Nate and I left a little after 1 on Friday afternoon. The rain was drearily drizzling down as it had been all day. Every time it held off and brightened up for a little bit, it was only a tease.
In my rain jacket and holding an umbrella over my head, we started off on what we figured was a three hour hike. Destination – singsing. A half hour of trudging through the mud brought us to a village and we found it full of Pal people headed for the singsing but waiting out the rain.
We were led out of the rain and into a house and we spent the next couple hours storying and drying our socks by the fire. The rain quit, this time for good, and the sky showed patches of blue mixed in with the grey. It was time to get moving again.
We were no longer alone as we walked steadily onward, our party growing larger the closer we drew to our destination. The party stopped next to a creek and the ‘bilasing’ (decorating) began. Everyone who had feathers attached them to some part of their body; hair, arms, even their beards. Grasses were cut and arm bands and headwear made. Then, a little singsing warm-up got underway.
Three of the men, the ‘big’ men, beat kundu drums while the rest repeatedly pounded cut pieces of dried bamboo into the hard earth keeping rhythm with the drums. They chanted and sang, their voices eerie and deep, their words incomprehensible to me. It only lasted a few minutes and then we were on our way again.
Darkness closed in around us as we continued down the trail with the men, and many women and children. Before night had fully descended we arrived at a clearing with one lone house standing in the middle. “Was this our destination?” I asked. It was not.
Fires were lit and banana leaves cut (to sit on) as the people enjoyed their last opportunity for rest before a night filled with dancing and song. They waited until well past dark before moving on again. Nate and I were led to the front of the group and taken to our destination first.
We were greeted there by dozens of friendly people, most of whom I had never met before. They were all Pal people, but their homes are far from the area we live. We enjoyed shaking hands and chatting for a little while as all waited for the singsing to begin.
The people we had traveled with (those from our area) would perform the singsing while those from the host area would spectate and motivate them on throughout the night with much cheering and encouragement. About 10pm, the people gathered and the singsing began.
One man stood in the center, beating a kundu drum, as 30-40 others sat around him thumping their bamboo on the ground. Around those stood another half dozen men, each with a kundu, creating a crowded circle. The spectators sat and stood on all sides hooting and hollering, and sometimes swaying with the rhythm of the beat. 40 voices were raised in unified song filling the dense night air with their music. On and on the songs went, the pounding of the drums rarely ceasing.
In the middle of the night an hour long break was taken as all the people ate and prepared themselves for the stretch run till daybreak. Huge pots of boiled yams and ‘wa’ (wild meat) were passed around until everyone was more than satisfied. Then, the singsing continued.
It was one in the morning when I crawled into a nearby house, wrapped my rain jacket around me, and went to sleep on the cold wood floor. The music continued around me and in my dreams as I went in and out of sleep over the next few hours. A little after 5am I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and went back outside.
The drums were still beating and their voices still flowing, seemingly as strong and full as when they had started. 6am came and the first streaks of dawn light pierced the darkness. Fifteen minutes later a group of young men ran up a hill towards the sun. From the top they gave a shout – the sun was rising, the singsing could end.
The people found the strength for one more song, and then it was over. Before the dying echoes of their last chorus had faded they were ripping off their bilas and smashing their bamboo drums. They tore the grasses from their heads and arms and used their feet to stomp and splinter the bamboo. The singsing was over, this signified the end.
The host community butchered a couple pigs and a feast was underway, but Nate and I were weary and eager to return to our families. We shook hands and said our good byes and then trudged slowly home as the sun steadily rose on a nice blue day.
I am not sure of the purpose of this singsing, and I know little of the meaning of their songs, but it was an experience I won’t soon forget. Today I know a little more about our Pal friends. I have now experienced that much more of their culture. This is my job – to learn their language and understand their ways.
I may have more questions than answers, but the day will come when those questions are answered and I have little left to ask. Pray for us as we continue in language and culture study. Right now we’re the students and they are the teachers, but one day we’ll be the teachers and we’ll be giving them the most important message this world has ever heard.
Pray that the light would go forth in Pal.