We are taken to a hospital in the old part of town. The building is tatty, a crumpling colonial ruin. Staff gather in the kitchen lean against the benches, around the wall. Quiet chatting until the charge nurse begins. ‘All our residents have a gift.’ The staff nod and murmur. ‘They see spirits,’ she says, ‘And mostly spirits that are not safe. In the olden times, these people would have talked to these spirits. People paid them in chickens, fruit, and vegetables sometimes a pig – to pass on messages. The spirits told them stories about the ancestors. Reminded them of ways to live. This tradition worked well until the missionaries came and if they found someone with this skill they were locked away.’ Later we wander about with the visiting families. Watch as they share food, gifts, show photos of children, grandchildren. Tell stories of this one or that – who has gone to live in Port Moresby, Brisbane, Hong Kong. Who is playing music, who is studying. The patients listen and nod. But they keep their gaze on the forest where they long to walk among the trees of the ancestors and the bird and animals. It is a sad and beautiful place held in quiet acceptance by the nurses. Like time stopped and they are held in a dream. The green paint peels from the walls and the old cane furniture has darkened with age. Louvres are jammed open the rain marks the wall and geckoes run along the verandas. And time slows as we become lost in the forest language of the patients and the kindness of nurses.
From: Vol.09 N.01 – A Poetics of Rights
Spirits
by
Leni Shilton