A Life Threaded with Culture, Faith, and Technology

A paradoxical perspective of the triune complexity of culture, religion and technology that intertwines.

26^th December 2024- Desmond Narongou 3:36AM- Port Moresby

1.Life in the Village: Back to my roots!

Growing up in the village, life was simple yet profoundly rich. My village, Tofungu, located in Ward 8 of Karaitem, West Wapei LLG, Aitape/Lumi District, was nestled at least 6 kilometers away from the main station (Lumi) along the road to Vanimo. Surrounded by dense forests and towering mountains, it was a place where nature and community coexisted in harmony. The air was fresh, and the mornings began with the crowing of roosters and the scent of dew-soaked earth. We spoke Olo, a language that bound us together and connected us to our ancestors. Children played traditional games under the shade of massive trees, while the adults worked tirelessly in gardens and fields, cultivating crops that sustained the community. Storytelling around the evening fire was a cherished tradition, where elders shared wisdom and tales of our ancestors, passing down cultural knowledge.

Village life was also marked by some ancient and mysterious practices. We had sorcery-related rituals and dead spells, believed to ward off evil or protect the community. When someone passed away or an important event is happening, the sound of garamut drums echoed through the village and the neighboring villages, signaling the death or the event to all. We would often spend time in bush camps, where we slept under the stars, worked in the gardens, tended to pigs, harvested sago, and engaged in hunting. These activities were essential for survival and deeply connected us to the land, forging a sense of responsibility and respect for the environment.

I witnessed firsthand my how father’s family—his mother, uncles, and their wives—interacting with one another in a way that shaped my understanding of family bonds. They were figures of authority, love, and support, guiding me through the complexities of our cultural traditions. The influence of elders in our family was profound; their wisdom helped to weave the fabric of our community, and I learned from them the importance of respect, patience, and loyalty. This strong sense of family and shared responsibility was a cornerstone of my upbringing.

In my area ( Wape people of Lumi), there are many customary obligations that sometimes frustrated me. I would often discuss and air out my views on these obligations with my father, grandparents, aunties, and other chiefs in the village. Despite these frustrations, my father, grandfather, grandmother, uncles and aunties and my mother often shared a powerful phrase with me: “Il pingis pite uf ma mesiepe mapsi il molie so ma puntoli ku wem fei lepei,” meaning “We must uphold our village and cultural traditions to help us navigate life in these modern times.” I used to ponder this phrase for a long time, sometimes questioning practices like bride price, first born children were forbidden to eat red marita or first haircut of a first-born child is forbidden until money is given to the kanderes (uncles from a mother’s side) during customary exchanges, and other ceremonies in the village. In our culture, the kanderes are held in high regard. To us, they were like gods, after our parents. Every word they speak to their sisters’ children is either a blessing or cursing. We accord them with deep respect and value.

As I would ask my father, uncles, aunties, and grandparents and try to question the rationality and the why’s of these traditions that demanded money, time, attention and food: My father would say, “Ninge, fei ye eli school, retai il pite molie, le ye fale metine, le ye irpei ma isape il pingis pite uf pato lom?.” meaning, “Son, now that you are educated, know English, and know more and have become a man, do you intend to stray from our culture? No way!” He would nod in disapproval and continue, “Pingis pite uf yai ulul (Papa God) laptei sungoi pire yaires re manres pite ku wei sungoi pau fei so ye ma isape? Olo tei! Le ye ma isape ma moingis ulul ye ma kapi,” meaning “These traditions have been with our ancestors since before time began. And you want to abandon them? Never! If you do, you will bring a curse upon yourself and face hardships along your path.”

During my early years, I witnessed my father, his brothers, and uncles partnering with members of another clan to start their first company, Erika Trading (the name is derived from the name of my clan, Eritei, and the other clan Kamneite). It flourished for a time but eventually became liquidated and bankrupt due to poor management. My father later ventured into his own trade store, which he operated for a while before dissolving it to focus on his pastoral duties under Wippon’s ministry, where he served as a senior figure.

Later, my village people, led by dad joined forces with two neighboring villages to form a transport company called Alasi Transport. Sadly, it too failed to sustain operations due to mismanagement among the shareholders. On my maternal side, my grandfather partnered with farmers in our area to form an association called Olo Farmers. My grandfather, being a leading figure, would often call on my dad, uncles, and other executives to assist. The association grew well and branched out into businesses such as trade stores, poultry farming, cocoa, rubber, fishing, goat and cattle grazing, and other agricultural activities, with support from local didiman officers.

I still recall one humorous moment during those days. My dad, bubuman (grandfather), my uncle and I attended a meeting with the association executives. While the discussions went on, my mum’s youngest brother and I played outside. At one point, my uncle, noticing they were busy, sneaked into the store and grabbed a tin of OX & Palm—a prized commodity at the time. I stood there, jaw-dropped, unsure of what to say. But my grandfather, with his sharp eyesight, caught him red-handed. What happened next? My uncle got belted and returned the tin meat to the store! Moments like these, though mischievous, showed me the seriousness and values behind the businesses my family, the elders and village were trying to build.

I also remember how my dad and bubuman would use their PNG Banking Corporation passbooks to withdraw money. Back then, a K10’s value felt like K100 today. I can still see them carefully flipping through the pages, checking balances, and planning their expenses. Money, for them, wasn’t just a currency; it symbolized responsibility, a means to provide for family, invest in ventures, and support the community.

These experiences taught me valuable lessons about business, responsibility, and family, and they remain a cornerstone of my upbringing and identity.

Over time, I realized that these traditions hold value, driving respect, bond and unity, deeply rooted in our society.

2.Modern Life: Education, Employment and business

My first day of school was a mixture of excitement and fear. The school was a modest structure, but it represented a gateway to knowledge and a world beyond the village. Learning to read and write opened new horizons, yet it came with challenges such as long walks to school and limited resources. Friendships forged during these years were lifelong, and teachers became second parents who shaped our aspirations. The pride of wearing a uniform and holding chalk and a pencil for the first time remains vivid in my memory. As I further on my education, I got a different perspective into the world around me.

Transitioning to university life was both thrilling and daunting. Leaving the familiarity of the village for a bustling urban environment was a culture shock. University broadened my perspective, exposing me to diverse ideas, cultures, and disciplines. It was a period of self-discovery, where I honed my critical thinking and found my voice. Balancing academic pressures with social life was challenging, but it prepared me for the complexities of the real world. These years laid the foundation for my career and personal growth.

Entering the workforce was a significant milestone, marking the transition from theory to practice. My first job taught me the value of discipline, teamwork, and perseverance. It was a time of learning and unlearning, as I navigated workplace dynamics and sought to make a meaningful contribution. Each role I undertook came with unique lessons, shaping my professional identity. To me, work became more than a means of survival and livelihood; it as a platform to impact lives and build a legacy, and to contribute meaningly to impacting the community around me.

3.Cultural Heritage, its Legacy and Spiritual Transformation

Growing up, my cultural heritage was a source of pride and identity, deeply rooted in the stories passed down through generations, as with many of us in Papua New Guinea. One of the most profound stories told by my elders was that of our origins. According to the tale, our ancestors originated from a cassowary, a bird revered in our culture. When the cassowary sought to lay an egg, instead of an egg, it gave birth to a human being, who became our greatest grandfather. Through him, all of my ancestors came into being, and he is regarded as the elder of my clan. This story, passed down through the generations, reflects the deep connection we have with the natural world and the belief that our lineage is intertwined with the spirit of the cassowary.

In those early days, as my “tumbuna” (ancestral) story goes, this figure, our great ancestor, nurtured and cared for the people, ensuring the survival of the clan. These stories have shaped our worldview, offering wisdom and insight into the values of leadership, respect, and community that have sustained us through the ages.

My maternal grandfather was born before World War II, in 1928, and passed on at the age of 88, just when I completed my final year of tertiary education. He married my grandmother after returning from the plantations in Madang and the New Guinea Islands during the colonial days. He would recount stories of his experiences during the war as a teenager in the village, such as the Japanese warplanes bombing the area daily. Fires were never to be lit during the day as the smoke would signal the presence of people, prompting air raids. Cooking and food preparation had to be done at night, and during the day, people would hide in the rocks and trees to avoid detection. After the war, peace returned, and life resumed. Many men, including my grandfathers from both maternal and paternal sides, had been recruited by the Australians as plantation workers in the NGI, Madang, and other parts of PNG.

By then, the Roman Catholic Church had established itself in the area, and much of my mother’s land had been taken over for missionary expansion, along with other areas by the CBC Church and the Australian government. Australian patrol officers and kiaps would be stationed in our area, patrolling to Vanimo, Aitape, Wewak, and Amanab—those were the glory days when Lumi Station was once a beacon of colonial administration in the Sepik region.

A major cultural shift occurred with Papua New Guinea’s independence, marking a new era of self-governance. My grandparents and parents would often recount how, during that time, roads were in much better condition, and traveling by plane was cheap, costing around K8.00 to K12.00 (which is a very big money at that time) between Lumi, Wewak, Vanimo, or Aitape.

The arrival of Christianity in our region, particularly through the influence of Spanish missionaries in the 1600s, shaped our history significantly. The first clergymen accompanying explorers, such as the Spaniards led by Luís Vaz de Torres, had a lasting impact on the spiritual landscape of the New Guinea Islands. This early exposure to Christianity laid the foundation for the later spread of Roman Catholicism and Protestant denominations, which became deeply embedded in the culture and identity of my people.

Through all these changes, I witnessed a profound transformation in my community—a shift that intertwined our traditional beliefs with Christianity, creating a new path forward while honouring the past. The curiosity about such stories piqued my interest in studying history during my secondary education. As I learned more about the Spanish missionaries and the broader history of Christianity in Papua New Guinea, I gained a deeper understanding of how these early interactions between Christianity and our culture shaped the transformation I witnessed in my own family and community.

Another religious shift came in the 1980s when a Wape intellectual, Godfrey Wippon, became part of a Pentecostal movement. While living and working in Melbourne, Australia, he had struggled with sickness, seeking treatment from both medicine and magic powers, but nothing worked. When invited to attend a local church, then Revival Centres of Australia (now Revival Centres Church), founded by Loyd Longfield in the 1950s, he heard a sermon about repentance and being empowered by the Holy Spirit. That day, he was baptized and filled with the Holy Spirit, and his illness was instantly healed. Upon returning to PNG, he spread this Pentecostal Revival movement, leading many, including my family, to abandon their Roman Catholic beliefs/dogmas and embrace the Holy Spirit’s transformative power through the Gospel.

This movement brought about immediate and evident changes in the lives of those who followed it. My clan’s men, once known for their short tempers, became more peace-loving. Many abandoned witchcraft and magic spells—practices tied to finding women, hunting, gardening, making money, and marriage—once they embraced the revival brought by Godfrey Wippon. The transformation was remarkable, with some still holding on to the old bad ways, but many who experienced the teachings of the Bible chose to live according to Judeo-Christian values.

This transformation extended deeply into my personal life. My grandfather, a respected elder in my mother’s village, was known for his hospitality and kindness. He was a figure I adored, always sleeping by his side and seeking his prayers when I was unwell. I had an unbreakable bond with him, one that, like a marriage vow, “till death do us apart.” His prayers, filled with warmth and faith, brought healing, and that connection remained a cornerstone of my upbringing.

This deep connection with my grandfather, along with the stories and experiences shared by my elders, instilled in me a love for history. From the tales of our ancestors to the arrival of Christianity and the colonial era, these narratives continue to shape my identity and understanding of the world.

4.Marriage and Family Traditions

Some of the traditions passed down to me mostly verbally or in written form, and those that I had the chance to witness in the village, were central to understanding the essence of marriage and family. In my village, marriage was often a blend of arranged traditions and personal choice, reflecting both respect for family and individual desire.  If a young man or woman found someone they admired, they would approach the family with a proposal. One common phrase spoken in my village, in the Olo language, when a man came to ask for the hand of a daughter in marriage, the girl’s family would respond:

“Ye ninge tulei, yilfis paitei, le fei ye fale metine le ye aule fale winem louku lite ma karine, ku ma mirpei il men, moto nepe ( kaiko feris pouku)  ye kani ilane elfe, le ye maso untoluwene oporo. Ku minigitei il nemple olipes pau fale mingim pouku kolo, re ku mingiteifepe paule papuwe mingim pouku, ye ma uluku mau/maule faule uf leye.”

This can be translated as: “You’ve shown that you are a man, have grown testicles and have come to her house to ask for her. Here she is, and we’ve given her to you to marry, make sure you take care of her well. We don’t want to hear anything bad happens to our kaiko feris (beautiful young female kumul, referring to a young girl) reaching our ears, but if we do, you will see our faces in your village, meaning we will come and bring danger to you.”

This saying captured the essence of responsibility, love, and respect that were integral to the bond of marriage in our culture. It was a reminder to the man that his role as a husband was not just to marry but to protect and cherish the woman, and failure to do so would result in serious consequences from her family.

On the set date, the bride’s family will leave the village with her and head straight to her husband-to-be’s village. A huge marriage reception ceremony is celebrated (with wailing, tears of joy, shouting, garamut beatings) including feast is prepared. Bride-price is also sorted out during this time. The practice of bride price in my village traditionally involved money, which was paid to the bride’s family. However, the marriage process also included significant gifts from the bride’s family to the bride herself. These gifts, deeply symbolic and practical, were a way to ensure the well-being of the bride and her new family. The family would provide the bride with food, utensils for cooking. Sometimes even a portion of land, a river or creek, or sago plants, if the bride was the firstborn or the only daughter in her family, her father or brothers would give her these gifts as a token of respect and care, ensuring that she and her children would be well provided for. This practice emphasized the importance of honouring and supporting the bride, not just through the marriage but also in her new life as a wife and mother.

Marriage in our village was seen not only as a union between two individuals but also as a union between their families. It carried deep cultural significance, where respect, trust, and commitment were key values. The responsibilities associated with marriage were understood from a young age—marrying meant not just joining with a partner but also taking on the responsibility of nurturing and caring for a new family. This cultural framework was supported by our religious beliefs, which stressed that men should maintain a proper marriage to ensure a stable and prosperous life for both partners.

Polygamy was not common in my village and my mother’s village. Polygamous marriage was never part of my clan’s tradition. . From my great-grandparents onward, neither my mother’s nor my father’s side practiced polygamy. Our ancestors kept a vigilant eye out for one another, protecting the integrity of the family structure. Peace and stability were maintained throughout, and the notion of multiple marriages within a family was rare. Our focus was always on ensuring a harmonious and supportive environment for all members of the community. Polygamous practices were typically avoided, as the balance of peace and unity was paramount. The unity and respect for family within our clan have always been steadfast, with a focus on mutual care and understanding, ensuring peace and harmony in our village.

However, those who did engage in polygamous marriages or adulterous activities brought about great jealousy and conflict. When a man found out that his wife had been unfaithful, or if a woman discovered her husband’s infidelity, it often led to fierce jealousy. In many cases, these tensions would escalate to the point where the husband, or the other man involved, would resort to using magic or sorcery in an attempt to kill one another. Such actions would sometimes result in family curses that could affect generations, damaging the lineage of those involved. These events served as powerful reminders of the importance of maintaining respect and loyalty in marriage, as the consequences could be far-reaching and destructive.

A man’s responsibilities in marriage and in family included providing for the family by hunting, building shelter, and ensuring the family’s security, while women played an equally important role by tending the gardens, raising pigs, and making sago. Sago was a staple food in our culture, and each clan had vast hectares of sago palms. My ancestors were hardworking and invested in cultivating gardens, which resulted in an abundance of sago palms, tulips, and other traditional foods. As I grew older, I began to appreciate the hard work my ancestors put into ensuring we had surplus food to sustain us, ensuring that we never went hungry.

One of the core values in my community was sharing or barter exchange. It was a common practice for my clan, as the leading clan in the village, to share sago with neighbouring clans. This sharing allowed others to extract sago for their use, ensuring that we all respected each other’s sago boundaries and land boundaries. This practice was not only about sustenance but also about maintaining harmony and mutual respect, as these boundaries often served to prevent internal village disputes.

As I reflect on these practices, I realize how interconnected they were with the values of community, responsibility, and the sacredness of family life. The traditions I grew up with, alongside the teachings and expectations placed upon each of us, formed a foundation for living that transcended individual desire and centred on the collective well-being. These lessons continue to shape my views on family and marriage today.

Fights over land, pigs, or sago palms were also common. These resources were deeply tied to the livelihood and survival of families and claims of ownership often sparked conflicts. These disputes, fueled by jealousy, greed, and misunderstandings, sometimes led to physical altercations or long-standing feuds. Most times, however, retaliation was done secretly, using sorcery or witchcraft, which would result in unnatural deaths. Such issues, though, were resolved through peaceful mediation in the form of a reconciliation ceremony. This ceremony brought all parties together to publicly admit the use of sorcery, during which pigs were killed, and food was exchanged. This act would resolve the sorcery and restore life to normal, ensuring that peace and harmony were once again established within the village.

This was the tradition as told to me by my fathers, and it highlighted the balance between maintaining peace, resolving conflicts, and restoring order in a way that honored both the spiritual and cultural aspects of our community.

5.The Paradoxical Perspectives: Culture, Faith, and Technology

As I recount my journey from village life to town and city, I find myself at a crossroads—a place where age-old traditions meet the sweeping forces of modernity. My ancestral practices, which have stood the test of time, are precious and will always be cherished. Yet, some aspects of our culture, such as the use of magic chants and harmful practices, I choose not to carry forward. Modern life, powered by technology, offers new opportunities for independence and progress, but it also brings a stark contrast to my heritage. The tension between my village roots, the shift brought about by Christianity (specifically Judeo-Christian values), and the influence of technology—digital advancements, mobile technology, and AI—has created a paradox in my life. Questions flood my mind daily: Should I forget my roots? If not, how do I embrace them while navigating modern life? How can I teach my generation to value these traditions? My native language, Tokples, seems to be fading as younger generations struggle to speak it fluently. How can I preserve this knowledge for future generations, including my own children, family, and clan? As I adopt Judeo-Christian values, which in some ways resonate with my ancestral teachings, I wonder if technology will eventually erase the memories and cultural identity I hold dear.

Reflecting on my journey, a profound paradox emerges—a delicate tension between the culture I inherited, the faith I embraced, and the technology I’ve adopted. My clan’s history was once defined by practices like communal garamut beats signaling important events, and rituals passed through generations. Yet, as faith brought by the Revival movement introduced faith in Jesus Christ and the Bible (the Judeo-Christian beliefs), unity, and a renewed sense of purpose, many of these ancient practices were abandoned. Were we abandoning the wisdom of our ancestors, or were we stepping into a truer light?

The arrival of technology added another layer to this paradox and further complicates this narrative. On one hand, it opened doors to connection, education, and progress, but it also presented new challenges to cultural continuity and spiritual devotion. While I use modern tools to document, preserve and share our history such as this recount I am crafting, I also witness how these tools erode the communal bonds that were once strengthened through face-to-face storytelling and shared experiences. Does the efficiency of technology come at the cost of our humanity? How do we embrace innovation without losing sight of who we are?

As I continue to reflect, I see a paradox unfolding—a complex weave of culture, religion, and technology. The transformation from traditional sorcery practices to Judeo-Christian values in my clan is a testament to the power of faith. Yet, embracing the Revival movement came with a price. To adopt new spiritual revelations, we had to let go of certain cultural practices that had been deeply ingrained for generations. My grandfather, a guardian of tradition, stood at a crossroads, torn between preserving ancestral wisdom and adapting to a new spiritual reality.

This triad of culture, faith, and technology continues to shape my identity. I find myself navigating between the sacred teachings of my faith, the inherited wisdom of my culture, and the transformative power of technology. At times, the integration of these elements feels seamless, like the strands of a bilum (traditional woven bag), strong and harmonious. Yet, at other times, they seem to pull me in different directions, forcing me to ask difficult questions: How do I honour traditions while embracing change? Can I live out my faith without abandoning the practices that shaped my ancestors? Will technology uplift our communities, or will it further disconnect us from our roots?

This tension is real, but it is not a problem to be solved; it is a paradox to be lived. As my father often reminds me, “We must uphold our traditions to navigate modern times.” These words guide me as I strive to balance the wisdom of the past, the challenges of the present, and the opportunities of the future. Perhaps this paradox is a gift—a reminder that growth and identity are forged in the dance of opposites. In embracing this tension, I find not only conflict but also clarity, purpose, and the resilience to walk forward into the unknown.

In this paradox lies the essence of my story. Culture grounds me, faith inspires me, and technology propels me forward. Together, they create a dynamic interplay that defines not only who I am but also the evolving story of my people. As I walk this path, I am once again reminded of my father’s words: “We must uphold our traditions to navigate modern times.” His wisdom resonates now more than ever, as I strive to honour the past, live meaningfully in the present, and embrace the future.

© December 2024. All rights reserved by Desmond Narongou. This personal recount is the exclusive property of the author. Unauthorized reproduction such as editing, sharing, or publication elsewhere is prohibited.