IN THE MID 70s shortly after Papua New Guinea gained independence from colonizer Australia and was coping for the first time with nationhood, my parents were making do with new life and environment at their new home in Lae, then the country’s most developed urban center, being the hub of its fledgling economy.

With her experience dealing with a family of Aeta or Abyan, a group of indigenous natives, who then worked in my father’s small coconut farm in Paracale, Camarines Norte, my mother – Mrs Elvira Hernandez – had no problem interacting with PNG’s locals, especially mothers.

My late father Jaime, a mechanic whose expertise in diesel and gasoline engines brought him to PNG, had worked for a cargo hauling company as heavy equipment maintenance manager; at the same time he taught local guys at the workshop how to tinker with various engines and equipment parts. In many instances, he would be flown in a small plane to a remote spot in the highlands which was a daylong road travel from Lae just to resurrect a cargo trailer that conked out on the Highlands Highway built by Australians while on its way to another urban center with goods.

Safety, or the so-called security concern, was not a problem those days. Father and his two assistants confidently slept it out under the trailer truck for a couple of night or so until the engine was fixed, after which he would be picked up by a light plane at a nearby village airstrip and brought home to mother in Lae.

Meanwhile, mother would be left alone, not worrying about her own safety while at home. During those days in the 1970s, “raskolism” (a situation where criminals were a big threat to lives and properties as it is now in the present-day PNG), was not a problem. Local people were peaceful, lived simple lives and went about with their daily chores tilling food gardens where they raised kaukau (sweet potatoes), bananas, veggies and various root crops as part of their daily staple. Imported rice, then very rare, was being consumed mainly by Asians. The locals then had yet to discover eating rice.

Everyday, mom chatted with some local women who, on occasion, were asked to do some small paid chores around the house yards like clearing the grass and bushes. And once in a while, a fisherman with a load of fresh catch from the nearby bay would come to the house to offer his goods, something mom would immediately grab as they were sold to her very cheap. As soon as the man left, mom would ring up her Filipino friends around Lae to offer them the fish. In an hour, all would be taken, making mom several kina (PNG currency) richer as she had sold the fish at a price several times over what the fisherman had sold it to her.

One day, doing her housewifely routine while a local mother and her two teen-age daughters busied themselves clearing the yards around the house, my mother heard a shrieking sound of a crying baby. She dropped what she was doing, looked out of the backdoor in search of the spot where the frantic shriek was coming from. Mother knew it was a baby’s anguish sound but could not guess where it was.

Then, she noticed the woman stood up from the thick grass she was working on and walked towards a nearby tree; stopping in front of low branch sticking out, she hauled down from it what mother thought to be a hanging loosely-woven fiber net known as “bilum”. Suddenly, the sound of the baby’s crying ceased as the mother took out from it … a baby!

Watching the scene, Mother was pleasantly shocked, unbelieving that the baby had been hanging from that small tree branch while sleeping inside that “bilum” from the time the woman and her two daughters began working about two hours ago. Sitting ala-lotus style at the base of the tree, the woman began feeding the babe with her milk.

Mother could only shake her head, amused. In later days, she would learn from the woman it was usual for PNG mothers to bring along their young in “bilum” to work in their food gardens or go to the public market. They would usually hook the bag strap over their eyebrows while the baby hung heavy on their backs. At home, the baby would sleep in a bilum while it hung from a nail in the middle of the house.
As it is, the “bilum” turns out to be the counterpart of our “duyan” (hammock) which is quite bigger in size and still very common in many rural places in the Philippines.

In the olden days, the villagers weaved their bilum from strands out of pulped tree barks after which they were bleached and soaked in bright colors. These days, most of PNG bilums are fashioned out of imported woolen or cotton thread sold at Asian stores.

WHAT I SAW the other day at the shanty of my wife Mori’s parents at their settlement on the outskirts of Port Moresby shocked me a bit.

As I approached the house carrying the usual lunch that I packed in a stainless steel food carrier (piembrera) for Mori, Adei (Pidgin for mother-in-law), who was chatting with her neighbors, greeted me and said: “The baby’s in the house, sleeping … Mori is sorting out fresh nappies in the other room.” The “other room” is a small section of the shanty where both sides are open, thus allowing the breeze to blow through freely.

“Fine …” I told Adei and walked toward the house where I have to take the four-step ladder to reach the front of the wallboard door. Usually, whenever I poked my head inside the house from the doorway, as I have been doing every day, I would immediately see our month-old baby Veralynn on her small foam mattress which sits on the floor; and that she’s either sleeping or playing all by herself when awake.

I scanned the floor but neither did I see Veralynn nor the foam mattress.

A bit annoyed, I looked out of the door and hollered at my mother-in- law, now playing cards with her neighbors while seated on the ground: “Adei … where’s Vera …? She’s not here …!”

“She’s sleeping … inside the bilum ... it’s the one hanging …” Adei answered back, smiling.

I raised my eyes from the spot on the floor where Baby Veralynn used to lie down as she slept on her foam, and there, saw it for the first time: A small white bilum, inside of which was my baby and she was sleeping soundly. I didn’t notice the net pouch when I first came up the house a while ago.

I didn’t know if I would be amused or shocked: She’s inside that bilum which hung from two nails hammered into the wooden beam that propped three sheets of galvanized iron roofing. What if the bilum gave way from underneath? Or the strap snapped and she plunged straight toward the floor?

This thought just horrified me, not being used to seeing a sleeping baby inside it. When I was a kid, I rocked to deep slumber all six siblings after me in a “duyan” fashioned out of abaca fiber. Father would normally suspend the sleeping net between two opposite posts in the living room where it could swing freely in a wide sweep. And it was really safe for the one sleeping in it as it was suspended between two strong abaca ropes. But not with this bilum, so I worriedly thought.

As soon as I saw Mori in the other room, I gave her a little scolding over the bilum, but she said simply, indicating it was no big deal: “The floor’s dirty … I still have to mop the floor so I put her inside the net …”

Then, I remember my mother’s little tale about the baby inside a bilum that hung from a tree branch. Really, I have nothing to worry except that Veralynn looked awkward as she slept in the bilum. It’s been proven time and again ever since babies were carried by village mothers in bilum that it was safe as sleeping and carrying bag.

YESTERDAY NOON, Veralynn was again “hanging” as she slept a baby’s deep slumber, heavy with mother’s milk and looking so adorable in her serene, cherubic face, truly pinkish at her age of five weeks. This time, she’s in a bigger bilum in which she looked very unstrained and comfortable, with the breeze blowing down from the hill at the back of the house. Mori had just left the house for a postnatal checkup at the nearby family planning center run by religious sisters; she left Veralynn in her bilum, confident that she had had enough of her breast milk for lunch till she’s back from her errand.

Suddenly, I got the urged to go back to that shop where I saw a nice crib that would finally stop my anxiety over the baby bilum. I saw it when I was scouting for baby dresses and other stuff. There’s just one problem, though. Should I bring home that crib, there won’t be enough space in the house to move around, especially at night when they would be sleeping on the floor like sardines in a can. It’s an issue I continue to wrestle with these days. They have to understand or should learn to understand. I really have to bring this crib home for our baby’s comfort. Anyway, it’s one baby gear that we could not live without although I knew Veralynn, at her very young age, wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor next to mom. But until when? When she grows up a little more, well, that’s another story.



For feedback, email the writer: 
jarahdz500@online.net.pg
alfredophernandez@thenational.com.pg

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