Where the Ground Trembles: The Enga Cultural Show

For three days, the mountain town of Wabag fills with pounding kundu drums, war cries, painted bodies and towering headdresses. Bringing communities together from across Enga Province, the Enga Cultural Show is both a spectacular celebration and a powerful expression of cultural pride in a rapidly changing Papua New Guinea.

The young warrior was running straight at me. He carried a bow and arrows, his face painted for battle, and he let out a cry loud enough to scatter the crowd. My photographer’s instinct told me to keep shooting. The rest of my body voted for retreat.

I moved. Quickly. Later, I chose to remember this as a decisive change of camera angle.

The warrior stopped, grinned and returned to his group. Everyone laughed and surged forward again, ready to be frightened a second time. I had been at the Enga Cultural Show only a few hours and was beginning to understand the rules: nothing remained still, personal space was theoretical, and any attempt to look dignified would be punished.

That morning, I had entered the showground in Wabag with two cameras and a sensible plan. I would walk quietly, observe carefully and photograph without disturbing anyone. Within minutes, hundreds of dancers were stamping to the pounding of kundu drums, long feathers were bouncing above my head, and dust was coating every exposed surface of my equipment. My sensible plan did not survive the opening performance.

The ground seemed to pulse beneath my feet. Around me, faces shone with red, yellow, black and white paint. Shells rattled, grass skirts swung, and enormous headdresses moved through the crowd like independent life forms. Every direction offered a photograph. For a photographer, this is paradise – until paradise begins happening simultaneously on all sides.

The Suli Muli dancers formed a line beneath huge round hats of moss, plant fibre and hair. They jumped in unison to the beat of their drums, chanting “suli muli” as the feathers above them swayed like a second, less disciplined dance troupe. The rhythmic stamping rose through my shoes and into my chest, sending a small cloud of dust. The dancers appeared delighted. My lenses were less enthusiastic. They succeeded in keeping perfect time. I succeeded mainly in staying upright.

Suli Muli dancers

Sing sing group from Enga province

A ceremonial gathering like this is known in Papua New Guinea as a sing-sing. Groups had travelled to Wabag on foot and in buses and trucks, carrying drums, feathers, shells, leaves and everything required for their transformation. Some headdresses appeared to need a vehicle of their own. Once they entered the field, the separate arrivals merged into an exhilarating mixture of song, movement and colour.

The closer I looked, the less the show resembled one great blur of “traditional dress”. Every district had its own visual language, its own songs, decoration and way of moving.

Papua New Guinea is famous for its extraordinary linguistic diversity, with more than 800 languages spoken across the country. Enga is unusual because one language is spoken widely across the province, yet its communities remain culturally diverse. A shared language, however, has not produced a uniform culture. Clothing, ornamentation, songs and dances still vary from one district and community to another, and the showground made those differences gloriously visible.

The Enga Show is smaller and more intimate than the better-known gatherings at Mount Hagen and Goroka. That intimacy is part of its appeal. On my first visit, a few years earlier, I appeared to be the only tourist – an excellent arrangement for photography, though a slightly alarming one whenever an entire group turned to inspect me. When I returned the following year, there were more visitors.

Chimbu women

In one corner I found the Lyano Spiders, their bodies coated in mud and clay and their moss headdresses marked with white dots.  The group came from Lyano, a hill village associated with its many garden spiders. They stamped to the drums while vigorously shaking bunches of tanket leaves tucked into belts at the back – an adornment locally described, with admirable directness, as “arse grass”.

Then I noticed that while I was studying everybody, everybody was studying me. People waved, smiled and called me over. Children inspected my cameras and watched what I photographed. Surrounded by extravagant paint and feathers, I had somehow become interesting by wearing practical clothes and carrying too much equipment. I was certainly the least colourful attraction, but apparently still part of the programme.

This curiosity made it impossible to remain detached. People wanted to talk and explain their songs and decorations. Eventually I was pulled into a circle of dancers. I joined enthusiastically, which is not the same as joining competently. The Engans had spent generations perfecting their movements; I had spent several seconds watching them and considered myself prepared.

Nobody laughed openly, although several smiles suggested that my performance was contributing to the day in ways I had not intended. Their restraint was impressive.

By afternoon, the field had become a whirl of dust, feet and feathers. Warriors advanced with spears and axes, women danced beneath headdresses I could not have balanced while standing still, and the drums continued without mercy. I was exhausted from lifting my camera. Several grandmothers nearby were still dancing as if the day had only just begun. This did not improve my self-respect.

The Lyano Spiders

The moments that stayed with me most, however, happened away from the main field. Some new friends invited me to join their preparations early the following morning. They called it a “make-up session”, a description that seriously underestimated the engineering involved.

The next morning, before the fog had lifted from the surrounding green mountains of Wabag, the preparations were already underway. Men and women spent hours painting their faces and bodies, arranging feathers, tying leaves around their waists and arms, and checking elaborate headdresses. The air was cold enough to appreciate several layers of clothing. Many performers wore considerably fewer.

Watching the preparations changed what I saw. On the field, the dancers seemed to arrive fully formed out of dust and sound. Behind the scenes, every detail required time, concentration and other people’s hands. Adults helped one another. Children watched closely. Someone corrected a painted line; someone secured a feather. Culture was not simply being displayed for an audience. It was being practised and passed on.

Margaret Potane, chairwoman of the Enga Cultural Show

Cultural shows had been organised intermittently in Enga since 1982. Through the determination of the organising committee, particularly its energetic chairwoman Margaret Potane, the Enga Cultural Show became an annual event in 1994. It grew into a meeting place for communities from across Enga and, for a period, invited performers from other provinces as well.

Those visiting groups added still more drama. Chimbu women appeared beneath huge headdresses of bird-of-paradise feathers, some approaching a metre in length. The headdresses were traditionally intended to intimidate enemies and remained effective. Their bodies gleamed with plant oil and pig fat, used against the chill of the Highlands, while large kina shells displayed wealth and status. The shells had travelled inland from coastal regions and were precious long before souvenir shops discovered them.

Then a burst of war cries cut through the drums. A group of Hewa men, carrying bows and arrows, posed for the crowd. One young warrior crept within striking distance, screamed and sprang forward. Spectators scattered, shrieking, then immediately returned laughing – apparently confident that terror lasting only a few seconds qualified as entertainment. I moved too, although I prefer to describe it as a rapid adjustment of photographic position.

Nearby, women from the Western Highlands and Jiwaka provinces stomped beneath enormous feathered headdresses. Layers of shells covered their chests, kundu drums thundered, and the sun blazed overhead. The performers showed no sign of tiring. I, who was doing nothing more strenuous than lifting cameras, had already begun to negotiate with myself about finding shade.

Other groups had travelled from much farther away: performers in red laplaps from East New Britain, groups from Manus, and boys carrying wooden guns in imitation of Australian colonial patrol officers. One Sepik delegation carried crocodiles – some artificial and one unmistakably alive – which was presented to Enga’s provincial governor, Sir Peter Ipatas. It was the sort of official gift that would prompt several urgent risk-assessment meetings in Switzerland.

Hewa tribe

Dancers from Western Highlands and Jiwaka provinces

East New Britain group

Sing sing from Manus province

Sir Peter Ipatas, Enga’s provincial governor

Security is taken seriously at the Enga Show

In more recent years, the organisers chose to concentrate the show on Enga culture, with Hela remaining an exception because of the close ancestral and cultural ties between the provinces. The decision made the purpose of the gathering clearer: this was not simply a parade assembled for visitors, but a place for Engans to meet, perform and decide what they wanted to carry forward.

Huli Wigmen from Hela Province were especially striking. Their towering ceremonial wigs were made from human hair and decorated with feathers; their faces shone in red and yellow, and hornbill beaks rested on their backs. Forming a disciplined line, they jumped in unison while the wigs moved above them. Watching the dancers, I wondered how long it takes to learn such coordination. Watching the headdresses, I wondered how they avoided colliding.

Huli wigmen from Hela province

After three days, I stopped trying to photograph everything. I could not, and my cameras had collected enough dust to establish a small garden. My notebooks were chaotic, my clothes had changed colour, and I had lost any remaining illusion that photographers remain invisible. More importantly, the show was larger than its most spectacular images. It lived in the conversations, the shared preparations and the pride with which people invited me into their celebration.

When the drums finally quietened, feathers were packed away, and the field slowly emptied. I left with aching legs, filthy cameras, a much less flattering assessment of my dancing ability and the uncomfortable suspicion that several Engan grandmothers could dance longer than I could stand upright.

The Enga Show is spectacular, but spectacle alone is not what stayed with me. The paint is washed away. Leaves wilt, feathers are packed up, and the dust settles. What remains is the pride with which people explained their songs, clothing and family traditions, and the determination required to bring communities together year after year.