but it seems like girl talk as they check each other out and start to laugh, one of them almost uncontrollably. Another woman, not in costume, appears and starts to dress the latecomer. I can almost feel their collective sigh when she is finally dressed… I’m excited to see this group of women perform, as well as many of the others that have gathered. To my left, I can see the Mudmen. They are standing in a small group all holding their “heads” in their hands. It’s a great photo opportunity, but they said “no photo”. I honor that… Hearing the sound of a drum, I make my way toward the seating area. I know that is the signal that the grand pageantry is about to begin.