The Future of Indigenous Museums: Perspectives from the Southwest Pacific 9780857455727

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The Future of Indigenous Museums

Social Identities General Editors: Shirley Ardener, Tamara Dragadze and Jonathan Webber Based on a prominent Oxford University seminar founded over two decades ago by the social anthropologist Edwin Ardener, this series focuses on the ethnic, historical, religious, and other elements of culture that give rise to a social sense of belonging, enabling individuals and groups to find meaning both in their own social identities and in what differentiates them from others. Each volume is based on one specific theme that brings together contemporary material from a variety of cultures. Volume 1 Changing Sex and Bending Gender Alison Shaw and Shirley Ardener Volume 2 Medical Identities Kent Maynard

The Future of Indigenous Museums Perspectives from the Southwest Pacific

Edited by Nick Stanley

Berghahn Books New York • Oxford

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First published in 2007 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com ©2007, 2008 Nick Stanley First paperback edition published in 2008 All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The future of indigenous museums : perspectives from the southwest Pacific / edited by Nick Stanley. p. cm. -- (Museums and collections ; v. 1) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-84545-188-2 (hbk : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-84545-596-5 (pbk : alk. paper) 1. Ethnological museums and collections--Oceania. I. Stanley, Nick. GN36.O34F87 2007 069.0995--dc22 2007021965

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Printed on acid-free paper

ISBN 978-1-84545-188-2 hardback ISBN 978-1-84545-596-5 paperback

Contents List of Figures

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Editorial Preface by Hirini Mead

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Introduction Indigeneity and Museum Practice in the Southwest Pacific Nick Stanley

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Part I 1

Island Melanesia

Resourcing Change: Fieldworkers, the Women’s Culture Project and the Vanuatu Cultural Centre Lissant Bolton

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2

The Future of Indigenous Museums: The Solomon Islands Case Lawrence Foana‘ota

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Dangerous Heritage: Southern New Ireland, the Museum and the Display of the Past Sean Kingston

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Memory, Violence and Representation in the Tjibaou Cultural Centre, New Caledonia Diane Losche

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Tourism and Indigenous Curation of Culture in Lifou, New Caledonia Tate LeFevre

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Contents

Part II

Northern Australia

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The Journey of the Stars: Gab Titui, a Cultural Centre for the Torres Strait Anita Herle, Jude Philp and Leilani Bin Juda

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‘Quite Another World of Aboriginal Life’: Indigenous People in an Evolving Museumscape Eric Venbrux

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Part III

New Guinea

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The Papua New Guinea National Museum and Art Gallery as a Modern Haus Tumbuna Sebastian Haraha

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Moving the Centre: Christianity, the Longhouse and the Gogodala Cultural Centre Alison Dundon

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10 Indigenous Responses to Political and Economic Challenges: the Babek Bema Yoma at Teptep, Papua New Guinea Christin Kocher Schmid

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11 Can Museums become Indigenous? The Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress and Contemporary Papua Nick Stanley

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Part IV

Reflections on the Future of Indigenous Museums

12 The Transformation of Cultural Centres in Papua New Guinea Robert L. Welsch

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13 The Theoretical Future of Indigenous Museums: Concept and Practice Christina Kreps

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Notes on Contributors

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Bibliography

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Index

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List of Figures 2.1 2.2 3.1

3.2

3.3

3.4

6.1

6.2 6.3

6.4

6.5

Moro figure captured by MEF forces, July 2000. (Photo: Robert Irogo. Permission: Solomon Star.) MEF forces with Moro figure, July 2000. (Photo: Robert Irogo. Permission: Solomon Star.) The mother tubuan: the most dangerous, and most ramifying, presentation of heritage in southern New Ireland. (Photo: the author.) Dancers wearing kabut: these are lesser incarnations of tubuan, which evoke correspondingly smaller segments of the past. (Photo: the author.) Some tonger readied for the exchange of pigs and the dismantlement of the social relations they visualize. (Photo: the author.) A lalamar, shell-money body of the deceased, prior to its disassembly and the ‘finishing’ of thoughts of the departed. Note the small photograph of the deceased tied to it. (Photo: the author.) Opening ceremonies outside the Gab Titui Cultural Centre. Church leaders, elders, community and visitors all joined in to bless Gab Titui. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.) Biship Mabo blesses the Gallery in anticipation of its first visitors. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.) Badu Goigal Pudhai Dancers with aeroplane headdress depict Second World War air attacks over Torres Strait. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.) The Saibai Island dance group is noted for their energetic dancing and ‘flash’ costumes, including cassowary feather headdresses. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.) Gab Titui’s architecture is reminiscent of the pearl luggers which combed the Torres Strait in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.)

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List of Figures

The Bani family lead visitors into the Ephraim Bani Gallery for the first time. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.) 6.7 Women wearing brightly coloured Ailan dresses playing traditional drums, buruburu, at the opening of Gab Titui. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.) 9.1 Iniwa Sakema, the Kini Cultural Centre under construction in 1995.(Photo: the author.) 9.2 Two ligael – dance plaques – organized around the central canoe design or gawa tao. (Photo: the author) 9.3 Three examples of gawa tao, canoe designs, with symmetrical, concentric lines and colours radiating outwards from the central eye or tao. (Photo: the author.) 9.4 The prow of a contemporary racing canoe with the central canoe eye and clan animal and ancestral figures. (Photo: the author.) 9.5 Gogodala artefacts brought to the Kini village longhouse for sale in 1999. (Photo: the author.) 9.6 Iniwa Sakema, the Kini Cultural Centre, in 2000. (Photo: the author.) 10.1 The flag of the Nayudos People’s Union. (Photo: the author.) 10.2 The babek bema yoma, 1994. Larger beehive-type house: house for assemblies; smaller beehive-type house: house for display of items and sales outlet; square house to the right: guesthouse; square house partially hidden: manager’s house. (Photo: the author.) 10.3 Mr Otali Amot receives money from the Australian High Commissioner for handing in his luluai’s hat, 1994. (Photo: the author.) 10.4 Dancing the kong kaap in the grounds of the babek bema yoma, 1994. (Photo: the author.) 10.5 Demonstrating the assembling of a feather-wheel for documentation on film, 1994. (Photo: the author.) 10.6 The first reconstructed kong bayem hung near the entrance to the babek bema yoma, 1992. In front of it, to the right, hangs the law-enforcing bullroarer representing the ancestors of the oldest lineage of the Yopno eserong. (Photo: the author.) 11.1 Contemporary shield/sculpture, Asmat, Papua. (Collection: Ursula and Gunter Konrad. Photo: Ursula Konrad. With permission from G. and U. Konrad.) 11.2. Contemporary shield/sculpture with three dimensional ornamentation, Asmat, Papua. (Collection Ursula and Gunter Konrad. Photo: Ursula Konrad. With permission from G. and U. Konrad.)

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152 158 159

160 161 164 172 175

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Editorial Preface I am pleased that my article ‘Indigenous Models of Museums in Oceania’ (Museum (1983) 138: 98–101) has had such a long-term impact. When I wrote that essay I argued that there was a distinctive difference between indigenous models and Western exemplars. Over the past twenty years this divergence has become more apparent as people in the Pacific have been reassessing and accessing indigenous culture. There are now two forms of indigenous museums. The first is a single-purpose building. I saw a good example in Taiwan of an indigenous museum for the Atayal Tribe. It consisted of a three-storey structure to tell their story from prehistory to modern times. The other form of indigenous museum is a multifunction tribal culture centre that includes a variety of functions and purposes according to the needs of the particular groups. Here in New Zealand several tribal groups are planning to build tribal culture centres. Our tribe, Ngati Awa, is one of them. We intend to have a museum to tell our story and to house some of the tribal heirlooms and icons that we still have in our possession. In addition, however, we intend to include a photographic section, an audio section, a library, a research facility, a whakapapa section, a lecture room, a modern art section and some art workshop areas. The government is taking an interest in tribal culture centres and so we might see some actually taking shape. An important requirement is that indigenous people should be the guardians, protectors and advocates of their own cultures and their own cultural heritages. A variety of cultural centres, small and large, run by indigenous people meets this need. Tribal groups here in New Zealand are excited by the idea and by the challenge. One group has managed to find the required funding for their culture centre. The rest of us look to government funding to assist us. As yet it is unclear whether the government will fund at a level that will enable us to make a start. I fully support this project to publish a volume of papers that explore the notion of indigenous museums. Hirini Mead Ngati Awa Research New Zealand

Introduction: Indigeneity and Museum Practice in the Southwest Pacific Nick Stanley Over the past decade or more the Southwest Pacific has provided a type of laboratory for new cultural developments. For the study of culture, particularly in material form displayed in museums, the region has, as in the eighteenth century, offered novel perspectives to scholars and the public both in the region as well as elsewhere in the world. This book examines the growth of cultural centres in the area and seeks reasons both for their genesis and their continued popularity. In so doing the authors here are following up a landmark publication, Soroi Eoe and Pamela Swadling’s 1991 study entitled Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific. Eoe and Swadling solicited contributions from over forty different locations across the Pacific. Each provided a pithy account of the salient features of their respective centre. Eoe and Swadling have provided the region with a benchmark against which to measure subsequent developments. This volume studies many of the same locations as the earlier study but with some notable differences. Firstly, the field of study is narrower: the focus is on Melanesia, excluding Micronesia and Polynesia. The study also includes three groups to the west of Melanesia, around the Arafura Sea: the Tiwi of Melville and Bathurst Islands in the Australian Northern Territory, the Torres Strait Islanders, and the Asmat of West Papua. The intention is to provide greater space for authors to develop the theme of the growth of indigenous museums and cultural centres in a more geographically specific region, and thereby, hopefully, to indicate the linked thinking and practice that unites them. The geographic closeness of all the case studies in this book also means that some common themes can be discerned and explored in the region. The role of the Big Man is often exmined in discussions about Melanesia. This concept is certainly important when considering the key role of the museum director or curator throughout the region. But what also should be recognized is that women often have vital roles. This can be seen particularly in Bolton’s chapter on Vanuatu, and Bin Juda, Herle and Philp’s discussion of the Torres Strait. Another key theme in this region is the future orientation that these centres exhibit. The objects that are collected are not merely historic relics but a source for future reemployment. This contrasts sharply with the tradition of interpretation and heritage centres so widespread in Europe and North America.

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Introduction

There have been agents at work to promote the development of indigenous popular display. Prominent support has come throughout the decade from the Australian South Pacific Cultures Fund, which has assisted in the building of cultural centres throughout the region. The Tourism Council of the South Pacific (1990) has also played a significant role, commissioning reports on economic diversification through the tourist industry. UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) has also, through its Pacific Office, contributed to such discussions, and through the Pacific Islands Museums Association, it has encouraged the growth of cultural centres throughout the region. These agencies all argue that the economic problems facing the region and the logistical difficulties of an extremely small population dispersed over the largest region of the globe, militate in favour of diversification into the realm of culture as a sustainable commodity in an otherwise restricted environment.

The Concept of an Indigenous Museum In 1908 Richard Thurnwald settled in Buin, an island to the north of Bougainville and here, as Marion Melk-Koch documents (2000: 59–60) ‘after considerable effort, he started his own open-air museum consisting of models of houses from different parts of the colony, furnished with true indigenous items. People from the remote areas of Buin flocked to see them and according to a caption of a photograph, they paid an entrance fee in natural products’. Through this device Thurnwald was exporting the newly emergent European concept of an open-air museum devoted to local and often threatened indigenous culture. This model thrives today in most of the cultural centres across the Pacific. This vignette in the history of European incursion into the Western Pacific raises a host of questions about the status of museums in the region which I will seek to explore in this chapter. Firstly, one might ask, what was going on? Whose interests were being served and on what terms? Secondly, does this example suggest a model for museums and museum visiting? Thirdly, are there specific circumstances that either enhance or threaten the transfer of the concept of museum to this region and to this people? Fourthly, do the indigenous people as both subject and object of attention and display, see the exhibition in the same way as the designer? In particular, are the items of display, ‘the different parts of the colony’, recognizable to the inhabitants of Buin? Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, can Richard Thurnwald’s exhibition be legitimately described as a prototype for indigenous museums? At the end of the day, is the very term ‘indigenous museum’ an oxymoron or a misplaced concept? What is at stake throughout this litany of questions is a deeper concern as to whether the concept of museum and the practice of museological classification and display can have any use outside Europe and north America, and especially in those parts of the world where contestation between settler groups and prior inhabitants remains so acute. Here, I have in mind Australia, Hawai‘i, New Zealand and French-ruled areas of Polynesia.

Introduction

3

There are those who would see the Buin exhibition as a clear example of the perils that confront any attempts to create forms of indigenous display. Ian McIntosh expresses this position clearly in his statement: ‘the term “indigenous” is appropriate only when considering the inequitable relationship and claims of a subjugated “first people” with respect to their oppressors’ (McIntosh 2002: 23). From this perspective the Buin exhibition seems unlikely to yield any significant benefits to the indigenous inhabitants. Their lives are reduced to an abstract set of largely arbitrary material items displayed without much sense of meaning. The exhibition serves instead, so this line of reasoning goes, merely to freeze into some ethnographic permanence the curator’s image distilled from the ambiguity of an ever-changing social, political and moral life. At best, later curators (whether indigenous or Western) can subsequently salvage elements of their own or their neighbours’ history, but always through the prism of the original collector or curator. As Pannell warns bleakly, ‘museums act as “mirrors of production”… True to their reflective characteristic, the images produced in this context also have the capacity to refract (and thus to distort) the relations, mode and means of their own production’ (Pannell 1994: 18). Thurnwald’s apparent ingenuity in uniting the subjects of his ethnography with the audience does not, in reality, ensure that the disjuncture can be overcome between the museum and world in which it exists. A live question remains, however, as to whether current inhabitants of Buin would approach an exhibition like Thurnwald’s in a similar way to their forbears. But the original visitors to the Buin museum were not even looking at their lives reflected in the exhibits. The Buin museum can be seen as an early example of the workings of Wallerstein’s thesis relating to the fate of economies and cultures in an age of imperialism. Wallerstein maintains not only that core economies always consistently super-exploit and render dependent all weaker competitors, but that analogous features occur within cultural development. The details of world trade and cultural exchange may vary, but there is a cultural, political and economic imperative, that ensures that the indigenous always remain clients (Wallerstein 1991: 79). Whilst the changes in technology and communications make Buin entirely different from a century ago, nevertheless, museum collections are still made in Buin by Western collectors for display in Western museums. It is only the occasional item that finds its way either into the national museums in Port Moresby or Honiara. Taken together, such criticisms of indigenous museums and the associated term ‘indigenous curation’ appear powerful enough to refute the promotion of such enterprises. But the Buin exhibition, although admittedly in the mainstream of ethnological display, is not the only model available. There are at least three alternative models which involve consideration of varying degrees of voluntarism and the recognition of potential sources of indigenous power. Nelson Graburn’s is probably the best known. In his celebrated Ethnic and Tourist Arts he admits of the possibility of exogenously inspired imperatives which can, nevertheless, be incorporated within either traditional forms or culturally embedded aesthetic and

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Introduction

formal standards (Graburn 1976: 5–6). In this formulation, new ideas and forms are introduced into an existent framework. These art works then become available for display both in local venues (including museums), and through exchange, for re-export to museums elsewhere in the region or further afield. In essence, this model accommodates change without previous or extant aesthetic standards coming under attack. A second variant could be called a bi-polar model, and is commonly associated with Nicholas Thomas’s argumentation in his Entangled Objects (1991). Agency becomes two-directional: indigenous people actively trade for European goods at the same time as they bargain for the sale of their own products. As Welsch notes, indigenous agency has often been a powerful controller in the exchange of goods. In his discussion of early collectors in Papua New Guinea he states, ‘villagers brought out only what they wanted to sell and only those objects could have been purchased no matter who the collector might have been’ (Welsch 2000: 175). One aspect of this model that is not often noted is that not only are Western collectors amassing substantial but often poorly integrated or documented groups of items, but the indigenous exchange partners are also acquiring items that have the potential to form a museum collection in their own right. The detritus left behind by Europeans, particularly on battlefields, could either become pathetic relics or a source for future local display (Stanley 1998: 90–91). However, it is to a third alternative model that I wish to turn, one where agency derives from indigenous sources. I would like to stress that I am not seeking to create a single simple (or even complex) model of indigenous agency or museum practice. I would, indeed, argue, that the distinction made by O’Hanlon between period, place and people is always important (O’Hanlon 2000). Nor am I presuming a singular form of museum practice. In many cases what appear to be forms of indigenous display and curation can be traced back to what Errington calls ‘an alliance composed of authoritarian third-world regimes, transnational corporations, international monetary and development agencies, and consultants from the industrialized state economies’ (S. Errington 1998: 6). What I wish to consider here is whether such a situation can be avoided, challenged or overcome. Are there any grounds for repudiating Anderson’s process of ‘political museumizing’ (Anderson 1991: 183) as an integral part of postcolonial state formation? Further, one might ask, is there any cultural space left for a genuine autochthonous museum in any shape or form?

Propositions for the Construction of Indigenous Art Museums The Buin open-air museum fails to qualify as an indigenous example for the simple but fundamental reason that there was presumably little if any indigenous agency involved in its construction. It is also unclear if the museum had any fundamental purpose apart from the display of the variety of Buin material culture. However, there have been a number of proposals for the advancement of

Introduction

5

indigenous museums over the past twenty years, all of which question aspects of the Western notion of a museum. Mead was one of the first to explore the practical and intellectual issues in his ‘Indigenous Models of Museums in Oceania’ (1983). In this article Mead made a major distinction between indigenous and Western museums in terms of function. The image of the Western museum conjured up by Mead was ‘a highly specialised organization that has become integrated into the socio-economic, technological, philosophical and artistic contexts of Western nations’. Mead further defined Western museums as secular institutions with academic and professional aspirations. They were, furthermore, extremely expensive to maintain and had a poorly articulated relationship with any local communities. It could be argued that Mead’s Western model now looks dated. Most European and North American museums have, over the past quarter of a century, built significant relationships with their audiences and local communities (Karp, Kraemer and Lavine 1992; Peers and Brown 2003). Multicultural and pluralist agendas have also expanded museums’ intellectual horizons, yet, I would still maintain that Mead’s definition of Western museums is consistent with Max Weber’s concept of formal and substantive rationality with an emphasis on technical competence, objectivity and detachment (Gerth and Mills 1976: 298). Such concerns remain a bedrock of the philosophy of bureaucratic organizations today, and they remain, despite some radical revision in some quarters, at the heart of museological thinking, as Prosler ruefully notes (Prosler 1996). In contrast, Mead offered two examples of indigenous structures that embody the virtues of localism in Oceania, a New Zealand marae and a Solomon Island custom house. Both of these fulfilled recognizably museum functions: each was a repository for culturally valued and historic artefacts; both served as ceremonial locations for religious and cultural practices. But there are other qualities that the marae and custom house shared that set them off from the tradition of Western museums. The first relates to audience. Both venues have explicit restrictions on who may enter, when they may enter, and what class of objects they may view. The second distinction relates to the relationship between economy and technology. Indigenous museums do not have the funds to employ large numbers of specialists or to maintain special climatic conditions of storage to sustain the collections’ physical integrity. The alternative, Mead implies, is to turn, instead, to local knowledge and expertise. Mead also hinted at some other issues which indigenous museums have to address. Most noteworthy of these is the right of such museums to display both objects and knowledge, and the rights of the viewer to see and hear these. This early article thus presages later discussions held in museums around the world about taboos associated with artefacts. As Foana‘ota, Haraha and Kingston argue in this book, there may be powerful reasons why local people want to rid themselves of powerful objects and why these may coincide with museums’ desires to obtain them. There may be equally telling reasons why those who deposit objects wish to control access to others to these same objects. The Mabo decision in Australia and

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the NAGPRA (Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act 1990) in the USA have made such issues pressing museological concerns. Museums can be transformed into cultural centres. This development has happened throughout the Pacific. There are two special benefits to be derived from such a change, related to the development of communal values as well as to the promotion of the museum as an institution in its own right. Eoe argued in 1990 that museums had to develop a relevance to local issues or else they would perish. The only way that museums in the Pacific would sustain their funding, he argued, was by serving national and local needs. ‘Museums should play a catalytic role in all development programmes, with special emphasis being placed on those addressing social problems’ (Eoe: 1990 : 30). Eoe had two specific topics in mind – the problems of unemployed youth, and the rapid and pervasive deforestation being perpetrated by international logging companies throughout the region. Although Eoe did not spell out how museums might contribute to the resolution of either problem, the solution he had in mind was in both cases to involve members of the local community in becoming increasingly empowered through the exploration of traditional customs and by the study of local knowledge and practice, especially through learning the skills and achievements of their elders. In such settings, the collected objects no longer remained relics of an outdated past but material for the reformulation of a future cultural renaissance, or, as Davenport has termed it, ‘a depository for working capital’ (Davenport and Coker 1967: 157). A number of individual examples of indigenous museums have been documented recently. Two, both in Papua New Guinea, are particularly relevant here. The first of these, the Onga Cultural Centre at Romonga, was established by a local man in the late 1980s. It has a faint echo of the Buin open-air museum about it, but, as will become apparent, the similarity is far from close. O’Hanlon describes the centre thus: ‘[it] comprises a traditional Hagen man’s house and a woman’s house from the pre-contact period, recreated with what seemed to me exceptional fidelity and stocked with a truly remarkable array of material culture’ (O’Hanlon 1993: 74). The purpose of the centre was to preserve knowledge about the past for the future. The artefacts on display were, O’Hanlon remarks, narrowly defined in terms of traditional material culture (ibid., 75). The display had a second purpose – to attract tourists and their wealth to the area. The second example, the Nayudos cultural centre on the Huon Peninsula, was substantially completed in 1993. The orientation of this cultural centre is quite different from the Onga example. Whilst it uses the language of tradition – the centre building being designated ‘“ancestors’ ceremonial compound homestead” (babek bema yoma), (Kocher Smid 1994: 792) – its real purpose is the political unification of a variety of local peoples. But, as Kocher Smid states emphatically, ‘it is, first and foremost, a declaration stating which segments of traditional culture should be continued and used to build a new synchretistic cultural identity’(ibid., 798). This sounds not dissimilar to Anderson’s notion of ‘political museumizing’, though conducted not at state but at local level.

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In my view, both of the examples above qualify as genuine examples of indigenous museums. They are begotten by local individuals who attempt to harness traditional customary knowledge and practice for use in contemporary life. There is a clear distinction between the European model of the museum as the repository for historic artefacts, and the future orientation that cultural centres such as these display. This is a crucial distinction which is emphasized elsewhere in the Pacific (Cochrane 1999). Bolton catches this nicely when she writes, ‘indigenous interests in museums can best be summarised in terms of contemporaneity. Although by no means all members of their communities are interested in museums, where Aborigines and Melanesians have this interest, their interest is in using the collections, and the institutions to address contemporary issues’(Bolton 2001: 230–31). Elsewhere, Bolton explores another facet of contemporaneity. When discussing the way that the photographs of historic collections of pandanus fabrics are perceived by present-day weavers on Ambae, Vanuatu, Bolton discovered that these women were not interested in the provenance of the fabrics depicted on the photographs. Instead, ‘their interest focussed on the fabric types, the in-weave designs and the stencilled patterns, especially on those with which they were not themselves familiar’ (Bolton 1997: 27). In other words, theirs was an instrumental rather than an archaeological or museological interest. Can we discern any systematic difference between indigenous museums in the Western Pacific and European models? This is not a simple question because there are two different imperatives at work. On the one hand, the museum may merely be a useful device of temporary significance in the establishment or negotiation of cultural property between indigenous people or in their dealing with Western seekers for talismans of indigeneity. But, on the other hand, we do well to remember that museumizing is heavily implicated in the construction of postcolonial national identity throughout the region. In such modernizing agendas, traditional cultural beliefs, practices and material manifestations are seen as elements to be salvaged at the very moment that modernization would otherwise condemn them to perish. There could, then, be grounds to view the promoters of indigenous museums and curation as cynical operators. They may either use the apparent similarity with Western museum models to conceal hidden motives, or, like the Indonesian state, they may be promoting ethnic distinctions to justify a form of pluralism, whilst in reality grimly pursuing a unitary national model. But, I want to argue here, such a perception is fundamentally wrong. We are assuming that we can define the Western model unambiguously, and that our comparisons are based on this sense of definitional security. What would change if we stopped treating Western museums, and ethnographic museums in particular, as stable entities, and instead saw them as institutions involved in a constant round of selfjustifications for their very existence to a range of publics? In such a scenario we could have the opportunity to consider afresh the significance attached to the sovereign artefact. What indigenous museums and indigenous curation might do

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Introduction

is to re-open some questions that we never realized were in contention. As Kreps has put it, ‘whilst indigenous curatorial practices are unique cultural expressions that deserve documentation and preservation in their own right, they can also be heuristic, awakening us to some of the assumptions and values embedded in our own practices’ (Kreps 1998: 3). The longer-term relationship between indigenous museums and their curators with Western-style museums may be about to change not only in countries where both types of institution coexist like Australia, New Zealand and U.S.A., but also between postcolonial states and their former imperial occupiers who still retain almost the entire historic record of their previous possessions. Repatriation, in this context, no longer serves to settle the issue. As Pannell (1994) has argued, simply to restore objects to their rightful owners may serve only to erase the memory of the means of their appropriation and alienation. I would add that restitution also involves a consideration of wider issues surrounding ownership, rights and identity; it has consequences not only in the context of the Western ethnographic museum and its indigenous counterpart, but also in the community within which the indigenous museum and cultural centre resides.

Troubles within: Issues in Indigenous Curation Mead dropped a small bombshell into the conclusion of his article. For him, the defining difference between the Western and Oceanic museum lies in the fact that, ‘there is a real contrast between how valued objects are treated in Oceania and Western countries. The tendency in branches of Western knowledge is to secularise knowledge.’ Whilst he did not object to the universalist credentials professed by Western museums, they brought with them distinctive disadvantages which could prove fatal in non-Western museums. Mead continued, ‘whilst this has the effect of making knowledge available to everyone, which is commendable, it also does something else. It makes knowledge itself, the means of knowledge, and the valued objects that are part of history all very common, and subject to common theft’ (Mead 1983:101). Mead’s conclusion anticipated some questions that are currently in considerable contention. He sidestepped a serious discussion of the issues involved by apparently balancing two incompatible positions. On the one hand, Mead was careful to avoid what he saw as the solipsism involved in claims by indigenous peoples to the exclusive access to possession, use and control of secret or private knowledge, hence his endorsement of universalist principles, ‘making knowledge available to everyone’. But Mead concluded his statement by making reference to knowledge, the means to knowledge and aspects of material culture, all of which he saw as in danger of being stolen. (Mead 1983: 100). It does not take much ingenuity to hazard a good guess as to who are the thieves: they are Western scholars, curators and those intent on appropriating the content and ownership of indigenous copyright. Mead’s position appears to share many of the

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features of those seeking indigenous rights. Brown characterizes this position succinctly: ‘If native groups “own” their knowledge, if it was “stolen” from them by government officials, missionaries, and anthropologists, then they are simply seeking the return of pilfered goods rather than asking repositories to violate principles of free access’ (Brown 1998: 199). However, elsewhere in his article Mead also noted that in many parts of Melanesia the enjoyment of events and artefacts is by no means universally available. In particular, using the example of the custom house, Mead observed that females were effectively excluded from entering or participating in events taking place within them. This was not a major problem for Mead, as he had maintained that indigenous museums should always work within the extant local belief systems, and that the primary means of operation should always be to maintain an art tradition through training in the oral traditions. Ultimately, what matters, Mead argued, is control over culture, the indigenous philosophy and educational system. There is an unspoken and largely taken-for-granted supposition behind this formulation of the indigenous museum, namely, that there is an unambiguous entity defined as local culture which acts a source of authenticity. By collecting artefacts, histories and genealogies, and special knowledge related to particular locations, the indigenous curator can reinforce the sense of community and belonging to all who are both subject and object of representation in the indigenous museum. In this construction, the notion of copyright is accorded great significance. As Lindstrom has argued, in many Melanesian communities there exist powerful forms of copyright protecting a person’s or a clan’s ownership of knowledge, magic, therapies, artefacts and technologies (Lindstrom 1994: 69). These are vital resources and ultimately are treasured, as Weiner puts it, as inalienable resources. ‘Ideally, these inalienable possessions are kept by their owners from one generation to the next within the closed context of family, descent group or dynasty’ (Weiner 1992: 6). One of the consequences for museums is that stewardship and display of culturally significant artefacts comes to rely increasingly upon the agreement of their customary owners. As Brown has shown with respect to Native American and Aboriginal claims, a further consequence has been that specific restrictions required by the indigenous community (hinted at in Mead’s custom house example) are increasingly being respected by curators. Ultimately, this may result in the museum-visiting public being segmented according to ascriptive criteria (such as gender) that accord or deny them access to sacred, ritual or secret material. But indigenous curators may not find themselves in a position to form a ready agreement with members of a settled and unambiguous community about what may be displayed, and under what conditions. As cultural constructionists point out, culture may not consist of a set of mutually intelligible and agreed principles. It may, indeed, not be a thing in itself but rather a ‘political process of contestation over power to define key concepts, including that of “culture” itself ’ (Wright 1998: 14). Linnekin offers a much more complicated picture where culture itself is a self-conscious model open to manipulation by powerful actors

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in contention with adversaries (Linnekin 1992: 251). What may look like cultural and museological issues can often, in fact hide quite different realities. Harrison relates such disputes, ostensibly to do with intellectual property rights, to wider political issues when he remarks, ‘these behind-the-scenes or sometimes open disputes are public tests of political support each contestant can muster, not only in regard to ritual claims, but in regard to other claims as well, such as political office or the control of economic resources’ (Harrison 1992: 225). Curators may find themselves involved willy-nilly in highly charged political settings. Arguments within groups and between groups may be expressed in cultural property disputes which spill over into the museum itself. Harrison suggests that such disputes may relate quite as much to areas of similarity between groups as those of difference. It is when there is dispute about the ownership of artefacts, beliefs or performances that tension can become unbearable, and uncontrollable (Harrison 2002: 213). At worst, there exists the possibility of ‘identity piracy’, wherein the claims for individual or group respect are threatened by a successful opponent (Harrison 1999: 249). A similar fate can befall cultural products through plagiarism successfully executed by the powerful. Disputes over rights to perform ceremonies or music are common examples. Jon Jonassen, a Cook Islander, bitterly resents the cultural plagiarism of Cook Island drumming often perpetrated by other Polynesians at music festivals (Jonassen 1996). A cultural constructionist view of culture, in Linnekin’s terms, ‘renders culture mercurial, unboundable, and highly problematic’ (Linnekin 1992: 251). Furthermore, she argues, tradition is to be seen as a selective representation of the past, constructed according to current needs by active agents. Thus, tradition itself is subject to competitive and revisionist readings. This inevitably raises the spectre of the ‘invention of tradition’ argument, originally conceived in a European context, but successfully exported by authorities like Anderson to the Asia Pacific region. But the indigenous curator should be wary about embracing such a view. When Roger Keesing used the invention of tradition thesis in the context of customary practices throughout the Pacific (Keesing 1989), he was immediately denounced as wilfully ignorant of native forms of history (Trask 1991: 160). This new conflict raises the possibility that curators themselves may become implicated, whether willingly or not, in forming judgements about how representations should reflect different interpretations of events and real ownership in situations of conflict. Seeking to resolve issues about constructed identity and the political nature of claims for copyright will seldom be any easier for curators in indigenous museums than it is for their peers in Western social history galleries. As Keesing reminds us, members of political elites, whether at national or local level, will hardly take kindly to those who question their right to ownership of cultural property. They are also likely to impugn the motives of those who question their source of authority. So far, the problems confronting the curator in the indigenous museum have largely related to the power contained within the copyright, claimed by one or more active agents. The reason that ownership of artefacts, activities or knowledge

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is so important is because it represents something of overwhelming attraction to those who seek to control it. Alfred Gell sees this power in terms of what he calls ‘the technology of enchantment’. By this he means that the art objects (and I would extend the example to any other cultural property) through their technical processes cast a spell on us, ‘so that we see the world in an enchanted form’ (Gell 1999: 163). This is exactly what is copyrighted, and which agents seek to protect from others’ misuse or appropriation. To return to Jonassen’s example of Cook Island drumming, it is precisely the cadence, the rhythm and the metre that is immediately recognizable as a Cook Island performance. To see this ‘enchanted’ quality appropriated by others does a double damage. On the one hand, it is plain theft and often brazen theft by those too powerful to convict. Secondly, it provides a constant reminder for the original owners of the keen loss they have suffered, which is revived at every performance. What the theft has done is overturn the basic tenets of intellectual property. As Strathern has pointed out, ‘“intellectual property” points simultaneously to an item or a technique made available to knowledge, authorising its use and circulation, and to the knowledge, on which claims are made, which has made it into an item or technique’.She pithily states, ‘intellectual property rights hold up a mirror to the dazzle of creativity’ (Strathern 2001: 277, 276). To lose the source of one’s enchantment to another is one of the most significant losses one could suffer. But what if the ‘technology of enchantment’ ceases to work? I have been assuming up to this point that copyright is a vital principle. But Frederick Errington and Deborah Gewertz argue elegantly that in the contemporary political and economic reality of Papua New Guinea, and specifically among the Chambri, a process entitled ‘cultural generification’ has taken place. By this they mean that ‘the cultural particular either has become translated into the cultural general or into a general example of the cultural particular’ (Errington and Gewertz 2001: 510). The authors offer a particular illustration to explain the process. A Chambri elder, named Thadeus Yambu, invited the authors to attend and document a secret, ritual procedure that he enacted to become a blow fish. Among the reasons that Errington and Gewertz offer to account for this invitation to attend the totemic procedures were Yambu’s concern that younger men were no longer interested in these sorts of events, and without the continuance of these traditions it would not be possible to sustain the Chambri way of life. But another process was also at work. Unless these rituals were recorded in a scientific way, there would not be an adequate record to show in a court of law to claim copyright for the event and its constituents. But for magistrates the ritual knowledge had to be recognisable in generic terms that they could relate to other examples from elsewhere. This was what Yambu was also attempting to provide in his documented performance. As Errington and Gewertz note, a major change has occurred once the knowledge and performance cease to be directed to other Chambri and became, instead, part of a generalized ‘tradition’ subject to external control.

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In the above example, it could be argued that the instantiation of such practice in museum display could perform a significant role, having the potential to underpin the specific case for cultural recognition in the wider world. The museum could provide the visual equivalent of an ethnographer’s record. This sort of role is certainly consistent with Mead’s vision of an indigenous museum. But there are a number of stumbling blocks that confront the alert curator before this can become possible. The first risk is one that emanates from the example cited above. What has happened to this knowledge and ritual now that Yambu is dead? How are the next generation to relate to such historically significant but no longer efficacious systems of belief and practice? It is likely that one of two processes will take place. The first is, following a term created by Joep Leerssen, ‘auto-exoticism’ (Foster 2001: xix). Once a gap has been created between lived experience and the account of such experience a sense of unreality creeps in. The account, the performance, come to become utterly self-conscious and exotic, and they gradually congeal into a meaningless muddle. The very self that is displayed becomes an alien presence, never to be fully captured. This, in turn, leads to the second process, the loss of belief. As Errington and Gewertz note on another occasion, ‘the Chambri did not understand that if they continued to sell their initiations (and perhaps other ceremonies) as tourist attractions, they would themselves no longer find them convincing and effective’ (Errington and Gewertz 1989: 51). O’Hanlon, in his discussion of the Wahgi also detected in the young a sort of ethnographic self-consciousness about their former practices. ‘Now they know better’ (O’Hanlon 1993: 74). What confronts the indigenous curator once the first generation has passed, whether it be in Buin at the start of the twentieth century or the Chambri and the Wahgi at the end, is a public that bears little resemblance to the one envisaged by Mead. The gap between lived experience and the historic record now requires an intellectual feat of interpretation. Furthermore, a major change has taken place in the role of the artefact and in its power to enchant. I do not mean to imply that authenticity has entirely leached from objects displayed in the museum, nor that contemporary collections lack value. What I intend to discuss in the next section is how the processes of mediation may operate. For this I use one case study to explore how tradition and current interpretations may fare together.

Against Teleology History is not about manifest destinies, but about unexpected and unforeseen futures. R.F. Foster, The Irish Story, p.54 When considering museums, we are often tempted to read their manifestos or prospectus in order to gain an understanding of their purpose. Usually this attention is well rewarded, but there is a danger that we consider museum display

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and content as though they merely illustrate the principles of the authors of the prospectus. As Foster reminds us, the future is usually full of the unexpected. We can extrapolate further, in the context of museum display, and recognize that retrospective analysis usually uncovers factors at work that were unforeseen by the curators at the time of the gallery construction and which also undermine any sense of teleological imperative, however coherent the designers’ plans might originally have been. If this could be said to be true for museums in general, I want to argue that the warning operates a fortiori in the case of indigenous museums. To explore this proposition I intend to take one case that I have written about in more detail elsewhere (Stanley, 2002a, 2002b). I use the example of the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress (Museum Kebudayaan dan Kemajuan) founded in 1973 in Agats, Papua Province, Indonesia, not to provide a detailed case history but rather as an occasion to exemplify some of the issues that museums of indigenous culture have, perforce, to face. The museum in question does not purport to offer general principles or specific lessons for others. Indeed, what is most significant in many respects is how singular an institution it is. But it is my major contention that the specific qualities of each indigenous museum are the most salient point of distinction. Nevertheless, there are, I suggest, some useful ideas that can be gleaned from looking at a case study for consideration in other contexts. The Museum of Culture and Progress has been in existence for thirty years. This has given the institution time to develop, rethink principles, and adjust to changed circumstances. This time span also enables one to consider elements of both continuity and change. The very title of the museum encapsulates this tension, having both a commitment to cultural preservation and an orientation to the present and future. The museum catalogue expresses the intention clearly: The museum … would be the medium through which young Asmat would see the culture of their ancestors and living relatives as one that produced works of art that through their power and intensity demanded attention and respect from the outside world … The Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress was primarily build to preserve the artefacts, to keep the people from losing their sense of identity, and to encourage their renewal of carving. (Schneebaum 1985: 28)

This manifesto neatly brings together a number of the themes to be found classically in the formulation of an indigenous museum. The first element, tradition, is given pride of place. This is consistent with Gell’s insistence on the power of agency. Gell in fact uses an Asmat shield to illustrate the very point. Asmat warrior shields, Gell argues, are designed to cast spells on their opponents, ‘the warrior’s shield is an index which, in context, possesses agency, having the power to demoralize the enemy warrior’ (Gell 1998: 31). So, a major intention of the Asmat Museum was to celebrate the persistence of ancestral power. Shields, bis poles, ancestor skulls, all celebrate and memorialize significant forbears. They also traditionally, call for the revenge of those killed in headhunting raids. This reality clashes, of course, with the modernizing agenda of the museum, for the

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modern artist ‘to stimulate them into renewing the artistic side of their heritage without resorting to the violence of the past’ (Schneebaum 1985: 28). The manifesto advances two other causes: firstly, ‘attention and respect from the outside world’, and secondly, the renewal of carving. Respect from outside has come from two major sources. The Indonesian state has used Asmat imagery, and in particular the spectacular bis pole, as a metonym for Papuan non-Malay culture. Whether this attention represents respect rather than caricature is something of a moot point. But, in any case, Asmat imagery is ubiquitous in Indonesian publications and public displays. Hence, the Asmat Museum, by extension, attains a public importance wider than it might otherwise expect to generate. Outside world respect has also been extensively generated by the collection and export of historic artefacts to major international ethnographic museums. The Asmat Museum has been involved in both locating and authenticating such objects for sale. But this has been at the expense of the other objective of the museum, to renew the traditional art of carving, albeit in new traditions. For the first ten years of the museum’s history the emphasis on representing the past was clearly dominant, but already in 1983 the museum started to look to a present and future orientation. The museum was instrumental in creating a carving contest that began in that year and which has developed over the past twenty years into a major event that draws in over a thousand entries per year. The winning entries are then exhibited in the museum, thus generating a continuously evolving set of contemporary carvings. But, equally importantly, the contest has also served as an opportunity for the carvers to sell to an international clientele which gathers to bid for items both during and at the end of the event. None of these developments were envisaged at the inauguration of the museum. Nor were the exogenous changes that contributed to such changes. What became clear, once the museum was established, was that carving represented one of, if not the sole, source of cash income for local people in an environment with few other saleable resources. Logging, arguably the only other major resource of value, also coincidentally, contributed to the development of the carving tradition. Asmat carvers had traditionally used soft wood, but the cutting down and sawing up of hardwood planks provided offcuts of ironwood which rapidly became the staple material for contemporary carving. The annual carving contest contributed to the substitution on a general scale of hardwood. This new material also had the ability to be worked in a more detailed way, leading to the establishment of delicate filigree work, and the incorporation of new sources of imagery previously only to be found on paddles and canoes. So, although early attempts to stimulate a renewal of the tradition of master carvers involved ‘picture books and photographs of old Asmat carvings’ being shown to artists to suggest imagery (Mbaid 1973: 36), nevertheless, what was produced rapidly took on a new form, narrative rather than symbolic. These narrative pieces dominate the work produced for the annual contest and represent a major new element in the current museum display. From the early period’s emphasis on the past, the current

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displays offer an ever-changing perspective on contemporary development in a manner consistent with an internationally orientated institution. The notion of a contest adds another dimension to artistic change. Copyright issues come to play a new significance if family and clan tales are rendered in visual form. In addition, such literal transliteration poses a serious risk to secret knowledge, traditionally only to be exhibited in rituals attended by initiates of one sex. Furthermore, the fact that carvers are entered by the village in which they live adds a further element of potential dispute between competitors. The closeness of resemblance between people sharing common sets of memory inevitably means that conflict is likely to arise over ownership of overlapping or identical forms of design or knowledge. Such conflict becomes the more significant as financial stakes are raised by the presence of international clients. Why are international clients, whether museum agents or private collectors, attracted to such an out-of the way location? The Museum is, accidentally, heir to some quite serendipitous events. Firstly, at the time of its inception, it was celebrated as the place where Michael Rockefeller, son of the U.S. Vice-President, Nelson Rockefeller, lost his life. As a memorial to his son, Governor Rockefeller made a large donation of the artefacts that his son had collected in Asmat in 1961, which formed the highlight of the Michael C. Rockefeller Wing of Primitive Art at the Metropolitan Museum opened in 1982. The Rockefeller Foundation and the Ford Foundation have continued to support the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress, and contributed to the renovation undertaken by the mining company Freeport Indonesia of the major gallery in 1994. The link between the Roman Catholic Church, which constructed and still maintains the museum, and North America has continued major movement of carvings internationally. But the link with the Netherlands has proved of equal significance. The fact that decolonization of West Papua occurred so late (effectively in 1969) has meant that there is a lively interest both museological and in the public imagination in Papua in general, and in Asmat as Papua’s bestknown centre of carving, to this day. This has resulted in a continual trickle of visitors, particularly among artists and film makers, that continue to animate interest in Asmat art on the world stage. Does the museum that I have considered here deserve to be considered an indigenous museum? I think that the Buin example helps us come to some tentative positive conclusions. There are two major issues to consider. The first relates to agency. Who created the institution? In the Asmat case, the answer is clearly the Roman Catholic Church, in order to preserve elements of traditional culture under threat from the newly emergent Indonesian civil administration at the termination of Dutch colonial rule. But the curator of the museum has, until this year, always been Papuan, and trained in international museological settings. The second question relates to audience. To sustain the museum requires both indigenous support and international involvement. It can be argued, effectively in my view, that the carving contest ties men in all the villages across Asmat in a very direct manner into vital principles of museology at first hand. But, the museum

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is not necessarily the focus of Asmat concern; rather it is a medium through which international sales and rapport are established. Such men are very presentorientated. The museum is unlikely to continue without such evident support. My example confirms that local considerations are always primary in the construction and then the maintenance of an indigenous museum. However, circumstances change. Whilst the early museum was dedicated to continuing the relationship with ancestors, albeit on a new footing, the current museum has the look and feel of an internationally orientated institution of major importance to the economic well-being of the Asmat. One of the major concerns that persists, thanks to the presence of the museum, is the question of artistic authority and authenticity. It may be the major claim that any indigenous museum can make: that artistic standards, their mediation among the creators of the art, and the justification to institutions outside the community are the defining differences between societies that have museums and those that do not.

Conclusion ‘Indigenous museums’ may, over time, become an empty term. But as long as the term ‘indigenous’ itself continues to represent a source of authority and power (and powerlessness, it must also be admitted) the joining of the elements represents something significant. At the same time, it must be readily conceded, indigenous museums are among the most precarious of all museums. Communities that lack ready and constant sources of funding may find their commitment to the concept threatened by more pressing and immediate concerns. Limited resources in turn mean that such museums are always subject to political and cultural brokerage. What may serve one particular interest (the example I have in mind here is the Roman Catholic Church in the era of Vatican II) may lose its appeal in a time of political crisis (such as the whole of Indonesia is currently suffering, and Papua is undergoing to a bewildering degree). The Big Man thesis in Melanesia may apply to museums as well as to other institutions. What is significant about all of the examples cited above that have developed over the past twenty years, is the vital importance of the curator as a major player in the community, as Dundon’s and Haraha’s chapters in this collection testify. It would seem logical to suggest that if this ceases to be the case in any instance, then the viability of the institution comes into question. The internal workings of the indigenous museum seem to be fundamentally different from the bureaucratic model that we recognize as the Western model. If Mead is to be credited, issues like conservation and inventories are of minor concern. Collection policies are likely to be well integrated into other economic and political realities of period, place and people. Perhaps unsurprisingly, in settings where museological activities are understood as a real part of social life, indigenous individuals are likely to pay far greater attention to their copyrights than those operating in a Western setting. And this is not a concern that I see

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necessarily waning over time. The examples I have hinted at of indigenous peoples claiming copyright in countries where they form a disadvantaged minority may indeed point to a future where indigeneity certainly does not fade away in the face of modernization but, on the contrary, becomes more sharply focused and more effectively advanced. However, I do not wish to conclude on a triumphalist note. Indigenous museums are of necessity fragile institutions and often lacking power to sustain their momentum. This is not the same as saying that they are merely ephemeral and insignificant. They may, indeed, in a relatively short life, act as the catalyst or channel for cultural, religious and political drives that would otherwise lack direction. Thurnwald certainly had few such considerations when he opened the Buin museum. I think it would be unlikely that any architect of a cultural centre in the Western Pacific could so naively stumble into making a museum for indigenous people without at least considering the sorts of questions that the authors raise in this book. Readers will find that the first section of this book provides more than a survey of Island Melanesia. A key theme running throughout this section of the book is the treatment of custom. On the one hand, items from traditional sources can be hard to handle, as was the case with the relics of Bell’s fatal ambush in Foana‘ota’s account, or represented photographs of ancestors, as related by Kingston. How to handle the colonial past, including its leitmotif of violence and oppression, remains problematic for all who wish to make visual representations in museum contexts. The whole enterprise might prove too fraught with danger and potentially disrespectful of forbears to undertake at all. This is the burden of Kingston’s chapter. However, there persists a ready intention across the region to use historic records, artefacts and oral culture to address the future, as Bolton exemplifies in her account in Vanuatu. But this future may be as problematic as in the past as the two complementary chapters on New Caledonia demonstrate. On the one hand, modern structures may merely obscure in their very construction the history and persistence of struggle with a colonizing presence, as Losche illustrates. On the other hand, Le Fevre argues that even tourism can be controlled and used to the benefit of traditional social and cultural development. The second section deals with two indigenous museum complexes at the south of the Arafura Sea, to the south of Western Melanesia and just off the northern Australian coast. The proximity to mainland Australia has in both cases meant that the relationship between people, place and associated objects has been crucially mediated by issues relating to performance, selling work and marketing. They can both be seen, as Venbrux notes, as ‘destination cultures’ for visitors and are conceived as being integrated into tourist itineraries. Bin Juda, Herle and Philp also stress that at the Gab Titui Cultural Centre attention has to be paid to the needs and representation of the non-Torres Strait Islander inhabitants in the representation. Sensitivity to dealing with cultural difference is also a feature that Venbrux points to in Tiwi, with the development of what he terms ‘stranger handlers’. Both of these chapters underline the significance of dealing effectively with an outside world.

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It is unsurprising that New Guinea should have four chapters devoted to it. The sheer variety and depth of both research into the cultures of the subcontinent and to the forming of museum collections means that this is a fertile territory to explore the inter-relationship between local craftspeople and collectors from outside. But more interestingly, it gives us the opportunity to look at the dynamics of this exchange and to see how museumizing has been integrated into daily life in a variety of ways. This is the major burden of this section of the book. This continues the trend so excellently begun by Michael O’Hanlon in his small but elegant set of reflections in his book Paradise (1993). The chapters in this section further underline the crucial significance of a Big Man, whether in the form of the Director of the Papua New Guinea Museum in Haraha’s tale, Crawford and Bege Mula in the case of the Gogodala Cultural Centre, and the local MP who, in Kocher Scmid’s account, acted as the creator of the Babek Bema Yoma. My own treatment of the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress shows how complex a set of conditions have to be met in order for an indigenous collection in an inaccessible place to survive at all. The different forms of indigenous enterprise collected in this book are a testimony to persistence, innovation and a desire to use custom as a way of thriving in an ever-changing world. It is a precarious business, as both Welsch and Kreps demonstrate in their assessments in the concluding chapters.

References Anderson, B. 1991. Imagined Communities : Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London and New York: Verso. Bolton, L. 1997. ‘A Place Containing Many Places : Museums and the Use of Objects to Represent Place in Melanesia’, The Australian Journal of Anthropology 18(1), 18–34. ——— 2001. ‘The Object in View: Aborigines, Melanesians and Museums’, in Emplaced Myth : Space, Narrative and Knowledge in Australia and Papua New Guinea. A. Rumsey and J.F. Weiner (eds.), Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 215–32. Brown, M.F. 1998. ‘Can Culture be Copyrighted?’ Current Anthropology, 39(2), 193–206. Cochrane, S. 1999. ‘Out of the Doldrums: Museums and Cultural Centres in Pacific Island Countries in the 1990s’, in Art, Performance and Society, B.Craig., B. Kernot and C. Anderson (eds.). Bathurst: Crawford House Press and Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. 1999, 256–65. Davenport,W. and G Coker. 1967. ‘The Moro Movement of Guadalcanal, British Solomon Islands Protectorate’, Journal of the Polynesian Society, 76(2), 123–75. Eoe, S.M. 1990. ‘The Role of Museums in the Pacific: Change or Die’, Museum, 41(1), 29–30. Eoe, S.M. and P. Swadling (eds.) 1991. Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific. Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum. Errington, F. and D.Gewertz. 1989. ‘Tourism and Anthropology in a Post-modern World’. Oceania, 60, 37–54. ——— 2001. ‘On the Generification of Culture: from Blow Fish to Melanesian’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 7(3), 509–25.

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Errington, S. 1998. The Death of Authentic Primitive Art and Other Tales of Progress. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Foster, R.F. 2001. The Irish Story: Telling Tales and Making It Up in Ireland. London: Allen Lane. The Penguin Press. Gell. A. 1998. Art and Agency : an Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Clarendon Press. ——— 1999. The Art of Anthropology: Essays and Diagrams, edited by E. Hirsch. London and New Brunswick, New Jersey: The Athlone Press. Gerth, H. and C. Wright Mills. 1967. From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Graburn, N. (ed.).1976. Ethnic and Tourist Arts: Cultural Expressions from the Fourth World. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Harrison, S. 1992. ‘Ritual as Intellectual Property’. Man (n.s.) 27, 225–44. ——— 1999. ‘Identity as a Scarce Resource’. Social Anthropology 7(3), 239–51. ——— 2002. ‘The Politics of Resemblance: Ethnicity, Trademarks, Headhunting’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 8(22), 211–32. Jonassen, J.T.M. 1996. PCC and Other Parks. Private communication with the author. Karp, I., C.M. Kraemer and S. Lavine. 1992. Museums and Communities: the Politics of Public Culture, Washington DC: Smithsonian Books. Keesing, R. 1989. ‘Creating the Past: Custom and Identity in the Contemporary Pacific’. The Contemporary Pacific, 1(1&2), 19–42. ——— 1991. ‘Reply to Trask’. The Contemporary Pacific, 3(1), 168–71. Kocher Smid, C. 1994. ‘Cultural Identity as a Coping Strategy towards Modern Political Structures : the Nayudos Case, Papua New Guinea’. Bijdragen Tot de Taal-, Land en Volkenkunde, 149(4), 781–801. Kreps, C. 1998. ‘Introduction: Indigenous Curation’. Museum Anthropology, 22(1), 3–4. Lindstrom, L. 1994. ‘Traditional Cultural Policy in Melanesia (kastom polici long kastom.), in Culture- Kastom- Tradition: Developing Cultural Policy in Melanesia, L. Lindstrom and G.M. White (eds.). Suva: University of the South Pacific. Linnekin, J. 1992. ‘On the Theory and Politics of Cultural Construction in the Pacific’. Oceania, 62, 249–63. Mbaid, J. 1973. ‘The Asmat Handicraft Project’. IRIAN : Bulletin of West Irian Development, 2(1), 36–37. McIntosh, I. 2002. ‘Defining Oneself and Being Defined as Indigenous’. Anthropology Today 18(3), 23–24. Mead, S. M. 1983. ‘Indigenous Models of Museums in Oceania’, Museum 138, 98–101. Melk-Koch, M. 2000. ‘Melanesian Art or Just Stones and Junk: Richard Thurnwald and the Question of Art in Melanesia’. Pacific Arts 21 & 22, 53–68. Middleton, V. 1990. ‘Review of Museums and Cultural Centres in the South Pacific’ Suva: Tourism Council of the South Pacific. O’Hanlon, M. 1993. Paradise: Portraying the New Guinea Highlands. London: British Museum Press. ——— 2000. ‘Introduction’, in Hunting the Gatherers: Ethnographic Collectors, Agents and Agency in Melanesia, 1870s–1930s,.M. O’Hanlon and R.L. Welsch (eds), New York and London: Berghahn Books. 1–34. Pannell, S.1994. ‘Mabo and Museums: “the Indigenous [Re]Appropriation of Indigenous Things”’, Oceania, 65, 18–39. Peers, L. and A. Brown (eds.). 2003. Museums and Source Communities. London: Routledge.

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Prosler, M. 1996. ‘Museums and Globalization’, in Theorizing Museums: Representing Identity: Diversity in a Changing World, S. Macdonald and G. Fyfe (eds.). Oxford and New York: Berg. Schneebaum, T. 1985. Asmat Images from the Collection of the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress. New York: Pendragon Press. Stanley, N. 1998. Being Ourselves for You: the Global Display of Cultures. London: Middlesex University Press. ——— 2002a. ‘Living with the Ancestors in an International Art World’ in Asmat: Perception of Life in Art. The Collection of the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress, Eds. U. Konrad., A. Sowada., and G. Konrad. Mönchengladbach: B. Kühlen Verlag, 24–32 ——— 2002b. ‘Museums and Indigenous Identity: Asmat Carving in a Global Context’ in Pacific Art: Persistence, Change and Meaning, A Herle., N. Stanley., K. Stephenson and R Welsch (eds.). Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 147–64. Strathern, M. 2001. ‘The Patent and the Malanggan’, in Beyond Aesthetics : Art and the Technologies of Enchantment, C. Pinney and N. Thomas (eds.) Oxford and New York: Berg: 259–86. Thomas, N. 1991. Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Culture, and Colonialism in the Pacific. Cambridge Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press. Tourism Council of the South Pacific. 1990. Guidelines for the Integration of Toursim Development and Environmental Protection in the South Pacific. Suva: TCSP. Trask, H.-K. 1991. ‘Natives and Anthropologists: the Colonial Struggle’, The Contemporary Pacific 3(1), 159–67 Wallerstein, I. 1991. ‘The Construction of Peoplehood: Racism, Nationalism, Ethnicity’, in Race, Nation and Class: Ambiguous Identities, E. Balibar and I.Wallerstein (eds.). London and New York: Verso 71–85. Weiner, A.B. 1992. Inalienable Possessions: the Paradox of Keeping while Giving. Berkeley, Los Angeles and Oxford: University of California Press. Welsch, R.L. 2000. ‘One Time, One Place, Three Collections: Colonial Processes and the Shaping of Some Museum Collections from German New Guinea’, in Hunting the Gatherers: Ethnographic Collectors, Agents and Agency in Melanesia, 1870s–1930s, M. O’Hanlon and R.L.Welsch (eds.). New York and London: Berghahn Books, 155–180. Wright, S. 1998. ‘The Politicisation of Culture’, Anthropology Today 14(1), 7–15.

Part I Island Melanesia

1 Resourcing Change: Fieldworkers, the Women’s Culture Project and the Vanuatu Cultural Centre Lissant Bolton In 1997 a senior official of the Vanuatu National Council of Women (VNCW) came to a meeting of the Vanuatu Cultural Centre’s women volunteer extension workers, known as fieldworkers. She began her presentation by saying, ‘We all know that in kastom women are nothing.’ The women fieldworkers, unfailingly courteous, made no response, but after she left the meeting they were outraged. Their project, the Women’s Culture Project, was founded in 1991 on the proposition that ‘women have kastom too’, that is to say that women, as much as men, are the holders of indigenous knowledge and practice. By 1997, the depth and importance of women’s customary knowledge and practice throughout Vanuatu was becoming ever more apparent to them. They were very unimpressed that this should not be recognized by the organization which represents all niVanuatu women at national level. The VNCW official’s observation reflects a problem faced by many nationallevel organisations in Vanuatu – that of dislocation from rural contexts. The nation of Vanuatu is constituted over an archipelago of more than eighty islands, which lie roughly north-south over a distance of nearly 850 kilometres. The population (about 205,000 people in 2005) speak 113 languages. The capital, Port Vila, is located on the southern coast of the island of Efate in the centre of the archipelago: roughly 31,000 people (or 6.5 per cent of the population) live there. Between 1906 and 1980, the archipelago was administered jointly by the British and the French through the Condominium Government of the New Hebrides. Neither country invested significantly in the archipelago, and despite the depredations of the labour trade, the expropriation of land for plantations, and the widespread influence of Christian missionaries, people maintained reasonable autonomy in managing village-level matters. Since independence a small middle class of government officials and professionals has began to emerge. Dislocated from rural preoccupations, and

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influenced by education, media and expatriate interests, some of these people no longer have much sense of the content of kastom, that is, of specific locally based bodies of knowledge and practice.1 While some of them may regret their dislocation from kastom, for them, kastom is mainly a rhetorical trope, a term which can be used to lend authority to any specific action or decision. Organizations like the VNCW often draw their senior staff from this emerging, urban-based, middle class. Thus they are already dislocated from the concerns of people living in rural areas. The Cultural Centre (in Vanuatu’s lingua franca Bislama, the Vanuatu Kaljoral Senta or VKS), has developed a unique strategy which counteracts this trend – the fieldworker program. Approximately one hundred male and female volunteer extension workers, based in their own villages throughout the country, work to document and research kastom in their own areas, meeting annually to discuss their findings, their achievements and their problems. The Women’s Culture Project oversees the women fieldworkers’ group. Assisting Jean Tarisesei, a VKS staff member, I have had the privilege of helping to found and develop this group, visiting Vanuatu annually for the women fieldworkers’ workshops. This chapter addresses the Women’s Culture Project (WCP). Specifically, it discusses the WCP within the framework of the Cultural Centre’s principle objective, which is to raise the profile of kastom and draw it into the unfolding process of Vanuatu’s national development. The chapter begins with a brief account of the founding of the Cultural Centre and the development of the fieldworker programme, before discussing the way in which the fieldworkers are resourcing the VKS objective to draw kastom into national frameworks. I then discuss the women fieldworkers as a specific instance of this process.

The Cultural Centre and the Fieldworker Programme The Cultural Centre was founded in 1956 to mark the fiftieth anniversary of the Condominium government.2 Originally staffed and managed by expatriate volunteers, it comprised a museum, library and archives.3 The museum collected and displayed a small collection of ethnographic objects and natural history specimens from the archipelago, and hosted lectures and other such public events. In 1976, the first salaried curator, Kirk Huffman, was employed. Huffman, then a postgraduate anthropology student studying in Vanuatu, was already well versed in aspects of the knowledge and practice of the archipelago. The 1970s were an era in which organizations such as UNESCO and the South Pacific Commission were funding oral traditions programmes to taperecord myths, histories and songs for posterity. Huffman and Peter Crowe (an ethnomusicologist also working in the archipelago) together developed an oral traditions project for Vanuatu which had, from the beginning, a double objective. It was designed both to record ‘all forms of unwritten knowledge’ and to ‘stimulate the revival and continuance of traditional ways’ (Crowe n.d.[1977]: 6).

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In this project men from different islands were trained in the use of audiorecording equipment which they then used to record material in their own districts and islands. In 1981 these men met for the first time at the Cultural Centre in Port Vila, under the chairmanship of Darrell Tryon, a linguist based at the Australian National University. Annual two-week training workshops developed from this initiative. With the support and encouragement of both Huffman and Tryon, the men fieldworker group grew and flourished. The Women’s Culture Project (WCP) was founded a decade later, in 1991, and the first women fieldworkers’ workshop was held in 1994, following the model developed in the men’s programme. I chair the women fieldworkers’ workshop, in collaboration with the Women’s Culture Project coordinator, Jean Tarisesei. The fieldworker workshops are devoted to training, research reporting and to providing the fieldworkers with information. Training focuses on documentation techniques drawn from anthropology, linguistics and to some extent archaeology, such as tape-recording, making dictionaries, writing genealogies, and site recording. At each workshop a research topic is agreed for the following year. Topics range widely, and include, for example, land ownership, gardening techniques, kinship terminologies and marriage rituals. Fieldworkers research the topic during the year, and present their findings at the next workshop. They also report on other aspects of their year’s work. As volunteers, the fieldworkers are free to work as much or as little as they wish, but over the years those not interested in the work have left, so that now in each group there is a core of highly committed individuals. At the annual workshops they have developed a sophisticated understanding of their project, of the issues and the difficulties they face. Discussions revolve not only around the distinctive cultural practices of each area and language group, but also address the question of what kastom can be retained in the face of social and economic change, how this is to be achieved, and what kinds of opposition can be faced. Huffman was Cultural Centre curator until 1989. Three incumbents succeeded him in quick succession, until in 1995 Ralph Regenvanu was appointed as VKS Director. Regenvanu has developed the role of the VKS in ways perhaps unimaginable to its founders. Very appreciative of Huffman’s legacy, and equally committed to kastom, Regenvanu has nevertheless significantly changed the focus of VKS programmes. The contrast between their two approaches reflects not only their own interests, but also the changing dimensions of the developing nation of Vanuatu. Huffman’s approach to curatorship was essentially conservationist. He was concerned that the wealth of kastom should not be lost. Not content with recording kastom through object collections, tape-recordings and the other conventional techniques of ethnography, Huffman was primarily interested in revival, in encouraging people to perform rituals again, to revive indigenous clothing, to pass on knowledge to the next generation, to keep language alive. His own deep knowledge of kastom in the island of Malakula enabled him to prompt and encourage the fieldworkers to recognize and to search out kastom among

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those people who still knew it, and to piece together from various accounts the stories, history and rituals of their own places. Huffman’s concerns matched the temper of the times: in the 1970s and 1980s ni-Vanuatu leaders took hold of kastom as the basis of the identity of their new nation. Although the British were keen to grant independence, the French were not. Ni-Vanuatu fought for independence, debating and discussing amongst themselves (in person and on the national short-wave radio) what that independence would entail. The leaders of the independence movement sought a foundation for national unity. Acknowledging the tremendous cultural diversity within the archipelago, they nevertheless recognized a basic commonality threaded through it. The First National Arts Festival, held in Port Vila in 1979, demonstrated this diversity and an underlying unity. As the festival organizer Godwin Ligo later wrote, the festival ‘brought about an awareness amongst niVanuatu of the importance and vividness of our own culture. … The Festival came at a vital moment in the history of Vanuatu, and showed to the world at large their identity, which was their passport through the gate of independence as “Ni-Vanuatu”’ (Ligo 1980: 65). Huffman’s concern with the revival of kastom matched well the buoyant enthusiasm of the nation’s new politicians, and also underpinned it. People throughout the country at the time were sometimes puzzled by how to act on the new affirmation of kastom. Bob Tonkinson reports, for example, that in this period people on Ambrym ‘worried about a return to grass skirts … and bows and arrows’, and wondered who among them still remembered enough to revive ritual (Tonkinson 1982: 310). The fieldworker program could not address these questions in each place, but it nevertheless carried some of the moral weight of this project for the nation as a whole. Moreover, the research findings of the fieldworkers substantiated the political rhetoric and made that substantiation available to the nation through the Cultural Centre’s radio programme (see Bolton 1999a). The projects initiated by active fieldworkers in their own areas made political rhetoric about the importance of kastom real in those places.

Resourcing Change Regenvanu’s directorship has taken a different emphasis. If Huffman was concerned with revival, since the late 1990s Regenvanu has focused on ‘trying to “mainstream” the issue of culture and cultural heritage in national development’ (Regenvanu 2005: 42). He is preoccupied by the massive social and economic changes which have come to Vanuatu since independence. Population growth is a particular issue: over half of the population is now under eighteen years of age, and perhaps a quarter under the age of six. Regenvanu points out that the lives of almost all ni-Vanuatu involve aspects of kastom on a daily basis: kinship systems, subsistence agriculture, traditional leadership systems, language use and some rituals are all commonplace in many lives. However, he says, ‘the reality of

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globalisation, which includes the persistence of pro-monetarisation policies of government, is gradually eroding the strength and capacity of custom in the lives of ni-Vanuatu’ (2005: 45). He comments that ‘the enormous capacity that custom has provided the society with in terms of security (food self-sufficiency and community support) and social order seems not to be recognised by policies that overwhelmingly target ways of increasing money-making’ (2005: 42). As VKS director, he is concerned to find ways to halt this process of erosion and to reinforce the strength and capacity of kastom. Regenvanu recognizes the contradictions inherent in accommodating an introduced governance system. He observes: The state structure which was inherited by the anti-colonial movement is itself antithetical to customary governance principles – which are fluid and context-specific (that is, unwritten), very locally based (operating most effectively at the level of the clan) and founded on traditional spiritual and cultural beliefs. (2005: 40)

However, he believes that there are ways in which kastom can be inserted into the state structure, through environment law, for example, and through the education system. In effecting this, Regenvanu and the VKS rely significantly upon the work of the fieldworkers. They are crucial to the process because they are a critical source of information and ideas on which kastom-based policies and procedures can be developed. The VKS initiates and operates its own research projects, working with and through the fieldworker networks. Making use of funding opportunities as they arise, the VKS has, for example, developed research on marine tenure systems, and language orthography, and has introduced a series of archaeological and historical site surveys. It has also developed programmes researching contemporary problems in Vanuatu. The Vanuatu Young People’s Project, founded by Regenvanu and the Canadian anthropologist Jean Mitchell, has undertaken very significant research into the situation of young people in town and in the islands. Research findings from this project led to both NGOs (nongovernmental organizations) and government departments providing services and training for young people in Vanuatu to a level not previously provided (Mitchell 1998, 2002). The fieldworker network also provides the Vila-based VKS staff with access to and information about what is happening in the islands. As each fieldworker reports on his or her year’s work, they inevitably report also on what is happening in their place. Listening to the women fieldworkers’ reports each year, I learn something about the course of their own lives (births, marriages, deaths), about the regular intervention of various natural calamities (landslides, cyclones, volcanic activity), about community disputes, communication problems (the failure of the Radio Vanuatu broadcasting transmitters), the increasing reach of tourism. The encouragements and discouragements and the rhythm of rural life – gardening cycles, the school year, ritual cycles, church meetings – all emerge in the fieldworker reports.

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The VKS also controls expatriate social science research, granting research permits to linguists, anthropologists, archaeologists, ethnomusicologists, historians and so on. It negotiates the terms and details of the research programme and usually assigns each researcher to the care of a fieldworker in the area where the research is implemented (Regenvanu 1999; see also Curtis 2002). Fieldworkers thus contribute in a variety of ways to the findings of these projects. The Vanuatu National Film and Sound Unit, part of the VKS, manages film crews wishing to work in the country, and manages their filming with the assistance of fieldworkers. Not all researchers welcome this necessary association with fieldworkers. Although personalities and preoccupations do not always match, where these pairings work they can be immensely productive. The fieldworker network is also a channel for the communication of information to rural areas. The VKS usually arranges for a number of people to come and speak at each fieldworker workshop, providing them with information which they can use in their own areas. The Environment Unit, the Agriculture Department and the Health Department (talking about HIV/AIDS) are all quite likely to appear on the programme. A number of fieldworkers have successfully opposed extensive logging in their islands, galvanizing community opposition on the basis of information they have obtained through the fieldworker workshops and the VKS. They have also been involved in other environmental protection programmes, and, for example, have assisted with the identification and protection of archaeological sites. Similarly, the VKS has been working to promote vernacular education in the first years of schooling. This has been discussed at length in workshops, and several fieldworkers have taken considerable initiatives in this area. For example, Roselyn Garae, an east Ambae woman fieldworker, has prepared a number of teaching materials in her language for use in primary schools in her area. Other fieldworkers have encouraged and supported local language use in the small and simple kindergartens now set up in many villages. The fieldworker network does not cover every language group or district in the archipelago, and not all fieldworkers are active or productive. Nevertheless, through this system, many good initiatives are taken in rural areas. The value of the programme is clearly recognized by others. Australia funds the fieldworker workshops each year, recognizing that this funding contributes to Vanuatu’s national stability. VKS research in environmental issues has been incorporated into government policy. Regenvanu comments that VKS research has obtained ‘important insights into the way customary management regimes function’ (2005: 48). In 2002 the Vanuatu parliament passed the first environmental legislation ever applied to the country. Drawing on the work of the VKS and the Environment Unit, this legislation accords a significant role to traditional systems of environmental management, and supports the power of communities, through their chiefs, to manage their resources as they see fit. VKS research has also ‘produced advocacy tools which are now being used at the community level to encourage the

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continued respect for these tradition-based management regimes’ (2005: 48). The VKS has enabled the government to work out ways to match legislation with local environmental management practice.

Feminism in Vanuatu Until the WCP initiative, the term kastom was used primarily in Vanuatu to refer to male knowledge and practice. As I have argued at length elsewhere, this definitional exclusion can be seen to derive significantly from the assumptions about gender hierarchy which expatriates brought with them to the archipelago, and which they reinforced in the colonial enterprise (Bolton 2003). During the colonial era women were consistently excluded from positions of leadership and authority in the church, the colonial government and private employment. Equally, the nature of women’s contribution to indigenous social organization was often misrecognized by expatriates whose own sense of the proper role of each gender was quite different from that in operation in the archipelago. The term kastom was introduced in the colonial era. Initially it indicated the difference between expatriate and local practice, but later, during independence, also referred to the differences in practice between places in the country. Because the contexts in which the term was used (colonially created national and regional contexts) were primarily male, kastom stood primarily for male practice. The VKS initiative to found the WCP, premised on the proposition ‘women have kastom too’, actually transformed Vanuatu’s public discourse. It extended the practical reference of the term to acknowledge some of what women know and do. The initiative to found the women fieldworker group came as a result of pressure on the Cultural Centre from various quarters, notably from ni-Vanuatu women involved in organizations such as the Vanuatu National Council of Women (VNCW). Pressure came in particular from Grace Molisa, who was both a founding member of the VNCW and a member of the Cultural Centre Board. In a 1990 publication, Molisa wrote, ‘where there are cultural activities at the national level most of the time only men are given the opportunity to take part. The Cultural Centre fieldworkers are all men. This means that a visitor or an ignorant person would be able to think that in Vanuatu culture is only a male thing’ (Molisa 1990: 32; translated from Bislama). For Molisa, the founding of the WCP was a means to draw attention to what women know and do at a local level, and to change the definition of kastom at the national level. Until her untimely death in 2002, Molisa steadily supported the growing group of women fieldworkers. Molisa’s view of feminism was that it was needed at the national rather than the rural level in Vanuatu. She herself had been influenced by Western feminism while studying at the University of the South Pacific in Fiji during the 1970s, and much of her writing had a strongly feminist slant. However, this was always tempered by her own sense that feminism itself was an import, and she rejected the idea of the VNCW as a feminist organization, commenting that it was

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concerned with the welfare of women in their relationships: as mothers, daughters and future mothers (personal communication 1992). Feminism can thus be seen as an expatriate movement, imported into Vanuatu to deal with the failings of the expatriate governance systems – themselves introduced into Vanuatu in the colonial and postcolonial era. Women’s organizations in Port Vila address real problems faced by women in the urban and national context. The difficulty is to hold distinct the difference between the role and status of women in local contexts and that of women in the national and urban milieu. Indeed, as Marilyn Strathern has argued so persuasively, in Melanesia in general, gender is a powerful metaphor, or idiom, of relationship, which operates beyond the simple constraints of biology (1988). In indigenous contexts, people use gender creatively: a woman may act as male in certain contexts, as a man may act as female. This kind of relational and metaphorical use of gender is antithetical to some of the fundamentalist antinomies of popular feminism. Expatriate feminist advisers often come to Vanuatu with assumptions about male chauvinism in traditional practice, and, especially in an urban context, these assumptions are hard to unpick. The VNCW is but one of a number of women’s organizations founded since independence. Alongside the VNCW and the government Department of Women’s Affairs, there are also organisations like the Vanuatu Women’s Centre (which addresses violence against women), and the Vanuatu Association of Women Graduates. Drawing their staff from a comparatively small group of women in Port Vila, these organizations are strongly supported by foreign governments and aid projects, and frequently include expatriate advisors on their staff. Gradually, the ni-Vanuatu staff of these organisations have been drawn into the global feminist movement. A ni-Vanuatu delegation attended the highly influential 4th World Conference on Women in Beijing, China, in 1996, for example, and developed a National Plan of Action as a result. In 2004 a two-day consultation meeting was organized by Women’s Affairs to review and take stock of the progress on that plan. At that meeting, the then director of Women’s Affairs, Mr Morris Kalo, commented that ‘it is the responsibility of leaders to set up national plans to enable donors to fund programs that fulfil the Beijing plan’ (reported in the Vanuatu Daily Post 17 April 2004, p.4).4 There is, in other words, a tight connection between global feminist agendas, donor aid, and Vanuatu’s own policies and programmes in relation to women. The Department of Women’s Affairs and the VNCW have a rural network, comprising local, regional, island and provincial Councils of Women, which are supported by staff based in rural centres. Both organizations provide training courses and assistance to women, and run various conferences and courses for rural delegates. However, with some notable exceptions, the effectiveness of this system has been reduced over the twenty-five years since independence. Rurally based women are more and more inclined to complain about the VNCW in particular, and this organization has suffered a long period of internal acrimony, which significantly hampered its programmes.

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Vanuatu is a signatory to the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW). This again makes a number of statements which, while entirely acceptable in theory, do not necessarily map neatly onto the various indigenous conceptions of gender in Vanuatu. This kind of use of gender is far beyond the reach of instruments like CEDAW. This situation is further complicated by the process by which ideas are absorbed and reproduced in ni-Vanuatu discourse. In the last few years, the VNCW has been drawn into a highly antagonistic and public debate with the Vanuatu National Council of Chiefs (Malvatumauri). This organization, founded to give a role for kastom in the government, has struggled ceaselessly with the difficulty of identifying chiefs in a region with many different systems for the identification of leaders.5 As Regenvanu observes, ‘the chiefs have become increasingly vocal in demanding increased powers within the state (as envisaged by the Constitution)’ (2005: 43). He comments further, ‘the victims of the chief ’s bid for extra powers seems to be young people and women in particular’, continuing ‘the chiefs’ re-interpretation of custom in relation to women’s role is contestable. Just as chiefs with hereditary legitimacy and wide-ranging authority are – for most of Vanuatu – a fiction, the traditional role of women is also not as simple as portrayed by the chiefs’ (2005: 44). The highly public dispute between the chiefs and the VNCW has turned on the chiefs’ desire to identify the traditional role for women as quiet subservience, and the VNCW’s feminist response. Regenvanu himself attributes contemporary gender relations in Vanuatu to expatriate influence, arguing that they ‘owe a significant amount to the views and practices introduced by the missionaries’ (2005: 45). The conflict between the feminist organizations in Vanuatu and kastom-based perspectives can be illustrated by a single instance. Staff of the VNCW and other women’s organizations nowadays subscribe to the rights discourse which is so pervasive in international aid politics. On Children’s Day in 2000, the VNCW participated in the celebratory march down the main street. They held aloft a banner which claimed, in Bislama, that children have rights. A number of female VKS staff were extremely critical of this banner. As Jean Tarisesei explained, for people more deeply inculcated in indigenous practice, the Bislama word raet has a specific meaning. It refers to those privileges acquired by participating in specified rituals (similar to initiation rituals). For people like Tarisesei, the VNCW claim that children have rights was a suggestion that these privileges need not be earned. The VNCW banner was using the word raet in the sense in which it is used in the international discourse of human rights, and not in the local sense in which many ni-Vanuatu understand it, and was implicitly undercutting the indigenous understanding. A crucial contemporary influence on rural ni-Vanuatu women’s understanding of gender hierarchies is less feminism than the church. The established denominations came to an accommodation with kastom during the fight for independence in the 1970s, and now in general terms support the idea that kastom is the basis for ni-Vanuatu identity, but the articulations of this

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relationship, let alone the gender ideologies written into it, are not much explored in rural contexts. Most women (including the women fieldworkers) belong to the women’s organizations of their own denomination – the Presbyterian Women’s Missionary Union, the Anglican Mother’s Union and so forth. Through these groups they organize community work at a local level, and through them, also, they participate at provincial and national level in meetings and conferences of various kinds. Churches draw women together, and provide a context for shared ideologies of cooperation. At the same time, the gender hierarchies introduced by missionaries remain embedded in church life to a significant extent. The complexities of influence, action and reaction in the contemporary construction of gender in Vanuatu are very great. It is clear that, especially in urban contexts, relationships between men and women are being put under greater and greater pressure, and that tensions and difficulties are more and more often comprehended along the divide between the two sexes. This is especially the case where customary kinship systems are breaking down. Population growth and unemployment are putting pressure on people, especially in town, and urban poverty, boredom and access to pornography are creating contexts in which violence, especially domestic violence, is becoming more and more of a problem.

The Women Fieldworkers In this context, the women fieldworker group has been recognizing and recording a quite different model for gender relations in Vanuatu. This model is both placespecific, in the sense that arrangements differ in different parts of the archipelago, and relationship specific, in the sense that gender in Vanuatu was and is always expressed in specific kinship-based relationships. The fieldworkers are developing a sense of the extent to which those things are shared throughout the archipelago, and where differences lie. The group has addressed a variety of research topics over the years, including marriage rituals, indigenous food preservation techniques, and baskets. Of these, by far the most significant in changing the fieldworkers’ own perception of women’s kastom was the 1997 workshop. The topic for this was local systems for women to obtain status (kastom fasin blong ol woman i go antap). The topic arose naturally from the 1996 workshop on marriage rituals, since statusalteration ceremonies are connected to marriage rituals in a number of places. Status-alteration systems, often known in the anthropological literature as graded societies or secret societies, have been relatively widely reported and discussed as a core male ritual in north Vanuatu (Layard 1942; Blackwood 1981; Bonnemaison 1996). In these systems individuals devoted their energies to marshalling the resources to mount ceremonies at which, usually by killing pigs, they could achieve economic, spiritual, political and social benefits: the benefits achieved varied from system to system. Although some women’s status-alteration systems had been mentioned in the literature, no one in Vanuatu or outside of it, realized quite how widespread they are. The 1997 workshop demonstrated that

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throughout the area where men have such rituals, there are also similar systems for women, and there are many interdependencies and cross-overs in these systems. The women fieldworkers themselves were astounded as they listened to each other’s reports, to realize how widespread this was. Although there are no statusalteration systems in south Vanuatu, there are other key occasions through which women obtain kinds of status and respect; women fieldworkers from Tanna, for example, chose to describe first menstruation ceremonies in this way. The importance of this workshop was that it demonstrated a possible difference in the relationship between men and women in indigenous contexts than that which colonialism has made real for people. It undercut the assumptions many contemporary ni-Vanuatu have that indigenous systems favoured men. It underlined with absolute clarity the proposition that women have kastom too, by demonstrating that women do not just have traditional practices that replicate European models of being female, like textile production. For the WCP, this workshop was a turning point. Following on from this, the women fieldworkers moved on, in 1998, to research the topic of respect, the showing of honour and deference to others, a key concept in contemporary Vanuatu, but also, as the workshop demonstrated, in precolonial practice. There are terms for respect in most Vanuatu languages. In a quick survey which I made in 1997 of twenty-two languages from across the archipelago, all had between one and three words which could be translated as ‘respect’. North East Ambaean, for example, has two such words: lado mara, which translates directly as ‘to respect’, and tabetabe, to look up to or love. While it is hard to retrieve a sense of how things might have been before the European incursion, respect is understood to be important in all relationships, and should be shown not only to leaders and other high-ranking individuals, but ultimately to everyone, both women and men. Ironically, the emphasis on respect acts to undercut systems of hierarchy. While people must show respect to leaders, they also must show respect to others. As the women fieldworkers have taken in these concepts they themselves have gained in assurance. Their research and presentation skills, gained through the workshops, seem to have given them confidence in public speaking. Whether for these reasons or for others invisible to me, the women fieldworkers are increasingly themselves being called on to act as leaders within their own communities. At the 2001 fieldworkers’ workshop, Elsie Lilon from Ambrym reported that she had been pressed by her community to accept appointment as a chief. In her area chieftainship is to some extent hereditary, and it is possible for a woman to hold such a position. Her brothers were either unable, or deemed unsuitable, to accept such an appointment, while Elsie is a quiet, thoughtful and responsible woman with evident leadership abilities. She declined the proposal. Irene Lini, on the other hand, from central Maewo, now sits in the chief ’s meetings in her area, valued for her advice and her arbitration skills. The quiet authority which the women fieldworkers seem to be finding has not yet become visible at a public level in Vanuatu, but it is having an impact in specific local areas.

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The WCP has consistently demonstrated that ‘women have kastom too’, introducing women’s voices to radio, women’s performances to arts festivals. A number of films about women’s knowledge and practice have been made and have been screened not only on television, but on video screens in many rural areas. It would be significantly more difficult for a visitor or ignorant person to assume that culture is only a male thing, as Grace Molisa feared they might (1990: 32). However, in its very existence, the WCP has added a new element to the complexity of ideas about gender in contemporary Vanuatu. The phrase, ‘women have kastom too’, strongly enforces a gender divide in knowledge and practice. It implies a separation and distinction. The proposition that women’s kastom is different from men’s kastom and the two categories are closed to each other lies behind the men fieldworkers’ willingness to accept female counterparts. The foundation of the Women’s Culture Project established this distinction even as it reformulated the concept of kastom. Kastom was redefined positively as referring to both women and men’s knowledge and practice, but at the same time the redefinition enshrined a distinction between them. Of course (as both men and women fieldworkers would readily agree), there is a considerable body of indigenous knowledge and practice which people in either gender position can enact. However, the proposal to have two groups of fieldworkers elided that commonality in favour of a formulation of kastom as gendered. An alternative approach would have been to attempt to redefine kastom as belonging to everyone, and to have included both men and women in the one fieldworker group.

Strategic Intervention Women fieldworkers have contributed to many of the VKS research programmes, participating in projects on vernacular languages, marine management systems, and a number of historical projects. Their research reports at the workshops have also been incorporated into a major VKS initiative, the formation of a national history curriculum for junior secondary schools. This is one of the VKS’s most important projects and one that most clearly demonstrates the way in which the fieldworkers are resourcing change in Vanuatu. Ralph Regenvanu has a number of searing criticisms of the current education system in Vanuatu. He points out that the system maintains a colonial emphasis on training individuals for jobs in the bureaucracy, that it removes children from the environment in which they can learn the skills they need to function as a member of their own community, and that it ‘pushes out’ the majority of students by year 10 because there are no places for them. He comments that ‘while traditional knowledge is not taught but eroded, at the same time the quality of the education is not adequate to give a complete understanding of the “whiteman’s” system either – students are left with less capacity than they would have had if they had not gone at all into formal schooling’. He argues that the education system ‘perpetuates a psychology of inferiority, incapacity and low self-worth in

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ni-Vanuatu’ and that it is ‘actively undermining the very basis of the sustainability of our society’ (2005: 46–47). For Regenvanu educational reform represents a strategic intervention to ensure the cultural continuity of society. The idea that indigenous knowledge and practice might be taught in school is antithetical to Huffman’s revivalist agenda, all the more since the very process of teaching in that context will effect significant transformations to that knowledge and practice. Nevertheless, Regenvanu sees this as the area in which changes can be made which can have the most significant positive impact on the maintenance of kastom, and of the selfrespect that is crucial for the future of Vanuatu. Using funding from the New Zealand High Commission, the U.S. Peace Corps and the Vanuatu Government, the VKS has sponsored a two-year project to devise a national history curriculum for use in secondary schools. Starting in January 2003 Sara Lightner (U.S. Peace Corps), working from January 2004 with Anna Naupa, have together developed a curriculum drawing on the rich VKS resources – the Vanuatu National Library collection, the National Film and Sound Unit audio-visual archive, transcripts of the fieldworker workshops – as well as on other available material. Thus material drawn from the women fieldworkers’ research, presented in their workshops, has now become part of the curriculum. The women fieldworkers, by this means, now have the opportunity to influence the understanding of the next generation of the nation’s citizens. Given the massive population increases in Vanuatu, this contribution is most timely. The curriculum was published in three volumes in 2005 (Lightner and Naupa 2005). The Vanuatu Cultural Centre is striking in the degree to which it has influenced and contributed to Vanuatu’s national development. Few museums have the opportunity to make as much impact on the nation they represent. What is all the more distinctive about this contribution is the way in which the VKS contribution has flexibly adapted to the changing nature of Vanuatu society. It may be that this in significant measure flows from the contribution of the fieldworkers themselves. As they grapple with the changes that are affecting their lives, but focus their attention on the indigenous knowledge and practice which is their own inheritance, they are constantly bringing kastom to bear on their present circumstances. As Anna Naupa commented in an interview about the history project, ‘we find in Vanuatu the strong sense through old tradition of knowing that our past is still very much part of present life’ (Naupa interview 21 January 2005). The fieldworker programme helps to make that linking of past with the present for future generations.

Notes 1.

Kastom can be helpfully defined as the knowledge and practice of the place. That is to say, ni-Vanuatu use the term to refer to what they see as their own knowledge and practice, arising from and connected to the place itself, as opposed to what has been introduced

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from the outside. The definition is thus very flexible, allowing that local innovation and modification of practice can be defined as kastom equally with long-standing tradition. For a more detailed account of the founding and development of the Cultural Centre from 1953 to 1993, focusing on the fieldworker group, see Bolton (2003). The fieldworker programme has been the subject of a number of other publications (Huffman 1996; Bolton 1999b; Tryon 1999). The National Archives separated from the museum and library in the early 1990s. The Vanuatu National Film and Sound Unit, the Vanuatu Cultural and Historical Sites Survey and the Vanuatu Young People’s Project have all been founded and developed as Cultural Centre units alongside the museum and library, as have a number of short-term research projects, since the early 1990s. Vanuatu is also a signatory to the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women (CEDAW). See Bolton (1998) for a detailed account of the foundation of the Vanuatu National Council of Chiefs.

References Blackwood, P. 1981. ‘Rank, Exchange and Leadership in Four Vanuatu Societies’. In Vanuatu: Politics, Economics and Ritual in Island Melanesia. M.R. Allen (ed.). Sydney: Academic Press, 35–84. Bolton, L. 1998. ‘Chief Willie Bongmatur Maldo and the Role of Chiefs in Vanuatu’, The Journal of Pacific History 33(2), 179–95. ——— 1999a. ‘Radio and the Redefinition of Kastom in Vanuatu’, The Contemporary Pacific 11(2), 335–60. ——— 1999b. ‘Introduction’, in L. Bolton (ed.). Fieldwork, Fieldworkers: Developments in Vanuatu Research. Oceania Special Issue 70(1), 1–8. ——— 2003 Unfolding the Moon: Enacting Women’s Kastom in Vanuatu. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Bonnemaison, J. ‘Graded Societies and Societies Based on Title: Forms and Rites of Traditional Power in Vanuatu’. In Arts of Vanuatu. J. Bonnemaison et al., (eds.). Bathurst: Crawford House Publishing, 200–16. Crowe, P. n.d.(1977). Report to the Board of Management, New Hebrides Cultural Centre. Report in VCC files. Curtis T. 2002. ‘Talking about Place: Identities, Histories and Powers among the Na’hai speakers of Malakula (Vanuatu)’. Ph.D. Thesis, Australian National University. Huffman, K.W. 1996. ‘The Fieldworkers of the Vanuatu Cultural Centre and their Contributions to the Audiovisual Collections’, in Arts of Vanuatu, J. Bonnemaison et al. (eds.). Bathurst: Crawford House Publishing, 290–93. Layard, J. 1942. The Stone Men of Malekula: Vao. London: Chatto and Windus. Lightner, S. and A. Naupa. 2005. Histri blong Yumi long Vanuatu: an Educational Resource, Port Vila: Vanuatu National Cultural Council. Ligo, G. 1980. ‘Custom and Culture’, in Vanuatu: Twenti Wan Tingting long Taem blong Independens, W. Lini et al (eds.). Fiji: Institute of Pacific Studies of the University of the South Pacific. 54–65

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Mitchell, J. 1998. ‘Young People Speak: a Report on the Vanuatu Young People’s Project’, Vanuatu Cultural Centre, April 1997 to June 1998. Port Vila: Vanuatu Cultural Centre. ——— 2002. ‘Roads, Recklessness and Relationships: An Urban Settlement in Postcolonial Vanuatu’. Ph.D. Thesis. York University, Ontario. Molisa, G.M.(ed.). 1990. Rejistri blong ol Woman Lida blong Festivol Infomesen mo Pablikesen Komiti mo VNKW Eksekiutiv Komiti, Port Vila. Port Vila: Vanuatu Nasonal Kaonsel blong ol Woman. Naupa, Anna Interview 21 January 2005. Transcript Radio Australia website http://www.abc.net.au/ra/pacbeat/stories/s1290318.htm Regenvanu, R. 1999. ‘Afterword: Vanuatu Perspectives on Research’, Oceania 70(1), 98–101. Regenvanu, R. 2005. ‘The Chainging Face of “Custom” in Vanuatu’, People & Culture in Oceania 20: 37–50 Strathern, M. 1988. The Gender of the Gift: Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melanesia. Berkeley: University of California Press. Tonkinson, R. 1982. ‘National Identity and the Problem of Kastom in Vanuatu’, Mankind 13, 306–15. Tryon, D. 1999. ‘Ni-Vanuatu Research and Researchers’, Oceania (special issue) 70, 9–15.

2 The Future of Indigenous Museums: The Solomon Islands Case Lawrence Foana‘ota

Introduction This chapter aims to trace and explain the development of museum activities in the Solomon Islands. Generally it will try to examine the efforts made to establish the first museum based on a European concept in a fast-changing but resilient indigenous cultural environment. The idea of bringing together artefact collections representing different and diverse cultures and societies under one roof was a new phenomenon for the indigenous population of the islands. It came as part of a broad range of outside influences that were expected to affect the way people think about their own cultural heritage, and protect, preserve and promote them. Although, traditionally, certain groups of people used to keep heirlooms directly related or associated with their own tribes or families, the idea did not exist to have one building where these items were displayed for the public to see and have access to them. The only time anything of cultural importance was seen in public was during special ceremonies or festivals. In some cases the items were destroyed or left to rot after the purposes for which they were made and used were no longer necessary or applicable.

Background In Solomon Islands traditional societies, keeping objects that the modern museums tend to regard as important cultural materials was never practised. Once an object’s usefulness was over, it was discarded and a new one was made to replace it. An object was maintained, repaired or reused only if it was made of material that was hard to come by. The skills needed to make it were restricted to a single artist. As a result of the practice of restricting public viewing to items of interest

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from the traditional societies when the National Museum was established in 1969, many people thought of it as an institution belonging to the colonial government. The National Museum’s establishment, with financial assistance from the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation in the United Kingdom, was based on the decision of a group of expatriates who were interested in putting under one roof various collections that they had (Foana‘ota 1974: 24–27). The expatriate origins of the museum had a number of consequences. Firstly, it should be noted, the nucleus of the collection came from colonial officers. In the 1950s, when district officers and magistrates visited the islands villagers gave them gifts which they kept in their offices. The officials subsequently decided to put these objects together on the top of filing cabinets in the government office corridors. The collection was then moved to the Teachers’ College prior to the establishment of the museum. Thus the artefacts entered the collection almost by serendipity. Documentation was seldom a priority either to the collector or the donor. As items were moved about, their original status became successively further obscured, and their physical integrity was also put at risk. The museum itself has been similarly treated. Since 1972 responsibility for its maintenance has been transferred from ministry to ministry no fewer than twenty times. Inevitably, master files have been mislaid in the various transfers. As a consequence, planning and development have proved extremely difficult to sustain for the past thirty years. For example, there is as yet no official cultural heritage policy in the country; this is matched by a lack of legal instruments. It is perhaps a testimony to the strength of the concept of the museum that the institution has survived at all throughout this period. A third consequence of the institutional insecurity experienced by the museum has been that funding has been discontinuous. In turn this means that staffing has been a recurrent problem. When the museum has been able over the years to second staff to undertake a range of professional training in aspects of museology, archaeology, registering customary land rights and the recording of local cultural practices and stories, these members of staff have frequently moved on to other jobs with greater prospects of security in employment. Paradoxically, because the museum has not become a large state institution, it has not had the resources to become a major agent in creating national policies in either cultural or educational fields. The Solomon Islands National Museum (SINM) does not court the problem identified by O’Hanlon, who speaks of museums as ‘of interest in relation to the attempts by Pacific countries, internally diverse as many are, to consolidate themselves as nation-states and to make the variety of local experience speak to national ends’ (1993: 485). Indeed, as the central topic of this chapter argues, the SINM represents something of a witness to the centripetal forces at work in the country during the past decade. Nevertheless, the museum has a serious mission. It is important for people to understand that a museum ‘serves as a window to a people’s culture’ (Rehuher 2001: 122) and is not a place for dead objects only but a place where cultural, historic and natural heritage materials are protected, preserved and promoted for the

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people and the nation at large. Objects are not necessarily always considered dead. Some things do come to the museum because of the power that they hold. For example, the war club used in the massacre of Commissioner Bell in 1927 was given to the museum because of its ability to continue to harm. A gun used in the same event, a front-loader, was also given to the collection. We asked someone in from the church to bless the collection because museum staff kept getting ill. Objects still represent the culture. Even though we no longer need them, they are still powerful. Once the museum was established, the indigenous population’s attitude had to be worked on by organizing radio programmes, visiting the islands and giving public talks to schools and communities about the work of the National Museum and convincing them that it belonged to them. When the country became independent in 1978, some changes began to be seen in the way the government and people viewed the work of the museum and its place in the whole political structure. This was evident when the number of staff working in the museum was increased from only two officers to fourteen in the 1980s. members of the general public were free to enter and view the exhibitions in the gallery in a way that they could not do when the museum was first opened. They were also encouraged to visit the Cultural Village that was built in the National Museum grounds. This new development was to help the museum change its focus and become an institution that cares about heritage. On the one hand, the museum acts as a repository for collection and preservation, and, on the other, the Cultural Village brings these objects alive. So, for example, when we have an exhibition of traditional music we have static displays. But in the Cultural Village these are living examples of performance. It starts to animate the objects. Objects which have been isolated from the lifestyle of the people here become living things. To assist the general public in understanding and appreciating the work of museum, the Tourism Council of the South Pacific in Suva, Fiji engaged a consultant from Dangroup, Victor T.C. Middleton, to carry out a review of museums and cultural centres in the South Pacific funded by the European Development Fund (EDF). The main aim of the review was to ensure that an appropriate form of tourism development, compatible with the South Pacific way of life, is encouraged so that people do not think of museums and cultural centres as places for tourists only. The National Museum was amongst those visited by the consultant (Middleton 1990: 18). In the mean time, people started to get interested in the work of the museum, and they brought in old heirlooms that they no longer had any use for. They either gave, sold or put them on permanent loan to the museum. While this was happening, some groups started to come up with the idea of reviving the construction of custom houses in different parts of the country. At the same time the Government of Australia was operating a funding scheme, known as the South Pacific Cultures Fund that provided money for groups or individuals who wanted to build cultural centres or record various aspects of their own culture or history as part of the cultural programme. Some of the funds were given to schools

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throughout the country to pay cultural experts to give talks during social studies or history classes. Unfortunately, when the funding ceased all the programmes that used to be funded under this particular scheme also stopped and the buildings were left to rot. Those who had obtained funding for other aspects of the cultural programmes became downhearted. Despite the failure of these programmes that had started to extend the work of the National Museum to the communities, some of the cultural groups that have established cultural centres or custom houses have continued to pursue their interest. Such cultural centres and custom houses survive because they incorporate in their activities aspects of their traditional belief or political systems as well as lessons that teach young people the traditional skills of building houses, making handicrafts and learning how to read and write in their own language. A few examples of such centres and custom houses are: the Cultural Centre in East Kwaio, Malaita Province; the Moro Movement Customhouse at Makaruka, Weathercoast, Guadalcanal Province; Customhouses in Natagera Village, on Santa Ana Island in the Makira/Ulawa Province; and the Custom Learning Centre in Munda, Western Province. These Centres can also be described as indigenous museums because, apart from gathering objects that they use as resource materials for teaching, they also have collections of items that are ethnographically important to their communities’ cultures and history. Prior to the last four years of ethnic tension, a number of communities or cultural groups had established customhouses and cultural centres throughout various parts of the country but due to the lack of proper planning and clear vision, they never lasted. One of the major causes of this failure was the belief that, by creating such centres and putting objects inside, tourists would be attracted to visit them. Unfortunately, some of these centres were located in areas that were hard to get to and if visitors did come, high fees were often charged to enter and view the collections of artefacts they housed. The National Museum also suffered during the period of tension. Even after a short-lived truce (the Townsville Declaration) and the supposed end to hostilities, and despite having a night guard, the museum suffered break-ins nearly every night by masked and armed intruders. The thieves took shell money in particular because it still had exchange value. But the warring armies – the Isatabu Freedom Movement (IFM) and the Malaita Eagle Force (MEF) – respected the symbolic significance of the museum and never entered it. One particular incident illustrates the significance of symbolic objects at the heart of this conflict. The Isatabu Freedom Movement saw itself as the spiritual successor to the earlier Moro Custom Company, founded by a local man named Moro. The organisation flourished in south-east Guadalcanal as an anticolonial social movement in the late 1950s and the 1960s. One feature of the organisation was its Custom House of Antiquities in Makaruka village, which held ‘custom memories’ and served as ‘a depository for the working capital of the Moro Custom Company’ (Davenport and Coker: 157). It was in effect an indigenous

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2.1. Moro figure captured by MEF forces, July 2000. (Photo: Robert Irogo. Permission Solomon Star.)

museum containing carvings, axes and shells, and among the hundreds of objects Davenport recorded ‘a newly carved staff with an image of a snake curled around it’ (ibid., 154). When the MEF overran an IFM bunker in July 2000 they captured a staff commemorating the former leader Moro which they paraded through the streets of the capital before burning it to destroy its protective power, (see figures 2.1 and 2.2). These actions performed a symbolic attack on the power associated with the custom house, the source of spiritual wealth. During the whole period of ethnic conflict, there was a growth of interest in setting up cultural centres or mini indigenous museums focusing on specific social

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2.2. MEF forces with Moro figure, July 2000. (Photo: Robert Irogo. Permission: Solomon Star.)

groups that were badly affected by the disruption. In some places the conflict had actually made people start to think seriously about their own cultural and historical backgrounds. One of the ideas that seemed to come up very strongly right after the conflict was that the communities, villages and groups could work together to sort out their genealogies. This is now happening more on Malaita, where most of the people who were badly affected by the conflict on Guadalcanal returned to settle. Even though sorting of the genealogies is happening more on Malaita than in other parts of the country, the idea of reviving the construction of the custom houses and establishing new cultural centres, as well as forming houses of chiefs, seems to be emerging in different parts of the country. This is in fact generating a new interest throughout these islands and causing people to look further into establishing places where they want to keep examples of their own cultural artefacts, to act as points of reference to their places of origin and to confirm their relationship with others. The current trend of what is happening in these islands is the result of the experiences people have gone through over the past four years of ethnic conflict that ravaged the islands. During the difficult times, people started to realize the importance of respecting one another and other people’s customs, land and cultures. It is obvious that when disrespect becomes prominent, trouble will emerge and conflicts erupt amongst people. In some parts of the country people are starting to feel that much of their material culture has completely disappeared. As a result, enquiries have been made at the National Museum to see if the collections held in it contain any examples of cultural items that may be of importance to their particular area. If such items still exist in the museum collection, they want to find out the possi-

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bilities of having them back. These are some of the issues that the National Museum as an indigenous museum is faced with, as the interest in establishing mini indigenous museums or cultural centres grows stronger each year. Apart from those who are now taking a keen interest in reviving their own traditional knowledge, skills and technologies, there are also groups who have already started constructing buildings using traditional materials and style. They now want to engage in the proper methods of collecting, preserving and documenting any items they obtain for their centres or mini indigenous museums. A significant form of documentation is the historic photographic record. The museum has recently obtained access to the ethnographic collection of the Royal Anthropological Institute (RAI) in London. Photographs from the late nineteenth century have become available in the gallery display for the great-grandchildren of the subjects photographed. As the text accompanying a selection of RAI photographs on display explains: together with the objects, the photographs can be one way of valuing cultural practices and beliefs. They can be sources of information about how things were made and decorated, what people wore, and also what they valued and believed. They can make people proud of their local kastom and help maintain, or even revitalise it. History is important for what it can do today.

While some people are collecting old objects relating to their culture and history purely for preservation purposes, there are others who are expanding this idea to include educating the younger generation about the importance of these things by using them as teaching materials in their centres or mini indigenous museums. This is a major that is currently developing and helping to promote the future of indigenous museums. The National Museum continues to maintain its activities and programmes despite the hardships encountered by the staff during the ethnic tension. The perseverance shown by those who remained at work, even though most officers left for their home villages, reflects the concern the few have for the welfare of the cultural, historic and natural heritage of the country. The law and order situation in the country improved drastically after the arrival, towards the end of July 2003, of the Regional Assistance Mission to the Solomon Islands (RAMSI) led by Australia including New Zealand, Fiji, Papua New Guinea, Tonga, Somoa, Kiribati and Vanuatu. As a result, people are starting to get back to their normal way of life. The idea of reviving or encouraging the establishment of museums or cultural centres is reasserting itself again in various parts of the country. The restoration of peace has enabled the museum to develop its programme of training for unemployed urban youth. The new training centre situated in the Cultural Village has been funded by Japanese veteran groups. It provides courses in conservation, recording and documenting objects, and archaeology. There are also planned courses in horticulture, recording local family history and local lan-

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guages. As a result, students will be able to undertake registration programmes in their own communities and inform the museum of their findings. These courses will also provide a wider understanding of how to look after things in their own homes. These courses are designed to get young people involved. In summary, it is obvious from the above discussions that the idea of establishing a museum was initially thought of as an outside concept. As a result, people were always wary of entering into the gallery and viewing the exhibitions. However, because the staff members who are now managing the affairs and activities of the National Museum in the capital city of Honiara are now indigenous officers, the attitude of the general public has changed dramatically over the thirty-five years it has been operating. This change of attitude has also contributed to communities increasingly requesting the National Museum staff to assist them with the surveying, mapping and recording of custom stories that are associated with their sacred, historic and settlement sites whenever there are development activities taking place that are threatening to destroy them. The other areas in which the people are also seeking advice, assistance and guidance include the establishment of centres to store artefacts of cultural significance to their communities, and the documentation of cultural activities on videocassettes. There are some people who are starting to realize the important role played by museums and cultural centres in preserving, protecting and promoting the culture. So they often come with old items of cultural importance either to sell to the National Museum or wanting to seek advice on whether it is possible to set up their own museums or cultural centres. The unfortunate situation is that in some parts of the country people still view the development of such institutions as ‘neocolonialism’ (Stanley 1998: 98). Despite this view, there is already a shift of attitude by people who want to see cultures that are under threat survive and that those customs that are about to disappear revived. There is a new trend developing in some provinces, where people are starting to keep whatever is still left of their heritage in the communities. This has led some people to start collecting items of cultural importance from their own area in the hope of establishing mini-museums or cultural centres to display the collections.

Conclusion Therefore, it can be generally stated that the future of indigenous museums and cultural centres in the Solomon Islands looks promising and that people are realizing the importance of having these kinds of institutions in place to encourage and enhance the revival and survival of their cultural heritage. The National Museum and the Cultural Village are, in the era of restored peace, in a powerful position to preserve cultural heritage and animate this heritage for local communities and for youth in the larger conurbations. This is a task that museums and cultural centres perform throughout the Pacific.

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References Davenport, W. and G. Coker. 1967. ‘The Moro Movement of Guadalcanal, British Solomon Islands Protectorate’ Journal of the Polynesian Society 76(2), 123–75. Foana‘ota, A.L. 1974. ‘The Solomon Islands National Museum, 1971–1973’, South Pacific Bulletin 27 (3), 24–27. ——— 1991. ‘The Solomon Islands National Museum’, in Museums and Cultural Centres in the South Pacific, S.M. Eoe and P. Swadling (eds.). Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum, 107–11. Middleton, T.C.V. 1990. ‘Review of Museums and Cultural Centres in the South Pacific’, Suva: Tourism Council of the South Pacific. O’Hanlon, M. 1993. ‘Review of Museums and Cultural Centres in the South Pacific’, Man 29(2), 485 Rehuher, K.F. 2001. ‘The Museum as a Window of Cultural Education’, in Cultural Interpretation of Heritage Site in the Pacific, (eds.). D.H.R. Spennemann and N. Putt. Pacific Islands Museums Association, 115–23. Stanley, N. 1998. Being Ourselves for You: the Global Display of Cultures. London: Middlesex University Press.

3 Dangerous Heritage: Southern New Ireland, the Museum and the Display of the Past Sean Kingston The Dangers of Heritage Yes, I heard about the museum when I was in Rabaul. But I did not want to visit, I would be scared, those spirits/ancestors [tubuna] would not know me.

This was the reaction of our friend Tangrai to our enquiry as to whether he had visited the small museum in Rabaul, the large town on the neighbouring island of New Britain. For him and other people in Lak, on the southern part of New Ireland, the processes of gathering and displaying icons of the past, of heritage, are far from unknown; however, there, such processes, which are basic to our definitions of the ‘museum’, are attributed with rather different effects than those assumed by internationalist ‘museum culture’. The effects I intend to focus on here can be characterized as the ‘psychological processing’1 of the viewer: the essentially dramaturgical manipulation of the audience’s perception and conception of the past with which they are presented, and themselves in relation to it. The past, generally speaking, appears to be experienced far more powerfully, and emotively, in Lak than in most Western contexts. It is thus not surprising that the harnessing of the past, the organized exhibition of collected heritage, would appear a more dangerous matter to view, to subject oneself to, for Tangrai than for a museum-goer. This is not only a matter of ownership, or personal relationship, to the past that is presented, though that certainly plays its part. It is part and parcel of the way that personal relationships to the past (memories) are differentially – through museums, on the one hand, and Lak ritual, on the other – subject to value transformation2 in being collected, symbolically ordered and publicly exhibited.

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The mechanics and ‘architecture’ of these institutions (museums and Lak ritual) for transforming the intersubjective spatiotemporal relationships to the past or the Other (things beyond the ‘here and now’ construction of a social context) have enough in common to make comparison sensible, and to be mutually suggestive. However, they also have enough oppositions and divergences in their presuppositions and effects to make one wonder how they would interact if an attempt to introduce an ‘indigenous museum’ were made: whether such grafting would have positive or negative outcomes; whether contradictions in their ways of creating value from the display of the past would not result in devaluation of its currency.

Museums by Any Other Culture What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet. Romeo and Juliet, II, ii

It may be an old question, but it is one we do well to remind ourselves of when engaging in comparative analysis, particularly of objects of cultural attachment: would a rose by any other name really smell so sweet? Does a museum smell sweeter than a gallery, or a men’s house, to one emotionally and historically entangled in the institution? The habituated and unhabituated are certainly experienced differently, even if they are functionally the same; a Sepik used to frequenting his men’s house might attribute rather different functions and aspects to, say, the National Portrait Gallery, than we do – though unfamiliarity does not necessarily equate to inaccuracy, given the inevitable short-sightedness of those implicated. This is one of the problems for the identification and assessment of ‘indigenous’ museums in non-Western cultures: we indigenes of ‘museum cultures’ are increasingly aware of how unclear we are about what ‘museums’ are and do, even in the West, and about the precise nature of their overlap with comparable institutions within the same culture – such as galleries, cultural centres and heritage ‘attractions’, archives, libraries, web portals, Madame Tussauds and many other members of the ‘collecting and exhibiting heritage’ family. This growth in awareness (of unawareness of contextual implications and consequences) has largely come about because of the impingement of other expectations, interests and histories (and these have been as much ‘local’, e.g. the increased importance of ‘cultures’ of bureaucratization and professionalization, as ‘global’, e.g. the increased attendance to the voices of those collected from). The new ‘roads’ forged by these widening networks of influence upon museums have also enabled twoway traffic, and have given additional impetus, force and rationales to the export of museums and associated ideas to cultural realms (local and global) that are increasingly seen to aspire to them. All sorts of entities requiring ‘tangibility’ – states, corporations, ‘subject areas’, ‘cultures’ – feel the need for, or are presumed

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to have it in their interests to have, a ‘museum’. Generally amongst the implicit or explicit reasons for this ‘need’ is that of ‘self ’ or public knowledge of the historical aspect of an identity (‘heritage’). In other words, museum techniques (of the collecting and exhibiting family) are in increasing demand for the purchase they give for the reification and modification of identities in the face of the change and mutability of time.3 It is in this sense that museum techniques are deemed particularly functional for (and often by) those identified as ‘indigenous’,4 given that the discourse of indigenity is founded on its troubled relationship with change in the guise of ‘modernity’ (see Errington 1998). ‘Indigenous museums’ are self-announcing, self-conscious ‘museums’ that overtly partake in (and adapt) the museum project, and are in dialogue with an international museum discourse, however locally accented. Though they are fascinating in their range and invention, they represent only a recent and partial component of non-Western ‘museum practice’, and one more weakly ‘indigenous’ (though more strongly ‘museum’) than some others. These others to which I refer are, of course, not known as museums, and are not part of any museum discourse. What this chapter examines might be construed as the ‘museological-type behaviour’ that Kreps (2003: 4) refers to as being ‘a longstanding cross-cultural phenomenon’. However, this label (and others similar), though taking analysis in the right direction, must be treated with caution: it would often be quite counterproductive and distorting to discern ‘antecedents’ or ‘local versions’ of museums. If we want to understand the roles museums play in the ‘culture’ process generally, and thus the way they may be utilized in cultures other than those they are indigenous to in, ironically named, ‘indigenous museums’, then we need to consider how ‘museological behaviour’ itself belongs to a type of practice that is widespread, perhaps to the point of universality. We need to explore how other, unrelated (to ‘museums’) cultures go about ‘doing’ some of the things museums ‘do’ (comparing processes giving commensurate outputs) in our culture; and what effects doing similar things to those done in and by museums have (comparing outputs deriving from commensurate procedures) in a non-museum (as institution) culture. This kind of dialectical analysis reflects light on ourselves as we shine it on others.

Heritage in Southern New Ireland The partner in this ‘cultural dialogue’ in this instance is southern New Ireland, specifically the Lak cultural area of south eastern New Ireland, which, while having its own particularities, has much in common with the other culture/language groups throughout southern New Ireland, its satellite islands and even northern New Britain. Lak is a fairly isolated, mountainous area that, prior to bulldozing of an extremely rough logging road in the mid-1990s, was only accessible on foot or by sea. It has a rich and active ritual life, largely focused on extended funerary rites and associated performances of spirits (especially masks known as tubuan and

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3.1. The mother tubuan: the most dangerous, and most ramifying, presentation of heritage in southern New Ireland. (Photo: the author.)

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bullroarer spirits known as tamianpoipoi), on the basis of which other areas of New Ireland sometimes characterize Lak as especially ‘powerful’ or ‘backwards’, depending on the outlook of the speaker (see figure 3.1). Western-style museums are virtually unknown there, as my wife and I discovered when we attempted to explain her job as a museum curator.5 In discussions with our local friends, the best attempts at translating the museum were to name it as a place of marisoi or tatasim turai. Marisoi glosses as ‘things of the men of before’, and relates to inalienable clan possessions (such ceremonial axes or named masks). Tatasim turai translates as ‘the cleverness of before’, which is applied to things that demonstrate ancestral knowledge and power. Both of these stress the stewardship of past potency, a theme of some currency in Lak, where power is seen to devolve from, and be entropically reduced from the levels of, the ‘men of before’ who are now ancestors to be propitiated. While ‘museums’ themselves are a mystery to most in Lak, people there are conversant with the pidgin term ‘Kastom’ (indigenous heritage and traditional modes of behaviour) that designates the subject matter of most Melanesian museums, and which they are generally devoted to recording and conserving. They know their local reputation as strong in kastom, and the national discourse that sees it as something under threat from the inroads of urban-associated lifestyle changes and ‘development’. In Lak kastom is usually translated into the (preexisting) local term, wol. Although wol has a significant degree of overlap with kastom (and ‘heritage’), older people complain about differences of nuance when the latter is substituted for the local term in the speech of the younger generation. Wol mainly refers to the set-piece productions of funerary and other rituals. The pastness of wol is also closely integrated with future-oriented transformational processes. The term has been explained to me as referring to ‘plans’ or ‘gatherings’ involved in bringing off a ritual performance empowered by ancestral spirits. It is perhaps not coincidental that a pregnant pig, or one of a size to be able to carry litters, is also called wol. The reproductive analogies of collecting, organizing and transforming potency from the (generational) past are locally resonant and are not entirely foreign to European notions of patrimoine. Wol also refers to a code of behaviour and of ordering human affairs that carries a feeling of authenticity and power deriving from its relationship to the past, and which places it squarely within the usual remit of ‘heritage’. This ‘pastness’ is due to its close identification with, and empowerment by, the dead and their associated spirits. Wol equates to the ‘laws’ or standards of proper behaviour relating to ritual performances – kutuss ep wol means to break such strictures. The tubuan and then the bullroarer-spirits are the most powerful forms of wol, and these preeminent ritual performances are the property of initiatory men’s societies. The order imposed by their regulatory meetings, laws and enactments (these three aspects are classified together under the one expression: kilung for the tubuan; odo for the bullroarer spirit) are of the strictest and most absolute kind. The contrast with the maintenance of everyday propriety in warkurai public meetings is stark.6 Warkurai mainly deal with domestic and

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village affairs, and are all too ‘human’ in their procedures: offenders may not turn up and cases may be discussed for many meetings without being resolved. The main implements of enforcement are shaming procedures and the mobilizing of community-wide censure (e.g. refusal of the assembled community to disband a meeting until a fine is paid). In kilung and odo offenders against the wol of tubuan and bullroarers face the judgement and punishment of the spirits themselves. They cannot evade such judgement, nor may they plead their case. They may be bodily brought into the sacred area of the spirits, and if recompense for an infringement is not swiftly forthcoming, the tubuan or bullroarer spirit will destroy the house and possessions of the transgressor, and then kill them. The contrast between the absolute order imposed by wol and that of human society outwith the influence of ancestral spirits is clear and explicit. Much of human social order (e.g. clan identities) and hierarchy (e.g. clan leadership) itself is largely founded upon control and transmission of tubuan masks and bullroarers as items of heritage, demonstrating the right to a particular past and therefore particular present privileges. However, while spirits elicit and impose order in human society, and indeed the living and the dead are categorized by their relationship to the hierarchical canon of spirit forms, spirits themselves epitomize (male, ancestral) wildness and disorder in their own behaviour.

Processing Heritage in Museums On the face of it, heritage and museums in the West are rather different. A generalized description of some of the processes embedded in Western museums will, however, facilitate a comparison on the basis of their spatiotemporal and ‘psychological’ articulation of heritage and spectators. Heritage is a central (and much debated) concept for museums. For our purposes it may most simply be regarded as evocations of the past associated with particular identities and projects (so one can have the heritage of geology as much as of France). Key to the role of a museum, to the degree that it is a constitutive part of being identified as a museum, is that it serves as a nodal point in heritage networks. What this means, to a large degree, is that museums have collections, gatherings of heritage. Very often it is actually through collection by a museum that artefacts become labelled as heritage (the ‘museum effect’), and certainly recontextualization is key to the process of collecting, both in the sense of removal from its previous physical context and social associations, and in the sense of being incorporated into the new frameworks of meaning and significance of a collection of categorized objects. Collecting is necessary (though not sufficient) for the creation of museums, though it is not the only way they channel heritage. Once collected by a museum, heritage has entered a limited network along which it may be transmitted (to other nodes, such as other museums), but from which escape (e.g. deaccessioning) is exceptional and liable to moral sanction. One aspect of this

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circumscription is to differentiate and distance the collected from other, more generalized, networks; in other words, museum collections are no longer part of the everyday. A museum building is, then, a place for collected heritage, for centralized evocations of the past. The main recognized activities carried out on heritage there, forming this place, are its storage, conservation and display. Each of these has other effects, but I want to briefly highlight their structuring of the museum as a place with a particular kind of spatiotemporal topology. Museum storage is probably the function with the most overlap with the theme of circumscription already outlined; one of the store’s normal roles is, after all, security, the preventing of the unauthorized escape of heritage from the approved network. The physical structure of museums, and their stores, usually reflects this by separating and obscuring the stores from the public.7 Stores are definitively backstage; they are the locations from which objects emerge and which they return to, before and after display. In stores objects are in their ‘undressed’ state until they are prepared, ‘dressed’, for display, a process that usually takes place in such parts of the museum that are shielded from the public eye. Only ‘initiates’ – those with special qualifications, interests or stakes in the collection – are normally given temporary access to stores, which are controlled by professionals who are honour-bound to assure particular protocols of behaviour are kept to with regard to their wards. Finally, it is in the disposition and documentation of storage that the fundamentals of museum categorization and cataloguing are applied to collections. The selective process of collecting imbues one degree of order upon material collected from the limitless, ‘formless,’8 possibilities of the world. Museum stores exercise a further degree of control, form and discipline over what are usually, in fact, historically contingent ‘collections of collections’ with their inevitable heterogeneity and anomalies. It is the stores’ ‘backstage’ nature that allows for a certain degree of the unassimilable, unformed and ‘unpresentable’ to persist (the unidentified, the broken, the redundant, the incongruous), and which provides the basis for the ‘cleaned-up’, more formed, presentations of order in the displays. ‘Conservation’ itself is an activity and concept closely related to ‘storage’. Generally, conservation provides the temporal counterpart to the spatial functions of storage: the former attempts to keep artefacts circumscribed within a privileged, separated time, the latter within a privileged, separate space. While conservation attempts to ensure that museum collections are spared the effects of the passing of time, it is not wholly (or, often, even predominantly) a past-focused activity. On the contrary, conservation may attempt to preempt the effects of time in the future, as much as it endeavours to undo the passage of time already passed.9 The effect, in all cases, is to remove its objects from our lived time. Display is the foreground activity facilitated by these background operations. In contrast with them, it is predicated on visibility and on an audience. Displays are the primary interface between the museum and its objects, and the general public. They straddle, and characterize, the boundary between the museum and

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the outside world, often literally having outward and inward faces: a glass-fronted spectacle directed to the public, and a removable back panel giving discreet instrumental access for curatorial staff. Displays require audiences: they are not displays without at least notional spectators, which successful displays must engender in actuality. Displays, and museums, are justified in terms of their pedagogical or (aesthetically or historically) auratic qualities. Often these two rationales are equated with each other. Certainly both involve similar hierarchies. So, for instance, it does seem that a hierarchy of knowledge is intrinsic to the structure of museums and their displays: an expansive, knowledgeable interior is exposed and interpreted through the concentrated medium of an exhibition to a relatively less knowledgeable and exterior public. Needless to say, this differential structuring of a field10 of ‘knowledge’ across this interface equates to a structuring of a field of power (which may be expressed in terms of aesthetics, history or other guises of ‘aura’). The management, structuring and creation of difference, of heterogeneity, are central to all these elements of museums – collection, storage, conservation and display – and in a number of ways. Indeed, Hetherington (1999) depicts the historical trajectory of the museum as a progressively changing articulation of heterogeneity in its two main guises: multiplicity and otherness. The classical museum project, from the time of cabinets of curiosity, has been the encompassment of all the variety and exotica of the world within its grids of interrelationship and categorization. As intimated above, displays are a meta-level of ordering, imposing specific (and various) construals upon selections culled from already structured collections. Displays are based upon – and thereby imply, even in their (structured) variety – the universality of the base levels of categorization. The display is the primary mode of communicating both the universal and particular applicability of the museum’s ordering schemata to viewers. Viewers are in an ambiguous position with regards to the disciplinary structuring of the exhibitions they regard. On the one hand, the ‘world’ is served up to them to survey (‘invisibly’, as if from the centre of the panopticon) as something Other, as an object grasped and appropriated by their conceptual and instrumental powers. On the other hand, they find themselves implicated in narratives and categories stretching out from behind the glass. Preziosi (1996: 288) puts it like this: ‘The museum is in fact a theatre for adequation of an I/eye confronting the world-as-object, with an I/eye confronting itself as an object among objects in that world.’ One can take this a little further, and return to the point of the power differential implicit in museums. The degree to which viewers are allowed to identify with the museum is the degree to which the agency allowed to the museum is experienced as expanding the viewer’s agency; however, as already discussed, there are a number of structural factors which keep the viewer at arm’s length from true association with the museum, and instead position them as subject to the museum, bound by strict codes of respectful behaviour towards the auratic objects of exhibition.

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Processing Heritage in Southern New Ireland Funerary Rites How then do the purposes and effects of collecting and displaying what might be termed ‘heritage’ in southern New Ireland compare with the complex of processes described for Western museums? The paradigmatic wol in this part of New Ireland are funerary rituals, the climax of which are a culminating visitation by, and display of, tubuan masks that literally embody heritage, the ‘owned’ past.11 The centrality of collecting and displaying to the operations of the funerary sequence is indicated by their increased prominence as the power (aesthetic and political) of the rituals step upwards in their progress towards the culminating tubuan rites. The incremental process of collecting – of gathering, transferring ownership, removing from the everyday, and recontextualizing for display – in these rituals encompasses a great many heterogeneous kinds of things (people, food, shell valuables, land, magical and decorative designs), all of which were related to, and evoke, a person’s past (the deceased). This negatively experienced past, this ‘loss’, is acquired by the rituals’ host and then displayed to spectators, who must come and see the gradual incorporation of their personal history (objects and memories evocative of personal experiences of the past) into a display of ‘heritage’ (displays evocative of a collective, categorized past, controlled and owned by an institution, and with an ambiguous, potentially dangerous, relation to the person). Demonstration of these ways of processing heritage, less familiar than those of museum culture, requires an ethnography of some of the details of the extensive corpus of Lak funerary ritual. The first stage, immediately following burial, establishes the pattern of disassociation, reassociation and cumulative collection in a way that straightaway makes differences with Western heritage processes apparent. The opening signs of the selection of emotive histories for recontextualization (through collection) are seen in the smashing and scattering of personal possessions and objects closely associated with, and therefore evocative of, the deceased. For the same reasons, and through a commensurate mechanism, the highlighting of emotive memories of past activities takes place in their present renouncement: the chief mourners cease all social interaction and eating and drinking, and take confinement within a house; while a great many kin and friends abandon a whole range of practices, places, foods and objects that, for them, recall their personal relationship with the deceased. The overall leader responsible for the ritual work of gathering together and transforming these negatively valued, past-oriented subjective dimensions is also made known at this point. Joe Bongian put it succinctly in local terms: his task was to ‘see his wife [and by extension the other mourners] dance again by taking on her sum’.12 Sum is a malaise, caused by evocation of past-oriented thoughts and experiences of loss, that afflicts persons, objects and places associated with the deceased. Sum results from the rupture of mutually constituting relationships that in life were experienced as the two-way exchange of thought and care. On the one hand, items that remind the living of the dead have sum – so certain foods or

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activities that were once shared with the deceased are now avoided because of their redolence. On the other hand, the demise of the shared history, and of the ‘thoughts’ of the deceased with regard to the mourners, is experienced as a loss like a debt. A debt is a marker with which one reminds oneself and another that one needs thinking of, and that attention in the form of an exchange good is absent, in abeyance, and morally deserved. This is why all mourners have debt, a debt that has been defaulted: the attention that they were expecting from the deceased has been rescinded, while their thoughts of them linger on. The work of a ritual host is to finish sum and survivors’ thoughts of the deceased. This he does by ‘paying’ the debts of attention now owed by the deceased, and by ‘collecting’ – acquiring and re-associating evocative artefacts and activities (the very process so central to museums) to an ongoing relationship with himself. This work is begun when, in the four days following the funeral, the ritual host makes a series of gifts of food, with payments, to the chief mourners, so that they may begin to eat and drink again. During the same period, subsidiary hosts in all the villages where the deceased was known hold feasts known as anngan, at which they compel all the villagers to eat their food, and thereby relinquish thoughts of the deceased (and the food cum social relationship they used to share with them). Through anngan these local hosts effectively consolidate their village’s sum debts of thought of the deceased upon themselves. In turn they too will be compensated and have their thoughts turned from the deceased by a primary host in a further funerary ritual known as tondong. Some weeks later, the primary mortuary rites culminate at this tondong ceremony, where the deceased’s clan-leader brings all the local feast holders to himself, so as to remove their sum and further consolidate the debt that absence of the deceased had scattered. Each of the local hosts brings four things to this central tondong at the deceased’s village: an effigy called a tonger, which is constructed from food crops collected from the deceased’s garden, and serves to give form to the relationship and sum he has accumulated with respect to the deceased; his contribution to the construction of another effigy called a lalamar, which is composed from shell-money from each of the attending hosts (primary and local), and which in turn figure the group’s relationship with the deceased; a dance troupe of decorated men, in the guise of spirits, connected with the local host’s subclan and locality; and an exchange pig. The aim of the tondong is spoken of as tolon ngis, which literally means to ‘make beautiful’ or, colloquially, to ‘wash’ the family of the deceased and the local hosts. Ngis – clean, bright or beautiful – is also the word used to describe the decorated men who dance under the auspices of the local hosts. It is through these dances that the local hosts, and the mourners they have fed, are demonstrably relieved from the obscurity of their dirty sum. The male dancers come out of seclusion in the bush wearing various spiritual decorations upon their head, known as kabut, which are clan valuables of their sponsors and which are, iconographically and conceptually, lesser versions of tubuan masks. These dancers

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3.2. Dancers wearing kabut: these are lesser incarnations of tubuan, which evoke correspondingly smaller segments of the past. (Photo: the author.)

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are focal points for the remembrance of previous (deceased) owners of the kabut, whom the audience may ‘see’ in their decorations. The only male dancers who do not wear the spiritual kabut on their heads are those dancing under the auspices of the primary host. They dance still smeared in black sum, showing that the primary host alone now bears the burden of the deceased and their heritage. It is he alone who cries at the tondong ceremony, it is he who has consolidated the debt that the dead leave behind them by paying and thinking of the living so that they are beautiful and the deceased is thought of no more, (figure 3.2). At the end of the day attention turns to the effigies, in front of which the dancing has been taking place. Each is associated with the deceased and their social relationships, and must be dismantled by the primary host making payments to the local hosts. The lalamar shell-money effigy is most directly said to be the deceased’s body, and would once have been topped by the skull of the departed. The primary host uses his own shell-money to pay each contributor to remove their strands of shell-money from the lalamar and thus disassemble the body. Each of the tonger food effigies is constructed with produce from the deceased’s garden, and it is under these that the pigs are tied at the end of the tondong. These are gar ‘challenge’ pigs, and a series of exchanges are initiated in which the host must both give compensation pigs in return for the initial anngan expenditure, and also replace each gar, in succession, with a larger pig of his own. At this point the tonger effigies, which represent the outstanding relationships, thought and debt the local hosts still had with regard to the deceased, are torn down. The rest of the community now have no claim on the deceased, who becomes entirely the primary host’s concern. He has moved from having the responsibility of paying for the debts (the pasts that owed their rememberers a future) generated by the death to – by having the last say in the exchanges with regard to the lalamar and tonger effigies – giving without return, and forcing the community to become indebted to him (and thereby implicating those remembered pasts in a relationship with a future). This is the switching point to the secondary rites in which the host’s unilateral giving transforms him into the focus for the entire community, (figure 3.3). Secondary mortuary rites may take place many years after the primary rites, and usually ‘finish the memory’ of a number of departed members of a lineage. In their further amalgamation and transformation of sum, these rites continue the ingathering of the memorial past and the work of transforming negative evocations of absent presences in everyday life (dead individuals) into the positive invocation of the presence of those absent (or, better, ‘separated from’) everyday life (tubuan spirits). Only exemplary rituals hosted by the most powerful men bring forth the tubuan masks, the most powerful and most iconic form of spirit, and the incarnation both the most obscuring and transforming of their presentday bearers, and the most powerfully evocative of the collectivity of ancestors. Once the tubuan masks are ready in the taraiu – their secret bush ‘backstage’, only accessible to initiates who have ‘died’ – the host holds a feast at which he

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3.3. Some tonger readied for the exchange of pigs and the dismantlement of the social relations they visualize. (Photo: the author.)

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unilaterally feeds, and gives shell-money to, the entire populace of the region. This action causes him to be classified as the ‘mother’ of the community, with power over all who are indebted to his nurture. In fact, the host converts his consolidated dusty sum into ngis – ‘beautiful’ – tubuan. By giving unreciprocated pigs and shell-money to the entire community, giving until he has nothing left,

3.4. A lalamar, shell-money body of the deceased, prior to its disassembly and the ‘finishing’ of thoughts of the departed. Note the small photograph of the deceased tied to it. (Photo: the author.)

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the host becomes himself like a spirit and like a mother who has nurtured and thought of them all, and in turn forced them to attend to him. He becomes identified as a mother tubuan. During the course of the feast, the mat a matam (‘dead come and look’) tubuan invade the village from the taraiu, to take away the ‘bones’ of the (usually several) deceaseds. These ‘bones’ are the remaining physical reminders – known as nambu – such as the remains of their house, a tree they once sat underneath, or their ceremonial axe. In addition they remove another lalamar shell-money effigy, this time constructed by the primary host alone, (figure 3.4). The women retreat from the tubuan, which are dangerous to them, and watch from a distance, and as the tubuan enter the village, they wail at the evocation of all the dead who have previously been associated with the masks. The individuals whose deaths are the occasion of the rite are said to be forgotten from this point on, and they are in effect incorporated in the plural lineage evoked by their masks. The host is identified with the premier mothermask, who has the power of life and death over the entire community. The masks now dance at the edge of the village, morning and afternoon, displaying themselves and their figuration of the limitless past for four days. All the presentday ‘living’ (i.e. all who are not initiates concealed within the masks or the bush) are socially compelled, under threat of spiritual vengeance, to gather together and watch only the tubuan, the ancestral amalgamation of forgotten pasts, as they dance. At the same time they must avoid the gaze of the masks, lest they be transformed in a damaging way.13 All other social activities and visual displays are suppressed during this time. The tubuan is experienced as the most powerful image in Lak culture, one that is dangerous, beautiful and sexually attractive, and one that affects the thoughts of the spectators markedly, bringing to mind the generations of ‘clan’ members who have been subsumed within them (and in so doing, placing them within the ‘kinship’ and sometimes retrospectively defined ‘clan’ of the ritual leader who owns the tubuan). The tubuan eventually die. After four days, the tubuans’ eyes are smeared with black sum, their dance loses its vitality and they leave to pass away off-stage, where the processes for their disarticulation and the removal of the sum that their death in turn produces take place in secret. What is visible to the women is the intermittent reappearance of the initiates as living humans enveloped in decreasing tokens of the tubuan at the edges of the village, before they finally reintegrate themselves into social life at the end of a period of sum.

Funerary Rituals and Museum Processes Although many commentators are keen to move beyond the too-easy likening of museums to mausoleums (e.g. Witcomb 2002), there is perhaps a general similarity between museum processes and funerary rituals in that both commonly serve to impose order upon unruly or negatively valued entanglements of the past with the

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present by recontextualizing and reassociating tokens of the past together, in a locus defined as separate from the present. But are the means by which museums do this, and indeed their other functions, really comparable to the transformative collecting and displaying of southern New Ireland ritual? The differences are more than obvious, but an assessment of the commensurateness of the generalized museum modus operandi with the New Ireland specifics may repay consideration. One of the main apparent differences is that the New Ireland processes appear to lack the materiality and substantiality given to museums by their buildings. This might seem to be a considerable incompatibility, given the centrality of the building to the way the institution circumscribes and stages its collections, and shapes the gaze, access and circulation of its visitors. However, buildings are only one of the means museums use in processing the subject and their subjectivity – there are, after all, many open-air museums.14 In this context a ‘museum building’ is an ‘architecture’, an articulation of certain network and dramaturgical forms (processes of obscuring, revealing, storing, staging etc.) A casual observer might well conclude that buildings are epiphenomenal to the New Ireland rituals concerning the manipulation and construction of heritage. This is not quite so. All segments of the funerary ritual take place at the (local or primary) host’s men’s house (pal). These have neither the physical solidity nor temporal endurance of Western museums, being constructed from the comparatively ephemeral vernacular materials of rattan thatch, split bamboo and light woods.15 Their interiors are restricted to men (some just to tubuan initiates) and are very dark, allowing those within to look out without those outside (essentially women) seeing in. It is inside the pal that clan marisoi that form constituent parts of ancestral spirit manifestations (such as firam axes, drums and secret components for bullroarer and tubuan performances) are kept on high shelves and in the rafters, where the smoke from the fire keeps them dry and preserved.16 It is also inside the pal that the secret negotiations, discussions and plans (which are an intrinsic part of wol) that are necessary for public elements of the rituals take place. This interior is an extension into the village of the initiateonly areas of the bush belonging to the tubuan, and is more than just the backstage for ritual – it is the spiritual locus of the lineage grouping whose efficacy is revealed in the success and aesthetic power of the rituals, dance troupes and tubuans associated with its owner. In fact there is a strong analogy between the pal and the tubuan mask: both contain, and are animated by, a lineage’s spirits, and both have a similar construction. Like the tubuan, men’s houses are perpetually recreated, with rituals for their birth and death; unlike the tubuan, they are the background for the revelation of displays, rather than the display itself. The pal are not equivalents to museum buildings; they are more akin to a component of a museum, the store. They help supply some of the boundaries to visibility and access that allow an instrumental, status-distinguished, backstage. Unlike the museum (or perhaps not?), the physical solidity of material barriers associated with buildings (e.g. ‘strong walls’) contributes less to the impermeability and security of their boundaries than do the social and visual barriers of secrecy and disguise.

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What about the collecting of the heritage that the museums’ boundaries marshal? Museum objects have been selected for removal from the outside world and channelled to the circumscribed museum network, ostensibly because of the ‘power’ (pedagogical or aesthetic) they can add to those already collected. The New Ireland funerary rituals also remove objects from the outside world into a circumscribed network, and in so doing add to the power (evocative and political) attributed to previous collections. In New Ireland, however, these evocative objects are removed from the everyday world because of their negative impact there. Western museums do not collect items because of their negative impact on the world outside the museum; on the contrary, collection is often rationalized as safeguarding evocative objects from the outside world. In both New Ireland and the museum a major motive for collection is the transformation and centralization of dispersed evocative material away from the everyday, and to an owned and controlled evocative form. The interests of the collecting subject, empowered in relation to the collected ‘objects’, in both cases, is to increase the evocative potency of their centralized displays, and, in this sense at least, both ultimately collect ‘evocation’ rather than objects per se. In New Ireland the evocation (sum) is transferred from objects (or place, activity etc.), which may be destroyed, to evocative vehicles – masks and decorations – which themselves are not preserved, in physical form, but are destroyed and recreated at each display. Despite recent interest in the role of museums with regard to ‘intangible heritage’,17 it is tangible, enduring objects that remain the normal vehicles for evocation (often of intangible ‘histories’ and so on) in the context of their preservation and display. Another perspective renders the contrast one of degree rather than kind. In New Ireland, objects are transformed in order for their evocative potential to become incorporated within a new, larger context of display and evocation (a mask), which is exhibited temporarily at particular occasions, being dismantled between exhibitions. In museums, objects are also often considerably transformed (e.g. archaeological cleaning or reconstruction), sometimes beyond recognition, in order for their evocative potential to become incorporated within a new, larger context of display and evocation (say, a display case), which will be dismantled between exhibitions. The manner of transformation, and transferral of evocative potential, is perhaps where the fundamental difference lies. The museum exhibition is a physical composite of individual collected components and their evocations; a tubuan is a cognitive amalgam of undifferentiated, and in some senses unlimited, collected evocations in one physical entity. There are no New Ireland ‘stores’ that physically contain and structure collections in the sense that museum stores do, for the reason suggested above: the collections are not primarily of physical objects, even if that is what, sensu stricto, the displays inevitably are. A display that is finished in New Ireland will be taken off-stage and disarticulated to a far greater degree than a museum exhibit that is reduced to its component artefacts in the stores. This is not to say that the (social) order realized in, say, a display of tubuan, does not persist beyond their departure from the village.

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The question of ‘conservation’ is obviously a related one. A few ritual components (e.g. bullroarers) are conserved in the traditional museum sense of attempting to forestall the physical effects of time. These, however, are matters of convenience. The physical constitution of ritual items, tubuan, houses and, even, persons, is ephemeral, and is recreated time and again. What are ‘conserved’, and are ideologically permanent and outside of lived time, are spiritual identities (tubuan, but also others). So, great care is taken in the faithful reproduction of named spirit designs on each appearance (and they are believed to remain the same), even though, as the years go by, the evolution of the particular past and persons evoked in the audiences’ minds by a specific design is acknowledged. This ‘recreative’ conservation is only possible because of the episodic, transitory nature of the spirits’ appearances from a realm obscured and separated from everyday life – if they were to remain and endure within the everyday, they would suffer the exigencies of everyday time and ageing. This takes us to the disciplinary structuring of audiences, hierarchy and heterogeneity apportioned, in the discussion of Western museum processes, to ‘display’. The Lak displays certainly demand spectators in a stronger fashion – potentially to the level of the murderous sanctions from the tubuan; a missed museum exhibition seldom exacts penalties any harsher than a loss of cultural capital. The funerary displays do engage attention on both the pedagogic and auratic registers utilized by museums. The pedagogic element derives from the very real demonstrations of political power taking place. The audience wish to learn the results of the discussions of wol in the men’s house, and witness who will achieve ownership of a particular mask, how many feasts the deceased will cause, who will pay his debts and whether a host will be able to lead the most powerful dance, and so on. The auratic element is enormously strong, with the compelling fascination of both aesthetic power and manifold historical presence – the sublimity, in fact – of tubuan, and lesser spirits being facilitated by sophisticated performative techniques of framing, staging, dramatic tension and spine-tingling song and dance. As in museum exhibits, the pedagogic and auratic nature of the relationships between display and viewer are constitutive of a hierarchy. The articulation of heterogeneity – otherness and multiplicity – is probably the most fundamental commonality of museums and the funerary rituals. There are potentially no limits to the categorizing powers of either set of techniques of encompassing difference. The funerary system can assign any experience, or any entity, that evokes a deceased person to transfers of ownership eventuating in its incorporation in a spirit mask. The spectators and performers/displayers are categorized and differentiated by their relationship to spirits. Just as those confronted with a museum are, differentially (on grounds of profession, class, culture), poised between the power of surveying the world-as-object and the discipline of being subjected as an object within the museum’s survey, so southern New Irelanders confronted with a spiritual display are, differentially (on grounds of sex, initiatory status, kin affiliation), poised between the power of surveying the past as object/possession/kin and the discipline of being subjected as an object

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within a spirit’s (violent, sexual, inimical to life) survey. Hence the dangerous ambivalence of the women viewing the tubuan, and so also their community’s past: forced to watch, pleasurably surveying (and assessing) aesthetic (and sexual) potency of the ancestors/masks/dancers, while always hiding from the demands and lethal dangers of the return gaze. Museum-goers are both less enthralled and less in thrall to the evocations of the past they visit. Contrary to the common presumption that societies ‘without history’, such as those of New Ireland, have only weak evocations of their heritage, they should perhaps be relieved that heritage in the West is transformed to ‘objectivity’18 – with the danger of extending the discipline of that objectivity to the viewing subject – rather than experiencing the Lak transformation of heritage into the tyrannical ‘subjectivity’ of spirits, which ‘objectify’ the viewers not as an ‘object amongst objects’, as Preziosi (1996: 288) feared for the museum spectator, but as an ‘object amongst subjects’. Ironically, the analogy made between museums and mausoleums in the West is due to the suggestion that much of the past collected from the realm of everyday life is assigned to vaults and displays from which they never come out to interact with human affairs again; in southern New Ireland the funerary ritual, by assigning the past to dead spirits, give it (intermittent) life, because the ancestral spirits are not done with the living, but come to visit human affairs.

Conclusion: Collections, Images and Sacrificial Economies An important article by Küchler (1997) suggests that Western museums’ holdings of large ethnological and archaeological collections from some cultural areas (and not others) may not only reflect Western agency and interest,19 but also indigenous practices of deposition and destruction of ritual artefacts in ‘sacrificial economies’. This holds particularly for Melanesia, where rambramb figures from Vanuatu, masks from the Papuan Gulf, and malanggan from Northern New Ireland are all examples (amongst others) of artefacts objectifying the dead or spirits that precolonially were ‘killed’ or ‘banished’, and in the transitional and early colonial periods were instead (or additionally) removed wholesale by Western collectors. In this article (see also Küchler 2002) Küchler additionally claims that the sacrificial dimension to ritual and ‘art’ objects of Oceania, and of New Ireland in particular, have long been overlooked because of the investment of the anthropology of the region in Maussian theory (Mauss 1954; Hubert and Mauss 1964), which led to an exchange-dominated view of sacrifice. For her, Melanesian sacrifice is not best understood by projecting some anthropomorphic entity from whom a reciprocal gain is expected; instead, more useful is the tradition of theory deriving from Loisy (1920), in which it is the processual nature of the destruction, the mimetic enactment of riddance, which is the important element of sacrifice. Küchler’s analysis elaborates two further implications of this kind of

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sacrificial logic in a Melanesian context: firstly, the coincidence it indicates between the indigenous desire to be rid of select ritual objects with the Western desire to collect them; secondly, that the destruction of ritual objects allows their translation into ‘images’, which both form an intangible basis to the local Melanesian economy, and allow for future conversion of life force back into material form. I consider Küchler’s work to be most suggestive of shared modalities between museums and New Ireland mortuary ritual. Both the sacrificial themes of the destruction of spiritually charged artefacts, and the amalgamation of materially decomposed identities into named, everlasting ‘images’ are resonant within the Lak context. The notion of this ‘image’ needs some unpacking: Küchler discusses it in terms of the translation of a material entity into a mental, memorial construct, but only a cursory reflection on Western art practices highlights the fact that ‘images’ often have eminently material substrates (as of course does cognition itself ). The most sophisticated analysis of images in all their forms (Mitchell 1986) settles on a virtual quality as their defining characteristic: they are in some sense not in the here and now; as Casey (1976) puts it in his study of imagining, the imagined content (the image) must have its own world frame. Thus the content of even the most ephemeral of mental imaginings is situated in a specific and delimited imaginary space–time with its own distinctive character in respect to the a priori world of perception. Museums, with their constitutive practices of display, conservation and storage, are certainly concerned with the maintenance of conceptual space-times, coherent world frames, separate from those of the everyday. In that sense at least they present images to the outside public (and they have often been described as institutions of ‘memory’, a faculty to which images are central); and it is thus far from surprising that museums, despite their ostensible reliance on material objects, above almost all other cultural institutions, seem to have an elective affinity with the virtual medium of cyberspace, with some ‘museums’ now existing purely in that medium. Museum collecting could therefore be characterized as a form of sacrifice, translating material objects into images, by the ‘killing’, or ‘virtualization’, of the physical and social presences within the space–time of the quotidian lived world. Within Lak, as in the northern New Ireland area where Küchler worked, there is a rich and complex sacrificial economy, as this chapter’s exploration of the destruction of successive effigies has made clear. However, unlike the northern malanggan, thousands of which are found in museums around the world, no documented southern New Ireland tubuan has yet been discovered in any collection (see Kingston 2006). One reason for this may be that while the wooden malanggan must be sacrificed, as material vehicles for ‘virtualization’ to mental images, tubuan are the virtual entities which assemblages of the material world (bodies, effigies) have been destroyed to produce. The malanggan must be disposed of, for which dispatch to a foreign museum will serve; the tubuan are more akin to that overseas museum, normally far from the time and space in which human life is lived.

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What, then, might be the theoretical impact of an ‘indigenous’, rather than overseas, museum, were it to be revealed, tubuan-like, at the edge of a Lak village? Issues of secrecy are perhaps familiar from other contexts; in Lak when I wished to show a video of a tubuan event, a preview to initiated men was necessary to ensure no accidental exposures (on my or the dancers’ parts) compromised the numinosity of the masks. One might imagine that exposure of an ephemeral mask to the depredations of prolonged exposure and contemplation would be unthinkable. When I brought decade-old photographs, which included images of people now deceased, there was much wailing, for which I was obliged to pay compensation, and there was some concern that they be ‘returned’ to the mourner so that they could be removed to a safe depository out of the flow of everyday life and accidental encounter. Even when I showed informants reproductions from the area from a German expedition of 1904 (Stephan and Graebner 1907), they expressed great sorrow upon seeing the faces of representatives of the past who were unknown to them, and were concerned that images of ritual paraphernalia be kept discreetly. It is clear that considerable changes to attitudes to ‘heritage’ in terms of past identity and culture would be required, or entailed, by any museum-like institution attempting to display it permanently, rather than in ritual incursions, in Lak. Though unlikely, it is not impossible that some sort of museum display might one day be initiated (perhaps by one of the churches that define themselves in opposition to the indigenous past). But the presence of any museum would, it seems to me, devalue the sacrificial economy of the ‘absent’ museum of the tubuan. It would, in fact, undercut the culturally preservative intent that has been a defining hallmark of the indigenous museum.

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7.

This useful phrasing of the action of exhibits is taken from Stanley and Cole (2000). The classic, and in my view unsurpassed, analysis of spatiotemporal elements of value transformation is Munn (1986). Definition in the face of the mutability of time is responsible for the strong connections between museums and authenticity (see Kingston 1999). See Kreps (2003) for the impetus to use museums as part of ‘development’, and see Kuper (2003a and 2003b) and Kenrick and Lewis (2003) for opposing sides of the debate about the correctness and usefulness of the label ‘indigenous’. We were in Lak for twenty months from 1994 to 1996. It is very similar to that presented between kilung and vurkurai, tubuan and ‘secular’ courts in Karavar, Duke of Yorks, by F. Errington (1974) and S. Errington (1977). This remains the case despite innovations such as ‘visible’ or ‘open’ storage in vogue with current ‘democratizing’ trends, which are inevitably only ‘visible’ or ‘open’ to a degree, and generally comprise only a subset of a museum’s stores.

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8.

I use this word in the sense of Bataille (1985), and as elaborated in Bois and Krauss (1997) and Kingston (2003), for that which has escaped or resisted the human process of ‘giving things shape’. ‘Form’ and ‘forming’ are its antonyms. See Phillips (1997) for a discussion of the temporal dynamics of conservation. In the sense given by Bourdieu (e.g. 1984). It is worth emphasizing that the procedures of ‘collection and display’ that are discussed here are equally part of other wol, such as initiations (girls’ and men’s) or weddings (see Kingston 1998, 2003). The deceased was her father, and hence was of the same moiety as Joe. They are particularly dangerous to pregnant women, who might be caused to miscarry or to give birth to some vegetal element of the tubuan. This is one problem with the highly influential mode of comparison exercised by the seminal, and otherwise excellent, article by Mead (1983), in which he considers Oceanic ritual buildings as ‘indigenous modes of museums’, and which he begins with the Webster’s definition of museums starting ‘A building or area …’ [my italic], which itself immediately hints at wider possibilities even in the West. When available, planed planks and corrugated iron may sometimes now be used for domestic residences. The point about the ‘conservation’ qualities of smoky storage in men’s houses has previously been made by Craig (1990) for the Mountain-Ok area. In a manner in some ways similar to Mountain-Ok men’s houses, pal also contain a rack of all the jawbones of pigs consumed in their feasts. These do not constitute any map or spatial representation, as Hyndman (1991) claims for the Ok trophy arrays, but they do display a measure of the status and age of the pal and its owner. For example, the theme of 2004’s International Museum Day was intangible heritage. This follows on from the adoption of the International Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage at UNESCO’s 32nd General Conference in 2003. See O’Reilly (2004). This may appear similar to the secularity invoked by Mead (1983), and others since, as characteristic of Western museums but not of Oceanic (and by implication ‘nonWestern’/‘non modern’) presentations of the past. However, the claim that museums are secular institutions is not beyond debate, given their linkage with art and other manifestations of ‘aura’ that have overlap with religious experience. See also O’Hanlon (1993) and O’Hanlon and Welsch (2000) for discussions of indigenous agency in forming ethnographic collections.

9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14.

15. 16.

17.

18.

19.

References Bataille, G. 1985. Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927–1939, edited and translated by A. Stoekl. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Bois, Y. and R. Krauss. 1997. Formless: A User’s Guide. New York: Zone Books. Bourdieu, P. 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. London: Routledge. Casey, E. 1976. Imagining: A Phenomenological Study. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Craig, B. 1990. ‘Relic and Trophy Arrays as Art amongst the Mountain-Ok, Central New Guinea’, in Art and Identity in Oceania. A. Hanson and L. Hanson (eds.). Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press.

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Errington, F.K. 1974. Karavar: Masks and Power in a Melanesian Ritual. Ithica, NY: Cornell University Press. Errington, S. 1977. ‘Order and Power in Karavar’ in The Anthropology of Power, R.D. Fogelson and R.N. Adams (eds.). New York: Academic Press. ——— 1998. The Death of Authentic Primitive Art and Other Tales of Progress. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hetherington, K. 1999. ‘From Blindness to Blindness: Museums, Heterogeneity and the Subject’, in Actor Network Theory and After, J. Law and J. Hassard (eds.). Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Hubert, H. and M. Mauss. 1964. Sacrifice: Its Nature and Functions. London: Routledge. Hyndman, D. 1991. ‘The Kam Basin Homeland of the Wopkaimin: A Sense of Place’ in Man and a Half, A. Pawley (ed.). Auckland: Polynesian Society. Kenrick, J. and J. Lewis. 2003. ‘Indigenous People’s Rights and the Politics of the Term “Indigenous”’, Anthropology Today 20(2). Kingston, S., 1998. ‘Focal Images, Transformed Memories: The Poetics of Life and Death in Siar, New Ireland, Papua New Guinea, Ph.D. thesis, University of London. ——— 1999. ‘The Essential Attitude: Authenticity in Primitive Art, Ethnographic Performances and Museums’, Journal of Material Culture 4(3), 338–51. ——— 2003. ‘Form, Attention and a Southern New Ireland Life Cycle’, JRAI 9(4), 681–708. Paris: ——— 2006. ‘Tubuan’, in Arts of New Ireland, P. Peltier and M. Gunn (eds.). Musée du quai Branly. Kreps, C.F. 2003. Liberating Culture: Cross-cultural Perspectives on Museums, Curation and Heritage Preservation. London: Routledge. Küchler, S. 1997. ‘Sacrificial Economy and its Objects: Rethinking Colonial Collecting in Oceania’, Journal of Material Culture 2(1), 39–60. ——— 2002. Malanggan: Art, Memory and Sacrifice. Oxford: Berg Kuper, A. 2003a. ‘The Return of the Native’, Current Anthropology 44(3), 389–402. ——— 2003b. ‘The Return of the Native’, New Humanist 118(3), 5–8. Loisy, A. 1920. Essai Historique sur les Sacrifice. Paris.: E. Nourry. Mauss, M., The Gift. London: Routledge. Mead, S.M. 1983. ‘Indigenous Models of Museums in Oceania’, Museum 35(139), 98–101. Mitchell, W.T.J. 1986. Iconology: Image, Text and Ideology. London: Routledge. Munn, N. 1986. The Fame of Gawa: A Symbolic Study of Value Transformation in a Massim (Papua New Guinea) Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. O’Hanlon, M. 1993. Paradise: Portraying the New Guinea Highlands. London: British Museum Press. O’Hanlon, M. and R. Welsch. (eds.). 2000. Hunting the Gatherers: Ethnographic Collectors, Agents and Agency in Melanesia, 1870s–1930s. Oxford: Berghahn Books: O’Reilly, J. 2004. ‘Abstract Art’, Museums Journal 104(3), 28–29. Phillips, D. 1997. Exhibiting Authenticity. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Preziosi, D. 1996. ‘Collecting/Museums’ in Critical Terms for Art History, R.S. Nelson and R. Shiff (eds.). Chicago: Chicago University Press. Stanley, N. 2000. ‘Moving People, Moving Experiences: Novel Strategies in Museum Practice’, in Beyond the Museum: Art, Institutions, People, I. Cole and N. Stanley (eds.). Oxford.: Museum of Modern Art Papers, vol. 4. Stephan, E. and F. Graebner. 1907. Neu-Mecklenburg (Bismarck-Archipel): Die Küste von Umuddu bis Kap St. Georg. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer (Ernst Vohsen). Witcomb, A. 2002. Re-imagining the Museum: Beyond the Mausoleum. London: Routledge.

4 Memory, Violence and Representation in the Tjibaou Cultural Centre, New Caledonia Diane Losche Museums are often born with the nation state, and, so the usual story goes, reflect aspects of that state. At the same time not all aspects of history and culture are represented. Certain events, especially those associated with the violence that often attends the origin of the state, present problems for representation in museums and may be suppressed or represented in indirect, convoluted ways. Many cultural centres in the Pacific region seem to conform to a narrative that ignores the fact that some, at least, have emerged from ruins and violent pasts and thus cultural centres seem rather clean spaces, uncontaminated by history. To some extent this makes sense in the Pacific region, where the development of positive identities, cultural pride and civil society takes precedence. The memory of violence tends to be treated as if its representation might contaminate the national body, as perhaps it can. However, this paper suggests that cultural centres in the Pacific are on the horns of a dilemma: to the extent that erasure, suppression and forgetfulness does take place, institutions risk becoming banal and disconnected from the very locale in which they live, since those locales have been marked by violence. The topic of this paper is the representation of historical violence in one cultural centre in the Pacific, the Tjibaou Cultural Centre in Noumea, New Caledonia. However, the leitmotif of this essay is the film Hiroshima Mon Amour, a film about violence, memory, relationship and representation. I suggest that this film could serve as one kind of alternative narrative, a poetic one, which cultural centres in the Pacific might be informed by. If there was a birth moment of the modern Pacific, it was Hiroshima, the atomic bombing of the city which produced one of the major pollutions of the great ocean and simultaneously brought the region into the new global world order. The film, by Alain Resnais and Marguerite Duras (Duras 1961) was commissioned by Japanese producers and shot in 1957. It is now considered one

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of the iconic films of French New Wave Cinema. There is a museum in the opening sequences of the film, montaged with an intimate, but anonymous love scene. The film, in total, is about a 24-hour period of a frustrated love affair during which the couple lose, find and lose each other in the streets, cafés and rail stations of Hiroshima while the woman remembers, in a kind of catharsis, her own experience of violence, pain and loss in the Second World War. The film implies throughout that it is her amorous encounter in this particular city haunted by its past, which is also constantly suppressed, that triggers the woman’s own memories. The film implies that her revelations allow for a painful but authentic human encounter between individuals from two different cultures, hers, French, and his, Japanese. Thus, in the presence of violence, memory and revelation are crucial to authentic encounters between human beings separated by cultures. Early sequences shot in the Hiroshima Museum, which commemorates the atomic bombing of the city, demonstrate the problems of representing historical violence faced by museums. What do we experience when we see artefacts, especially those intimately connected to violence? What kind of knowledge do artefacts of history provide? The museum sequences in the film show artefacts which are meant to provide evidence of this violence: terrible photographs, human hair, burnt stone, twisted wreckage. All these are set in a minimalist setting of ultra modernism. The sequence is also set to a very high energy jazz score, in counterpoint to over-voiced dialogue in which the French woman repeatedly tells her Japanese lover that she has seen everything in Hiroshima, and he replies repeatedly that she has seen nothing of Hiroshima. This film sequence raises questions that I want to address in this paper. There are difficult questions about representation and violence – what is real, and what fiction, phantasm, dream, memory? How do we know and experience violence? How long should we, can we, mourn? The Hiroshima Museum shown in the film is a ghettoized institution, one designed to represent but also to contain the violence it commemorates. The museum was one specially designed to commemorate a terrible event and therefore it had rather different problems from those faced by cultural centres in new nations, whose brief is often to provide a positive cultural identity for an emerging civil society. Nevertheless, I suggest that the film raises, in poetic filmic form, some crucial issues relevant to all museums. When faced with the very understandable dilemmas involved in representing or memorializing violence in the institution’s own past, many museums tend to eradicate the ruins on which they are built. In the old world this erasure is so complete that we may easily forget the thefts, upheavals and murders that have often marked not only the beginning of the nation but also its history and its aesthetics. I realize that when discussing this issue one enters well-trodden territory. There is a substantial literature devoted to ‘representing the unrepresentable’ and ‘imagining the unimaginable’. Most prominent of these are the holocaust stories and museums which have changed our understanding of the treatment of people in a period of organized annihilation. Amongst the many

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museums devoted to ‘representing the unrepresented’ are holocaust exhibitions currently on in Washington DC (Weinberg and Elieli 1995) and in London (Imperial War Museum 2000). The major lesson these museums offer us is that it is possible to excavate past history and give a voice to those who until now have been erased from the record. Despite this plethora of material there is little specifically addressing the Pacific, a region with an often violent colonial history. The question of memorialization in a Pacific museum or cultural centre is not a simple one, and is linked to many other issues such as: to what extent are codes of the representation of violence, or its suppression, appropriate to this part of the world? There is a perception that as representations of the past involve violence, they offer a picture of a community as either victims or perpetrators of wrong – doing. This picture, in turn, leads to the notion that history itself, because it contains violence, should be forgotten in favour of more positive, hopeful images. There are very good reasons why memorialization represents an important trope for Pacific peoples. The unremitting warfare conducted in the Western Pacific after the Second World War left not only cemeteries of dead soldiers and local civilians, but also a politics changed for ever. This is evidenced in the large number of memoirs that have been written, particularly by American combatants (e.g. Fahey 1963) but also more recently by indigenous people (see Laracy and White 1998). And yet both this major rupture in colonial history and subsequent often violent struggles for independence have been seemingly erased from public discourse. However, having visited many Pacific cultural centres, I wonder whether this erasure has gone too far. Furthermore, the lack of reference in the displays to a sometimes tortured history reflects the distaste of many governments for any view of history that departs from the idea of a triumphal march. From this perspective museums do indeed seem to risk becoming too obedient servants of the state. From the perspective of these concerns, the film Hiroshima Mon Amour, and the questions it raises about memory and forgetfulness, are still relevant to this region. Representation of violence in the history of the museum in a new nation state is also linked, in the Pacific, to issues of the local and the global. Are museum traditions from elsewhere suitable for the Pacific region? In institutions of architectural and visual display, issues of historical violence and its representation are also entwined with notions of artefacts and aesthetics. Should violence be linked to beauty, or art, in representation? Should it be linked to culture at all? These questions are as relevant to those who write about museums as to those who work within them. The suppression of such questions risks sterility and banality in how we think and write since suppression of difficult questions also suppresses ideas and poetics in representation. Hayden White, in a critique of the discipline of history, suggests that every discipline is constituted by what it forbids its practitioners to do. ‘The price paid is a considerable one. It has resulted in the repression of the conceptual apparatus … and the remission of the poetic moment … to the interior of the discourse’ (White 2003: 27).

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All discourses about cultural centres, ranging from administration to curatorship and publicity, as well as historical research and critical writing, need to take certain suppressed issues into the open in practice. I suggest that for Pacific cultural centres, this issue, of historical violence of many sorts, is often suppressed, or ignored, particularly in discussions of culture. The Tjibaou Cultural Centre is not just a cultural centre, but the star of cultural centres in the Pacific, and in that sense has the hallmark of an institution that could foster global interests as well as local ones. The Centre is funded by the French government. It stands in a country, New Caledonia, that, while no longer fully a colony of France, is not yet an independent nation. After a brutal colonial history and bloody struggle for independence, the Tjibaou Cultural Centre is both iconic and ambivalent in the Pacific. Designed by Renzo Piano and his team after extensive consultation with Kanak peoples (Bensa 2000) the Tjibaou Centre is one of the most outstanding architectural structures in the region, much written about as an object in architectural journals, sometimes regardless of the cultural or political significance of its particular setting(Bensa 2000: 162–65). In order to understand the Tjibaou Centre, and its significance for this discussion, it is necessary to understand something of the history of how it came into being. After three years of bloody violence between 1986 and 1988, pro- and antiindependence groups signed an agreement with the French government, the Mantignon Accords, which initiated a period of stability. At the same time the Agency for the Development of Kanak Culture was formed, one of whose main aims was the construction of a Kanak cultural centre. Renzo Piano and his team won an international architectural competition held in 1991 and the building was completed in 1998. The building itself is composed of ten structures linked by a central axis. Set on eight hectares, the structure is surrounded by landscaped grounds that are as important to the spirit and intent of the centre as are its structures. The Tjibaou is a centre of both modernity and of kanak identity, and was intended to be such by the architect, who took his brief from the various committees of Kanak peoples and other interested parties. From the beginning the centre seems to have been envisioned as a place to celebrate a Kanak culture represented predominantly by precolonial architectural style and settlement design. Piano developed his ideas for the centre from the structure of New Caledonia settlements and their house styles, particularly two forms, the grand allée or central ceremonial street found in the islands, and the form of the grand case, or chiefs’ houses, which have high steeply – pitched conical roofs. While paying homage to these Kanak ideas, the structures also depart, significantly and intentionally, from traditional Kanak architecture. It would seem that the architect and team, including Kanak committees, wanted the centre to represent culture in an historical way. The current Director of the Centre, Emmanuel Kasarherou, describes the continuities and breaks with Kanak tradition in the centre. For the main part of JMTCC [the Tjibaou Centre], Piano has incorporated the Kanak concept of a central avenue aligned with groups of grand case (Kanak chiefs’ houses).

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However Piano has translated this form, giving it a profound new expression: the circular structures of the ‘grand case’ soar up to to thirty metres in height but they are not thatched nor are the walls fully clad. Reminiscent of [Kanak] houses but opening onto a dream of the future, they have a feeling of incompleteness, bringing to mind that Kanak culture itself is not static but is always open to change. (Kasarherou 1995: 94)

Kasarherou is making the point that the centre is not locked into an ahistorical past but faces forward into the future. However, as materially represented history in the centre is displaced and in its place is an immediately timeless contemporary culture. After the reception area the first grand case houses a multi-media display of contemporary Kanak society and culture. There are also three separate display areas for the visual arts. Kasarherou describes each of these three grand cases, their intention and the demographic each case is intended to represent: The grand case Jinu (Jinu means spirit) seeks to reveal the philosophical bases of artistic creation of indigenous people in the South Pacific region and to illustrate some of their creation myths of humans and nature. The exhibition in Jinu will focus on contemporary works specially commissioned and created for the center by contemporary Kanak, Pacific Islander and Australian Aboriginal artists. The Bwenaado (meaning traditional meeting place) grand case is entirely dedicated to Kanak works of art. Exhibited here will be historic and valuable older works, representing’ an ideal Kanak collection’ gathered together from local and foreign collections. (Kasarherou 1995: 94–95)

Kasarherou indicates his intention to obtain such pieces as long-term loans. The Tjibaou Cultural Centre, like many cultural centres in the Pacific, is faced with the fact that many artefacts from the region are in the hands of foreign museums and individuals. In Noumea there is an already established museum, built during colonial times, which now houses and displays mostly traditional artefacts. Many New Caledonian artefacts of significance are also held by museums such as the Australian Museum in Sydney, and the British Museum in London. It is to these institutions that Kasarherou refers in his discussion of loans. The important point is that, in the absence of historical objects, most contemporary cultural centres in the Pacific are orientated towards the contemporary and the future in terms of cultural representation. A third exhibition area features contemporary art works, in many media, including installation and conceptual work by indigenous artists of the Pacific region, emphasizing particularly Kanak and Melanesian art. There is a theatre for performance events. The gardens that surround the centre also have a large number of sculptures on display and in addition contain text panels that relate details of Kanak culture and its myths. Thus in every section of the cultural centre time is displaced by notions of space and geography and history is superseded by ideas about a culture which is timelessly contemporary. This is not a critique of the adoption of such tropes for the organization of materials in the cultural centre, but the significant point for this paper is that the issue of the

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representation of the historical violence which is a part of the story of the birth of the cultural centre itself is suppressed because of the choice of the tropes of culture, space and the contemporary as organizing principles. Thus the suppression of violence is not the result of a necessarily conscious choice on the part of designers or curators but rather grows from prior organizational choices. Although the Tjibaou Cultural Centre has multiple sites, all compete with the central spectacle of the building itself. This building, like the Sydney Opera House, has put the country on the world map of high culture and directly into a global setting. At the same time the very magnificence of the structure can be intimidating despite the obvious attempts to produce user-friendly and functional areas. Although the structure is based on traditional Kanak architectural forms, the scale is much enlarged and can easily overpower its human occupants. One wonders how user-friendly such a cultural centre, devoted to living Kanak culture, can be? The question arises, is this not a monument, an attempt to gain a place at a world table, to gain the attention of the world? Is this cultural centre not a gift effectively suppressing the history and the violence of the recent past, in its rigorous modernism and attention to contemporary culture? The answer to that question is not simple. The building is intentionally monumental, intentionally a statement of power. I suggest that there are compelling reasons why this monumentality became the chosen path for the Tjibaou Centre. The building itself is indeed a complex reaction to, and a particular kind of coded representation of, the recent violence which has attended the emergence of contemporary New Caledonia. The building, in all its magnificence, is an attempt to redress some of New Caledonia’s bloody history, and to erase its subject state. In fact the building is an attempt to keep alive the memory of the man after whom the centre is named, Jean-Marie Tjibaou. Without understanding some of this history and the importance of this man, the desire for such a magnificent modernist statement of Kanak survival and contemporanity cannot be understood. The Tjibaou Cultural Centre in New Caledonia celebrates the man after whom it was named. The title of the essay cited above, by the current director of the Tjibaou Cultural Centre, Emmanuel Kasarherou, ‘Men of Flesh and Blood’ is taken from a statement by Jean-Marie Tjibaou, who was not simply one Kanak leader among several but rather the voice of a generation, and the leader who was appropriately destined to lead New Caledonia into the future, until his assassination in 1987. The Tjibaou Centre is not simply a recognition of Tjibaou but an attempt to keep his memory alive while at the same time eradicating the messiness of recent history and the tragic, almost fratricidal, circumstances of his death. At the same time, the building risks what all memorials do: it seems to try to erase his death and the wound it left on this emerging nation state. Individuals in New Caledonia can find discussing his assassination difficult, and resort to euphemisms to avoid talking directly about his death. Emmanuel Kasarherou, for example, begins his essay with a quote from Tjibaou which encapsulates in many ways the brief for the centre: ‘We want to proclaim our cultural identity. We want

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to tell the world that we are not survivors of prehistory; even less archaeological remains, but men of flesh and blood’ (Kasarherou 1995: 91). Kasarherou ends the same essay with a euphemism to refer to Tjibaou’s death by assassination: ‘The Opening of the Centre is planned for May 1997, the anniversary of the disappearance of Jean-Marie Tjibaou. Far from being seen as a culmination, this occasion will be seen as a beginning – a new impetus for Kanak and Pacific cultures at the beginning of the twenty-first century (ibid., 1995: 162). This quotation is chosen as evidence of the attempt to sidestep the tragic death and its circumstances. And who could blame those involved for attempting to redress and make up for that terrible loss? The point for this paper is that Jean-Marie Tjibaou laid a framework for a New Caledonia where a Kanak identity would not only be modern but where Kanak identity would inform and influence modernity itself – in that sense the Tjibaou Centre fulfils its purpose. Although its monumental modernity undoubtedly had its source in this great tragedy, nevertheless the centre never reveals or discusses the tragedy itself, rather relying on its monumental form to communicate something about Kanak culture now. The centre has also been surrounded by controversy and debate over the functions and usefulness of its aesthetics and monumentality. Would the vast amounts of money spent on the centre not be better spent on a series of more modest centres, spread through the provinces of New Caledonia? What kinds of rules should regulate the Culture Centre? Who should be represented in the art collection of the Centre? Some people thought that the centre should abide by traditional rules excluding women and the uninitiated from viewing parts of the centre. This and many other issues were matters of often bitter contention and critique during the centre’s construction and some of these issues are still matters of contention. There is no doubt that the structure makes a significant contribution to Kanak modernity and represents the culture in a global setting. However, this structure threatens to swallow everything and every object within it, to become an empty monument to the idea of the beautiful object, a Brasilia of the Pacific and a non-place (Augé 1995). In conclusion, I want to return to certain ideas from the film Hiroshima Mon Amour to see if the discussion of Tjibaou Cultural Centre has improved our understanding of the issues around the representation of violence in cultural centres. In the film it is not the Hiroshima Museum or its artefacts that successfully communicate narratives about historical violence. Indeed, in the film, the museum is a foil to the notion of authentic communication. Rather, it seems that the sharing of narratives by one person with another is crucial to communication. From this perspective, it is actions taken by individuals within and outside institutions that are crucial to memory. From this perspective, the way institutions work to memorialize is not by directly representing via artefacts but rather by providing a place where such communication is fostered. The question then becomes not whether one represents or not but rather what kinds of spaces foster communication between individuals. I am not sure whether the Tjibaou Cultural Centre provides such a space. However, the point of this paper

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is to raise issues about the representation of violence in cultural centres in complex ways. This cultural centre, with its spectacular architecture and complex relationship to colonial history in the Pacific, raises fundamental questions about the appropriation of aspects of the past in a selective manner. The danger that such modernist representations risk is the suppression of representations of violence in the portrayal of an unproblematic future. This is an issue of significance throughout the Pacific.

References Augé, M.1995. Non-places: Introduction to Anthropology of Supermodernity. London: Verso. Bensa, A. 2000. Ethnologie et Architecture: Noumea, Nouvelle Caledonie, le Centre culture Tjibaou, une realisation de Renzo Piano. Paris: Adam Biro. Berenbaum, M. 1993. The World Must Know: the History of the Holocaust Museum Told in the United States Holocaust Museum. Boston: Little Brown and Co. Duras, M. 1961. Hiroshima Mon Amour. Translated by Richard Seaver. New York: Grove Press. Fahey, J. 1993. Pacific War Diaries 1942–1945: The Secret Diary of an American Sailor Boston: Houghton Mifflin Imperial War Museum. 2000. The Holocaust Exhibition at the Imperial War Museum. London Kasarherou, E. 1995. ‘Men of Flesh and Blood: The Jean-Marie Tjibaou Cultural Centre in Noumea’, Art and Asia Pacific 2(4), 90–95. Larracy, H. and G. White. 1988. ‘Taem blong faet: World War II in Melanesia’, ’O’O: a Journal of Solomon Islands Studies No 4. University of the South Pacific, Honiara. Weinberg, J. and E. Eliel. 1995. The Holocaust Museum in Washington, New York: Rizzoli International Publications. White, H. 2003. ‘The Fictions of Factual Representation’, in Grasping the World: The Idea of the Museum, D. Presiozi and C. Farago (eds). Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishers, 22–35.

5 Tourism and Indigenous Curation of Culture in Lifou, New Caledonia Tate LeFevre Since 1996 cruise ships carrying thousands of Australian tourists have docked on the small island of Lifou, New Caledonia. Once every two weeks or so, boatloads of excited, photo-snapping tourists are ferried between the massive Pacific Princess cruise ship and a dock constructed especially for them by the island’s indigenous Kanak people. Australians in Bermuda shorts and bikinis swarm onto the shore, taking a moment to glance at a group of Kanak singing traditional songs of welcome. They then head up to a large thatched pavilion, built exclusively to receive such a horde. Inside the pavilion, Kanak women in brightly hued ‘Mother Hubbard’ dresses sell small sandalwood carvings and shell necklaces while Australian couples peruse racks of shirts reading, ‘Do it the island way – tomorrow.’ Later in the day a Kanak dance group treats the tourists to a traditional performance while the Aussies, mouths agape and camcorders running, look on. Soon after, the tourists hurry back to the boat with pictures and t-shirts, all to remind them of their exotic South Pacific experience. Viewing the Kanak through the lens provided by most scholarly literature on tourism, it is easy to interpret them as one more indigenous culture ‘altered and destroyed by the treatment of it as a tourist attraction … [a culture] made meaningless to the people who once believed in it’ (Greenwood 1989: 173). Yet the situation in Lifou is not that simple. If there is an institution being ‘altered’ by the presence of tourism on the island, it is tourism itself. Given the culturally destructive legacy of tourism throughout the Pacific and the world, it is often too easy to see local peoples as the helpless pawns of global forces, their own traditions and ways of life sadly incompatible with the needs of a modern world. Yet, as Teo and Lim (2003: 289) point out: Forces emanating from specific localities will materially affect the impacts of external processes that encroach on them. In the face of globalization, localities are capable of mobilizing and projecting the interests of their members beyond their political, economic and social arena … localities are not merely recipients of global forces but are actively involved in their own transformation.

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The people of Lifou, led by a local Kanak dance group known as the Troupe de Wetr, have handled tourism in a uniquely Kanak way, forcing development to occur within traditional boundaries and using its proceeds to affirm tradition within the Lifou community. The Kanak’s use of tourism as a tool for cultural revitalization and empowerment raises serious questions about the way many scholars approach the study of tourism.

The Troupe du Wetr The Troupe du Wetr was founded in 1993 at the request of Chief Paul Sihaze of Lifou, who wanted a group from the island to perform at the Festival of Pacific Arts in the Cook Islands. The Chief saw the cooperation required to form a dance troupe as a way to bring a community together. At that time, much of Lifou remained divided by the violence of les Evénements, a period of bloody clashes during the late 1980s when pro-independence Kanak people fought the French government. As it turned out, the newly formed Troupe du Wetr not only served to create community cohesion, but quickly developed into a sort of ‘cultural think tank’ for the people of Lifou. The Troupe contained members from all the clans in the Wetr district. As they sought dances to perform at the Festival, troupe members interviewed elders about dance and traditional Kanak cultural practice. They then formed committees to share the elders’ teachings with other islanders, invigorating an interest in recovering Kanak traditions that were quickly disappearing. After its first performance at the Festival of Pacific Arts, the Troupe du Wetr grew in renown, its high-energy dances attracting many interested audiences and drawing invitations to perform elsewhere in the Pacific. The Troupe even travelled to Europe to perform at a dance festival. As the Troupe gained more recognition outside of New Caledonia, its cultural revitalization programmes within the Lifou community continued to thrive. In 1996, the Chief of Lifou, in an effort to boost the native economy, decided to allow tourism on the island. The now locally well-known Troupe du Wetr seized the opportunity to present traditional culture to outsiders and became a ‘welcoming committee’ for the boatloads of Australian tourists arriving on the island. The situation on Lifou is an exceptional example of how indigenous peoples do not have to be victims of tourism, but can manipulate and use it as a springboard to enter the global arena as autonomous, culturally significant, and defiantly traditional actors. As Moïse Kuisine, choreographer of the Troupe du Wetr, told me: ‘We knew on Lifou that the only way to protect ourselves from tourism was to do it ourselves.’ The Troupe du Wetr turns the commonly accepted notion of tourism as a culturally destructive force on its head.

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Fighting for a Denied Identity Since the arrival of Europeans in New Caledonia in the late eighteenth century, the Kanak have faced brutal colonial oppression and wholesale destruction of their culture. Kanak lands were stolen for the establishment of penal colonies, settler colonialism and nickel mining. The Kanak were uprooted from the land and forced to perform labour on French plantations, ranches and public works (Winslow 1989: 258). Kanak were denied the rights of French citizens and were subject to the whims of colonial administration. Today Kanak are a ‘fourth world people’, an economically and culturally disenfranchised minority in their own homeland. The Kanak were eventually granted suffrage and political rights after the Second World War, but continued to be left out of economic and political decision making. In the 1970s, as other colonial possessions in the Pacific began to gain independence (such as Fiji, 1970, Papua New Guinea, 1975, the Solomon Islands, 1978, and Vanuatu, 1980), several Kanak political parties formed to demand the end of French colonial rule. In 1984 the FLNKS party (Front de Libération Kanak et Socialiste) advocated total Kanak independence. They declared that ‘the French government follows a policy of immigration which is aimed at preventing the Kanak people from … managing their own economy, realizing their right to employment and maintaining their social, cultural and political integrity’ (Winslow 1989: 278). In 1984, FLNKS organized a boycott of territorial elections in New Caledonia, smashing ballot boxes and setting up roadblocks to prevent voting. They declared the Provisional Government of Kanaky. This was the beginning of a period of bloody clashes between the Kanak and the New Caledonian government in which many Kanak, including JeanMarie Tjibaou, were killed. Finally, in 1988, the French government and FLNKS signed a peace accord that formalized the end of armed struggle between pro- and anti-independence groups (Chanter 2002: 19). Ten years later, in 1998, the Noumea Accords were signed by members of FLNKS and the French government. The Accords conferred a limited form of New Caledonian nationhood prior to a vote on independence from France in fifteen to twenty years’ time. In their preamble the Accords state: Colonization harmed the dignity of the Kanak people and deprived them of their identity. In this confrontation, some men and women lost their lives or their reasons for living. Much suffering resulted from it. These difficult times need to be remembered, the mistakes recognized and the Kanak people’s confiscated identity restored, which equates in their mind with a recognition of their sovereignty, prior to the forging of a new identity, a shared common destiny.

Although this document was meant to signal a sort of victory for Kanak independence, it points to the persistence of a colonial rhetoric denying Kanak cultural identity.

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The Accords call for a restoration of Kanak identity, but only through the forging of a ‘new identity, a shared common destiny.’ Anthropologist Alaine Saussol (1988: 39) writes that French colonialism in New Caledonia has had one characteristic dream — a dream ‘of assimilation and integration of minorities.’ Saussol states that: ‘La France Australe’ became pluri-ethnic while remaining mono-cultural and unquestioning of the superiority inherent in the colonial order … [They] sought to abolish differences rather than the inequalities that were part of decades of expansion and prosperity.

Alban Bensa argues that France’s ultimate colonial dream was not just the erasure of cultural difference, but the disappearance of the Kanak altogether. He states that Europeans in New Caledonia developed ‘a racism of annihilation that only ever envisaged Kanaks as non-beings’. (1988: 190–91) By aspiring towards ‘new identity’, the Noumea Accords do not advocate the recovery of Kanak culture, but rather the absorption of Kanak culture into a larger New Caledonian whole. The Noumea Accords can be understood as fitting into a long history of colonial rhetoric denying Kanak cultural identity.

‘Contemporary Culture’ versus ‘Kanak Culture’ The same colonial rhetoric of the Noumea Accords remains apparent in the lack of local government support for Kanak cultural activity. Many policies of New Caledonia’s territorial government suggest a deep-seated belief in ‘the inadequacy of Melanesian culture to respond to the exigencies of contemporary modern life’, and a desire to expose Kanak to ‘more useful’ Western culture (Chanter 1998: 27). Lifou’s government-run Direction de Patrimoine Foncier et Culturel or DPFC (Office of Culturel Ecological and Cultural Heritage) controls the funding for ‘cultural development’ on the island. Most of the Troupe du Wetr members I spoke with told me that the DPFC had never helped them with cultural projects — either monetarily or otherwise — and instead only hampered their work. Umun, one of the Troupe du Wetr’s co-founders, whom I stayed with during my time in Lifou, explained to me that the DPFC has specific ideas about is worth funding, and that these are often projects that ‘do the Lifou community no good at all’. He told me that instead of supporting local culture, the DPFC pays for screenings of Western films from the U.S.A. or France in We, Lifou’s capital. The director of the DPFC has stated that the goals of his organization are ‘the development of contemporary and Oceanic culture’ on Lifou. It is interesting to note the distinction the DPFC makes between Oceanic and contemporary culture, as if one could not be simultaneously Oceanic and contemporary. This revealing viewpoint explains the DPFC’s unusual use of funds. Instead of providing financial and structural support for Kanak cultural revitalization projects, the

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DPFC instead seeks to ‘modernize’ the Kanak, exposing them to as much Western culture as possible. With that aim in mind, funding American film screenings is certainly ‘developing culture’.

Creation of the Troupe du Wetr: Relying on Tradition to be Modern The French government’s lack of support for traditional culture led indirectly to the creation of the Troupe du Wetr. After the violence of les Evénements, much of the Kanak community was traumatized and bitterly divided along political lines. Feelings of resentment amongst community members were exacerbated by the fact that the Kanak in Lifou continued to be an economically disenfranchised group with few modes of participation in the life of New Caledonia as a whole. Nearly all the money in Lifou comes directly from the French government by way of, the local island-level administration. This administration has failed to recognize the traditional structure of the Lifou community, distributing funds to individuals rather than clan groups. This operates against the most basic structures of Kanak society and further destroys community cohesion in Lifou. One of the founders of the Troupe du Wetr told me that France puts ‘money between the traditional leadership of Lifou and the island administration’. The French administration’s failure to consider traditional social structure in its allocation of funds was eroding community life in Lifou. In 1990, however, a group of high-ranking community members resolved to increase the involvement of traditional leadership in Lifou’s economic life. These leaders decided to form a comité du développement (development committee), a group to organize and make decisions on the economic development of the Lifou while working with the French-run government administration. The chiefs of the island’s tribus (tribes or clans) appointed members to serve on the comité. With prodding from this newly created group, the government administration of Lifou began to allocate funds based on traditionally held concepts of social structure. Instead of falling into the hands of individuals, government funds were now shared by the community and clan, which quelled much of the built-up resentment of the past decade. The comité protected Lifou from unwanted development, as potential projects had to be approved by the entire community. This protection stopped individuals from seeking a quick profit from deals with tour companies. By relying on traditional social structure to make economic decisions, rather than on ‘contemporary’ French administration, the comité led to a reaffirmation of community cohesion in Lifou and the end to most unwanted and potentially harmful development projects on the island. One of the original founders of the comité du développement explained to me that the founding of the comité marked one of the first occasions that those in Lifou had made an attempt to merge the ‘economic and la coutume’. La Coutume is likely the most often-invoked tenet of Kanak culture. The word functions as both a verb and a noun and is constantly

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mentioned in daily conversation on Lifou. On one level it means something close to ‘custom’, what is traditional or right. For example, reciprocal gift exchange is one of the most important aspects of Kanak culture (and many other Melanesian cultures). Before entering another person’s house, it is expected that one will faire la coutume (make/do the custom), and exchange a gift with the head of that household. All the traditional gift exchanges that accompany weddings are also known as la coutume. La coutume also has a far more esoteric meaning, something closer to ‘the Word’. It is the word of the ancestors, the word of the spirit world, and the word of the chief. With the creation of the comité du développement, la coutume also became an important part of economic decisions on Lifou. Using la coutume as a guiding force, the comité du développement made several forays into local economic development. Various women’s cooperatives were founded and created a substantial profit by selling crafts and clothing to visiting Australians. The comité also helped young Kanak travel to Australia to study English and return to Lifou in order to work as well-paid guides for Anglophone tourists. Slowly, the profits reaped from tourism were spread more evenly throughout the Lifou community. The most successful project associated with the comité du développement is the Troupe du Wetr itself. After performing successfully at the 1993 Festival for Pacific Arts in the Cook Islands, the group went on to perform in several more festivals in New Caledonia and Australia. In its first few years of existence, the Troupe du Wetr’s impassioned performances made it a household name throughout much of New Caledonia. The group began to become known as an unofficial ambassador not only of Lifou, but of all of New Caledonia. As the group’s outward exposure continued to grow, so did its cultural revival and retrieval efforts within the indigenous community. Soon the Troupe du Wetr was more than a dance group; it was the core organization around which many other traditional groups revolved. One of the Troupe’s founders explained to me that the Troupe now encompasses an école de la danse (a school for young dancers), and Ziethel, a ‘modern dance troupe’ that performs newly created dances, rather than dances based on traditional choreography passed down from elders. The Troupe du Wetr has created a new generation of ‘traditional Kanak’. After witnessing the media attention received by the Troupe du Wetr, young Kanak in Lifou now aspire to join the group and the many cultural committees it oversees.

Tourism Docks: Performing for Cruise Ship Passengers on Lifou During the first year of tourism, the Troupe du Wetr performed dances every two or three weeks when a cruise ship docked, while other members of the Lifou community set up tables to sell crafts and offer tours of the island. Compelled by la coutume, the Troupe later decided that it was necessary to share the profits of the dance performances more equitably within the community by teaching

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dancers from each tribu (tribe or clan) how to perform for the tourists. With the Troupe’s instruction, each tribu developed its own traditional dance group for tourist performances. Responsibilities for welcoming and performing for tourists became rotated among the tribus on the island, each group performing two or three times a year. In this way, both traditional dance knowledge and tourism profits have been spread evenly throughout the Lifou community. Unlike many tourism operations elsewhere, the money from cruise ship passengers in Lifou goes directly to the community without being touched by non-Kanak. P+O Cruises, the large multinational corporation that runs cruises to Lifou, deals directly with the Chief of Lifou and the comité du développement, not the French government or a foreign tourism operator. Those on Lifou find this arrangement highly preferable to the era before the comité du développement, when profits from tourism in Lifou went almost entirely to hotels run by French expatriates. Short of paying a meagre salary to Kanak who worked in the hotels, the French did nothing to give back to the Lifou community. The Kanak have become wary of letting others make decisions about tourism on the island. In 2002, a German development group offered the traditional leadership of Lifou a large amount of money for the rights to build a new hotel on the island, but refused to agree to all the requests made by the comité du développement. The Chief and comité were not swayed by the offer and refused the deal, deciding instead that if a hotel was going to be built, they would do it themselves and on their own terms. The success of cruise ship tourism in Lifou has given the Kanak confidence to refuse tourism development that they do not consider beneficial to traditional life in Lifou.

Understanding Tourism: A ‘Tradition of Melancholia’ Despite the success that the Troupe du Wetr and the people of Lifou have had using tourism profits to support traditional Kanak culture, there are many scholars who believe that tourism is inherently damaging to indigenous cultures. In fact, the entire study of tourism has been referred to as ‘a tradition of melancholia’ (Stanley 1998). According to Dean MacCannell (1976), Davydd Greenwood (1989), and John Urry (1990), the results of tourism performances are disastrous for the cultural identities of local peoples. These scholars view tourism as a force that ‘bastardizes and commodifies previously authentic ethnic cultures for the purpose of touristic display’ (Picard 1997: 2). MacCannell refers to cultural performances for tourists as ‘staged authenticity’, and argues that tourist performances can rarely if ever be nonexploitive. In his view, the effect of tourism on indigenous peoples is akin to the recolonization of ‘formally primitive peoples by global and white monoculture’ (Stanley 1998: 150). Nearly all scholarly work written about the effects of tourism on native peoples has taken the stance that the eventual ‘commodification of culture’ is an inevitable result of all forms of cultural tourism.

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The term ‘commodification of culture’ is ubiquitous in anthropological literature on tourism. It refers to the idea that in order to present tourists with the ostensibly ‘authentic’ cultural experiences that they seek, local peoples are forced to pervert their traditions to the point at which they no longer serve their original cultural purpose. As White (1994: 14) suggests, it is ironic that ‘tourism and its economic imperatives may damage the very cultures and landscapes that now attract international tourists’. As cultural products lose their meaning for locals, and as ‘the need to present the tourist with ever more spectacular, exotic and titillating attractions grows, contrived cultural products are increasingly “staged” for tourists and decorated so as to look authentic’ (Cohen 1988: 372). The fate of the nagol (land divers) ceremony on Pentecost Island has often been used by scholars to illustrate the power tourism has for reshaping traditional ritual. The custom once had only local meaning, associated with the growing season of the yam. Yet, because of its spectacular nature, the nagol has become known among tourists as a sort of indigenous bungee jumping. The ceremony, now performed mostly for the eyes of paying tourists, has become an economic commodity for Pentecost islanders (Jolly 1994; White 1994).

A Less ‘Melancholic’ Perspective Not all scholars believe tourism marks the beginning of the end for local peoples. In Being Ourselves for You, Stanley (1998) brings an important, less ‘melancholic’ perspective to tourism studies. His book is one of the first studies of tourism to focus not on the experience of tourists but on the ‘providers of the tourist experience’, and the ‘strategies that performers adopt to make themselves the content of tourist experience’ (Stanley 1998: 12). Stanley argues that local peoples are agents in their own destiny and can often harness tourism and use it for their own purposes, even strengthening traditional identity in the process. Stanley provides a much-needed counter-perspective to MacCannell and other ‘melancholic’ scholars. MacCannell (1992: 19) tells us that the combination of ‘modern’ and ‘primitive’ elements that tourism performances entail marks the death of traditional culture: The image of the savage that emerges from these ex-primitive performances completes the post-modern fantasy of an ‘authentic alterity’ which is ideologically necessary in the promotion and development of a global monoculture. The ‘primitivistic’ performance is our funerary marking of the passage of savagery.

Stanley counters MacCannell, noting that use of the terms primitive and savage signal MacCannell’s belief that indigenous peoples have essentially no agency in creating their own destiny in the face of globalization. ‘If we replace the word “primitive” with one that does not suggest the same historical closure, then the iron law that relegates traditional culture to the primitive is broken’ (Stanley

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1998: 151). To MacCannell, ‘reconstructed ethnicity’ and the creation and adaptation of cultural forms emerges in response to ‘white culture and tourism’. He ignores the possibility that there may be conditions under which ‘primitive’ peoples can use tourism performances to sustain and even strengthen their sense of identity in a global world, especially when tourist performances are coupled with cultural renewal programmes as they are in Lifou. The existence of these programmes, says Stanley, is based on the idea ‘that a genuine bargain can be struck between tradition and not only modern but postmodern forms of social organization’ (Stanley 1998: 151). Such a bargain is admittedly hard to come by, but the Troupe du Wetr and the Kanak of Lifou seem to have succeeded in maintaining a delicate balance between sharing culture with outsiders and ‘keeping it safe’ for their own people. Stanley and other scholars who question the ‘melancholic tradition’ in tourism scholarship offer a much more useful framework for understanding the dynamics of cultural self-representation in tourism, especially as they exist in Lifou. Performing for outsiders can lead to increased reflexivity and cultural creativity amongst participants. Even Greenwood, who has provided numerous scathing attacks on cultural tourism in his work, admits that performances for tourists can ‘engender creative responses in local cultures and positively affect the trajectory of cultural development’ (1977: 185).

Rediscovering Identity, Broadcasting Culture Tjibaou once wrote that French colonialism had taken away Kanak identity and made Kanak people ‘anonymous’ in the eyes of the world. Tjibaou offered a way for the Kanak to conquer their anonymity: The discourse of Oceanic peoples today must be projected on a normal basis in the media so that we can continue to rediscover our identities, be at ease with ourselves and finally valorize our identity through its creation. (Bensa 1998: 40)

For Tjibaou, the best way for the Kanak to gain control over their identity was to broadcast it to others. The Troupe du Wetr has become inexorably involved in this task, and its success has proven the validity of Tjibaou’s words. As Jocelyn Linnekin notes, Pacific peoples, especially those still under colonial rule, ‘must formulate and use their identity in the context of a struggle for power (Linnekin and Poyer 1990: 158). Having their identity misrepresented makes the Kanak, in Tjibaou’s words, culturally ‘impotent’. This feeling is behind the Kanak expression récupération, which those on Lifou explained to me as happening when non-Kanak appropriate information about Kanak culture and use it for their own purposes, misrepresenting the culture and never giving back to the community. Many Kanak bristle at the thought of having their cultural identity misrepresented, and consider it a type of ‘recolonization’ at the hands of white researchers.

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Confusion at the Pacific Arts Conference: Récupération in Action One example of récupération related to me by members of the Troupe du Wetr occurred during the 2001 Pacific Arts Conference. That year’s conference took place in New Caledonia, the first week in Noumea and the second in Lifou. Dozens of anthropologists and other scholars descended upon the tiny island and were led around by members of the local administration for a portion of their visit. They were treated to a performance by the Troupe du Wetr that took place in la grotte, a remarkable cave situated in the middle of the forest. At this time, la grotte was a newly developed space where members of the Troupe rehearsed and ‘received inspiration’. The choreographer of the Troupe du Wetr explained to me that members of the Troupe would often spend several nights there, sleeping in the cave and contemplating their links to traditions from the past and their inspirations for dance. After viewing the performance the visiting scholars apparently came away with several misunderstandings: first, that la grotte was a newly constructed cultural centre built to accommodate tourists, instead of a private place for the Troupe to practise; and second, that the Troupe du Wetr and their tiny ‘cultural centre’ were struggling in the shadow of the Tjibaou centre, a large, newly built Cultural Centre in Noumea. These misunderstandings were likely influenced by the works of those ‘melancholic’ anthropologists like MacCannell. Though the Troupe du Wetr had already performed in Europe and Singapore by the time the Pacific Arts delegates saw them, the delegates thought that they were a very local, inexperienced dance group, whose main purpose was to welcome tourists. Thus, they assumed that a space meant for traditional cultural enrichment of Kanak was instead a ‘cultural centre in preparation for what would hopefully be groups of tourists in the future’. When those in Lifou found that their work had been misunderstood and misrepresented, most were irate. The frustrated choreographer of the Troupe du Wetr explained, ‘These people who come to see us, they think they know more than we do about what we are doing here!’ Diane Losche has written that she fears the ‘cultural centre’ on Lifou will be ‘consumed’ by the much larger Tjibaou Centre (Losche 2003: 1–13). Losche (this volume) characterizes the ‘monumental modernity’ of the Tjibaou Centre as perhaps ‘banal and disconnected from’ its locale and questions whether the money used to construct the centre would have been better spent on ‘more modest centres spread throughout the provinces of New Caledonia’. In fact the ADCK (the Agency for the Development of Kanak Culture), which is headquarted in the Tjibaou Centre, has acted as an important supporter of the Troupe du Wetr, funding some of the group’s projects, hosting its performances, and organizing trips by Troupe members to see performances by other visiting indigenous dance groups for inspiration. Though the monumental nature of the Tjibaou Centre might indeed threaten to disconnect it from its locale, its programmes to support groups like the Troupe du Wetr have rooted it firmly as a Kanak cultural centre.

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Looking Further: Understanding Tourism in Lifou After two hundred years of having their cultural identities either threatened or ignored by a colonial government, it is not surprising that control over the representation of their cultural identity is immensely important to the Kanak. In order to combat the denial of their culture, Kanak actively broadcast their cultural identity. Nicolas Thomas (1995: 208) points out that ‘Art is increasingly a domain through which people present their culture and heritage; once it is visible, they effectively become actors in the theatre of politics and in the multicultural marketplace’. The Troupe du Wetr has employed tourism performances in precisely this way. Stanley writes that most peoples involved in cultural tourism are ‘offering themselves up for cultural invention [and] do so willingly and usually with pride’. Tourism is not inevitably destructive – the interest that tourists have in a local culture can increase the pride that members of that culture have in their own traditions. But to understand tourism in Lifou, we have to complicate the problem a bit further. The Kanak of Lifou are not passively ‘offering themselves up’ to the modern world, they are proclaiming themselves. The people of Lifou are using traditional methods to be differently modern in a global context. From its very beginning, the Troupe du Wetr has actively sought arenas in which to present their cultural identity. Audiences have offered themselves to the Troupe, both in tourist performances for cruise ship passengers, and in performances far beyond New Caledonia. Tourism scholarship has not considered the degree to which a local people can manipulate tourism to serve their own needs, one of which might be to broadcast their traditional identity to a global audience. An intriguing exception is the work of Ian Fairweather in North-Central Namibia. Fairweather describes a project in the village of Olukunda to create a museum of ‘traditional’ local culture for tourists in an old missionary church. He notes, ‘it is significant that none of the people involved in this project saw any contradiction in the idea that a European mission station should be the venue for a museum dedicated to the preservation of Okambo tradition’ (Fairweather 2003: 279). In fact, as Fairweather reveals, ‘these villagers use the developing cultural tourism industry to enact their own modernity whilst performing what they themselves catagorize as the “traditional”’ (ibid., 280). Rather than destroying local tradition, this case of ‘commodification of culture’ has provided villagers with a way to ‘create links to the wider world and so transcend locality’ (296). Fairweather concludes that for the Okambo, performing local culture for outsiders ‘opens up new ways to express the past and to reclaim locality’. Unfortunately, few other scholars have discussed the possibility that tourism might actually aid the curation of local culture, creating an important venue for self-representation for indigenous peoples whose identities have been largely ignored, denigrated or forcefully assimilated into a larger colonial whole.

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Conclusion: Not Becoming ‘Something in a Museum’ Instead of sheltering themselves from tourism, the Kanak of Lifou, led by the Wetr Dance Troupe, have used dance performances for tourists as a medium to broadcast and secure their identities – identities that have been suppressed and ignored during over two hundred years of colonization – within a global context. One of the founders of the Troupe du Wetr told me, ‘in order for Kanak to protect their traditions, we have to become part of the global. You are obligated to show your culture to the rest of the world. Otherwise you will become a vestige of history, like something in a museum’. Instead of having their culture perverted by tourism or ‘offering themselves up’ for tourist consumption, they have actively sought out tourist audiences, using tourism performance as a way to proclaim their Kanak culture globally in order to keep it strong locally.

References Bensa, A. 1998. ‘Colonialism, racism et ethnologie en Nouvelle-Calédonie’, Ethnologie Francais (2). Bensa, A. and E.Wittersheim (eds.). 1998. Cibau Cibau. Jean-Marie Tjibaou Kamo pa Kavaac. Noumea: ADCK. Chanter, A. 2002. ‘Postcolonial Politics and Colonial Media Representations in New Caledonia’, Pacific Studies 25(3), 17–36. Cohen, E. 1988. ‘Authenticity and Commodification in Tourism’, Annals of Tourism Research 15, 371–86. Fairweather, I. 2003. ‘“Showing Off ”: Nostalgia and Heritage in North-Central Namibia’, Journal of Southern African Studies. 29(1), 279–91. Greenwood, D. 1977. ‘Culture by the Pound’, in Hosts and Guests: The Anthropology of Tourism, V. Smith. (ed.). Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press. Jolly, M. 1994. ‘Kastom as Commodity: the Land Dives as Indigenous Rite and Tourist Spectacle in Vanuatu’ Culture-Kastom-Tradition: Developing Cultural Policy in Melanesia, L. Lindstrom and G. White. (eds.). Suva: University of the South Pacific. Linnekin, J. and L. Poyer. (eds). Cultural Identity and Ethnicity in the Pacific. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Losche, D. 2003. ‘Cultural Centers and Their Objects: New Caledonia’, Australian and New Zealand Journal of Art, 4(1). MacCannell, D.1976. The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class. Berkeley: University of California Press. ——— 1992. Empty Meeting Grounds: the Tourist Papers. London: Routledge. Picard, M. and R.E. Wood. (eds.). 1977. Tourism and the State: Ethnic Options and Constructions of Otherness. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Saussol, A. 1998. ‘The Colonial Chimera’, in New Caledonia: Essays in Nationalism and Dependency,. M Spencer, A. Ward, and J. Connell. (eds.). St. Lucia; New York : University of Queensland Press. Stanley, N. 1998. Being Ourselves for You: The Global Display of Culture, London: Middlesex University Press.

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Teo, P and L.H. Lim. 2003. ‘Global and Local Interactions in Tourism’, Annals of Tourism Research, 30(2), 287–306. Thomas, N. 1989. Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Culture, and Colonialism in the Pacific. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ——— 1995. Oceanic Art. London: Thames and Hudson. Urry, J. 1990. The Tourist Gaze: Leisure and Travel in Contemporary Societies. London: Sage Publications. White, G. 1997. ‘Natives and Nations: Identity Formation in Postcolonial Melanesia’, in Places and Politics In an Age of Globalization, R. Prazniak and A. Dirlik, (eds.). New York: Rowan & Littlefield. Winslow, D. 1989. ‘Independence and Ethnicity in New Caledonia’, in Ethnicity and Nationbuilding in the Pacific, M. Howard. (ed.). Tokyo: United Nations University. 259–85.

Part II Northern Australia

6 The Journey of the Stars: Gab Titui, a Cultural Centre for the Torres Strait Anita Herle, Jude Philp and Leilani Bin Juda Father, it is very easy for us to move with modern times and become focused on the material things in life and let our culture die with our elders. Father we pray that you protect us in the Torres Strait from this and we thank you that the Gab Titui will help us to protect our heritage. Not only do we draw our strength and unity from you father but also from the Torres Strait culture and for this we thank you. Bishop Mabo, ecumenical blessing of the Gab Titui Cultural Centre1 There are some mixed feelings at this opening because while we are very happy that Gab Titui is now a reality, there is some sadness that Uncle Ephraim could not be here to see his vision come true … I know that he is here with us in spirit today and I am sure that he would want us all to be proud of our very first cultural centre which will help us promote and protect our unique identity. Terry Waia, Chairman of the Torres Strait Regional Authority at the opening of the Gab Titui Cultural Centre2

On the weekend of 16 April 2004 Gab Titui opened on Thursday Island in the Torres Strait (figure 6.1).3 The opening ceremony, associated cultural performances and inaugural exhibition of Torres Strait art and material culture, dating from the early nineteenth century to the present day, were the result of over twenty years’ persistent interest by Islanders and others in the creation of an indigenous ‘museum’. The result is a multifaceted cultural centre with goals to enhance and promote a strong Torres Strait cultural identity and to act as a catalyst for cultural, social and economic revitalization. The cultural identity of peoples across the Strait is often called Ailan Kastom,4 a term used by Government and Islanders alike. Ailan Kastom is a distinctive and dynamic patchwork of beliefs and practices, many of which originated from elsewhere in the latter half of the nineteenth century – from Christian missionaries to the influence of South Seas Islanders, Malays, Japanese and others

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who worked alongside Islanders on the fishing and pearling boats (Beckett 1987: 1–22). It also encompasses some beliefs and practices shared with neighbouring Aboriginal and Papuan groups on the adjacent mainlands. Similar to what others might call ‘tradition’, kastom is an arena of continual renegotiation which has the potential to transmit a sense of self-respect to future generations (Rowlands 2002: 108). One indigenous description of Ailan Kastom likens it to a tree: ‘Its roots reach into traditional life; its branches spread towards new horizons … bringing strength and stability to a changing lifestyle’ (Daniel, Gibuma et al. 1991: 56). The opening of Gab Titui was an extraordinary cultural, political and economic achievement. Behind the apparent spontaneity of many of the activities, the events of the weekend were carefully orchestrated to ensure that different groups had an appropriate opportunity for self-determined expression. Bishop Mabo’s blessing at the official opening on Friday was one of many given by individual ministers representing the numerous Christian denominations active in the Torres Strait. Speeches were delivered by representatives of the Torres Strait Regional Authority (TSRA), local politicians, the Queensland Minister for Education and Minister for the Arts, and the Federal Member of Parliament for Immigration, Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs. Terry Waia, the chairman of the TSRA, in his speech expressed the sadness felt at the passing of Ephraim Bani, a man acknowledged by many as a founder and an advocate of the Centre for over twenty years.

6.1. Opening ceremonies outside the Gab Titui Cultural Centre. Church leaders, elders, community and visitors all joined in to bless Gab Titui. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.)

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6.2. Biship Mabo blesses the gallery in anticipation of its first visitors. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.)

The Saturday morning opening of Gab Titui’s main gallery space, named in honour of Ephraim Bani, was respectfully bracketed from the lively and less constrained festivities during the second day, thereby differentiating appropriate access for family and community members (figure 6.2). Before the celebratory dances and performances began, a family-focused gathering marked the gallery’s opening with prayers and speeches in Kala Lagaw Ya, the indigenous language of Mabuiag Island. Hymns were sung and members of the appropriate kin group performed a funeral dance. This powerful and moving memorial affirmed Gab Titui as a potent centre for community while at the same time commemorating Bani’s vision for its creation. The festival that followed drew from the diversity of cultural expression in the Strait and from Islanders now resident on mainland Australia. They included a dazzling range of dance groups, traditional hymns, school choirs and professional Torres Strait Islander recording artists, Seaman Dan, singing in his Pacific folk style, and pop star Christine Anu. There were also craft demonstrations, traditional foods and a late-night showing of the popular 1953 movie filmed in the Torres Strait, King of the Coral Sea,5 under the light of the full moon. The concluding ecumenical service on Sunday reinforced a spirit of unity by bringing together people from the numerous Christian denominations in the Strait. The performances of song and dance were not just a spectacular way of celebrating the opening; they were also a mark of community commitment and

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6.3. Badu Goigal Pudhai Dancers with aeroplane headdress depict Second World War air attacks over Torres Strait. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.)

6.4. The Saibai Island dance group is noted for their energetic dancing and ‘flash’ costumes, including cassowary feather headdresses. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.)

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support for the future of the centre. Dance teams are one of the most important forms of cultural expression in the Torres Strait today and a means whereby distinct Islander groups represent and distinguish themselves. Over twenty independent performing groups from across the Torres Strait actively participated in the celebrations. Performances by Badu and Mabuiag Island dance troupes, incorporating elaborate aeroplane headdress and articulated dance machines, graphically told the story of the Second World War radar station and the Islanders’ involvement in guarding Australian borders (figure 6.3). The Tharna Fire Dance Group from St Paul’s community on Moa Island celebrated the common South Sea heritage of the performers.6 The Serpeye team, composed of members of the Torres Strait army reserve, danced in combat dress with rifles. Dance groups from Boigu, Mer and Erub performed dances which have their origin in precolonial Islander ceremonial life, with the dancers from Saibai Island typically ‘flash’ or elaborate in their expression of traditional forms (figure 6.4). There were also performances which celebrated the Filipino heritage of some Thursday Island families. The Centre supports both tangible and intangible cultural heritage of the people of the region. Festivals of performance and song are a vital part of Torres Strait heritage and critical to the dynamic culture of today. Ailan Kastom encompasses these distinct and sometimes competing forms of cultural expression. Because of this diversity Gab Titui has always striven to be an inclusive organization. The very name of the centre was chosen through extensive community consultation. Gab Titui expresses both the meeting of the two main language groups in the Torres Strait and the region’s distinct seafaring history. Gab is from Meriam Mir, the language of the Eastern Islands, meaning journey or pathway, while Titui is from the Kala Lagaw Ya, the language of the Western Islands, meaning stars.7 Culminating in the ‘Journey of the Stars’, the centre’s name directly refers to the importance of this aspect of Islanders’ knowledge, which is crucial to cosmological understandings and to navigational success (Sharp 1993). The logo design for Gab Titui, displayed prominently on the exterior of the building and present on all promotional material, was selected from an open competition initiated and judged by the centre’s Steering Committee (see figure 6.1). It was designed by a young artist, Matatia Andrew Warrior, who has a strong passion and commitment to the promotion and maintenance of cultural heritage. The central image on the logo is a dhari, the distinctive feather headdress, superimposed over a warup, an hour-glass shaped drum. Both are key symbols of Torres Strait Islander identity. The dhari itself is divided in half, each side reflecting the distinct styles found in the eastern and western regions. A fivepointed star alludes both to the centre’s name and the five regional areas within the Strait. The building, constructed with funds from a diverse range of state and federal government bodies8 and designed by Mike Ferris Partners, is itself a symbolic representation of salient aspects of Torres Strait history, geography and culture. The architecture, with its pitched roof and exterior sails, is reminiscent of the

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luggers which combed the Strait for bêche-de-mer and pearlshell from the late 1860s (figure 6.5). The centre abounds with contemporary expressions of cultural revitalization, with commissioned works created by student groups, public art projects and professional artists. Subtle but key elements drawn from the local physical and cultural environment are ubiquitous – the natural timbers; the furniture and sculptures made of wongai wood, a local fruit tree with symbolic importance; coconut palm frond imprints embedded into the outside paving; sculptures of totemic animals such as dugong, turtle, hammerhead shark and stingray hanging from the ceiling. These ideas, while integral to the centre, are not explained but are intended to create a sense of familiarity and a ‘home’ for both indigenous and foreign audiences. In doing so the building itself both fosters and reflects Ailan Kastom. Many of the internal elements were commissioned from local artists and craftspeople. The intention was to make the statement of support and prominence of Torres Strait art a part of the foundation of the building itself. The mosaic ‘sea-life’ flooring tiles were designed and produced by the local high school students. Large ceramic works from the Erub-Darnley Island Arts and Cultural Centre were placed at the entrance to the lower gallery. Community members from Warraber Island constructed seats. Established Islander artists from both the Strait and the mainland also contributed commissioned works. These include the totemic animals which hang from the ceiling, carved by Barry Williams; burnt

6.5. Gab Titui’s architecture is reminiscent of the pearl luggers which combed the Torres Strait in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.)

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carving display boxes by Nino Sabatino; lino-printed textile drum seats by Rosie Barkus; a large watercolour mural in the workshop space by Joseph Dorante; a dramatic, oversized aluminium and feather dhari by Ken Thaiday Snr, which marks the entrance to the Ephraim Bani gallery. The inaugural exhibition in the Bani gallery included over forty historic objects, most of which were on loan from the Australian Museum in Sydney (figure 6.6). There is also a video display area. Significantly, the layout addresses five main themes which are of central importance to Islanders living throughout the Strait. The first theme focuses on the dhari – the feathered headdress that has remained in use throughout the Islands and is the central image on the Torres Strait flag. The second theme, ‘Mapping the Seabeds’, looks at the diverse ecology and marine systems of the region containing volcanic, continental, coral, alluvial islands, and barrier reefs. The third theme, ‘The Universe of Tagai’, brings together notions of art, science and religion in the Torres Strait by focusing on local knowledge of particular constellations. Astronomical knowledge is crucial to Islanders’ exceptional navigational skills and also corresponds to cosmological understandings. The fourth theme ‘Migration’, highlights the numerous connections between the Islands and the many Islander communities now resident on the mainland. The final theme, ‘Islands’, explores the notion of the sea as something that both connects and separates different communities.

6.6. The Bani family lead visitors into the Ephraim Bani Gallery for the first time. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.)

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The creation of the centre – its design, the objects it contains and the breadth of its activities – reflect both the support and the diversity of Gab Titu’s audiences. The large number of participants in the festival were a visible marker of community endorsement and a demonstration that appropriate consultation and protocols had been followed during the Centre’s development. The Gab Titui opening and festival brought together many distinct groups of people – numerous Islander groups within the Torres Strait as well as Islanders now resident on the Australian mainland; government officials and representatives of funding bodies, from regional, state and national levels, who came to show support while observing how the funding was spent; local residents including business people and state employees; artists and performers; anthropologists; and tourists. The events were reported by local, indigenous and national media, including the Torres Strait Islander Media Association (TSIMA), Koori Mail, the Australiawide indigenous focus newspaper, the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), and commercial networks. The activities were also photographed by George Serras from the National Museum of Australia, with the dual purpose of documenting the event for the national audience and enabling the cultural centre to have a database of images for archival and promotional purposes. TSIMA also made recordings for the benefit of those who were unable to attend. The continued contribution of these diverse audiences in participating, looking and learning is integral to the success of the Centre in meeting its audience targets and sustaining its future viability. A close examination of the events leading up to the successful launch of this new and important cultural centre in the Pacific provides an opportunity to explore the complex interests and inter-relationships which enabled the creation of Gab Titui and appear crucial to its future. Gab Titui has demonstrated its potential to foster a broad Ailan Kastom, to highlight common themes while bringing together diverse interests and cultural expressions, something which might be described as nationalist imaginings. The Centre is also a step in a careful but deliberate attempt to draw more tourists to the Strait, increasing the economic viability of local artists and the Centre itself. One of Gab Titui’s main challenges will be to strike an appropriate balance between multifarious local interests in developing and expressing kastom and the need to explain and demonstrate kastom to outsiders. Another challenge is to maintain its viable economic position in the region’s capital while meeting the needs and interests of the remote communities across the islands of the Strait.

Creating a Cultural Centre for the Torres Strait The embryonic notion of a Torres Strait museum took hold within the context of increasing self-determination as well as a growing awareness of national and international museum collections of Torres Strait material. Ever since the region was annexed to Queensland in 1879, Islanders have struggled to regain their

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autonomy. It was not until 1967 that Islanders, along with Aboriginal people, were recognized as citizens of Australia. Twenty-five years later, in 1992, the Island of Mer led the continuing struggle for self-determination, winning a ten-year battle in the Murray Island ‘Mabo’ Land Case. This victory marked the first time that the Australian Government recognised the prior ownership of land by any indigenous group. On 1 July 1994 the TSRA9 was established, made up of twenty elected representatives from the various Islander communities. Now Islanders have a body which maintains control of the area and reports directly to Canberra as an independent Australian region. It is the hope of many Islanders that in this century their vision for complete autonomy within Australia may be achieved. The establishment of the cultural centre was a complex process carried out in various public and private arenas over twenty years. It involved a prolonged dialogue which took place across the Strait and between Islanders and supportive outsiders, such as anthropologists, teachers, artists, curators and politicians. Four men were central to these discussions. During a visit to Canberra in 1974, Ephraim Bani met David Moore, then of the Australian Museum (personal communication, Bani to Philp, 1995). Bani’s interest in historic collections encouraged Moore to compile a comprehensive illustrated catalogue of the extensive Torres Strait material collected in 1888 and 1898 by Cambridge-trained natural scientist and ethnologist Alfred Haddon (Moore 1984). The catalogue was widely distributed throughout the Strait. The anthropologist Jeremy Beckett of the University of Sydney was one of the most consistent voices responding to Islander interest and enthusiasm for the cultural products of their past. From the early 1960s Beckett recorded local music for community use and archival preservation. In the 1980s Beckett and Moore assisted with preliminary consultation and plans for a Museum on Thursday Island, which resulted in a report and architectural drawings (McGrath 1995: 12). This project was run through the Island Community Council (ICC), the forerunner of TSRA. Victor McGrath and Ephraim Bani, both artists and keen advocates for maintaining the traditions of the past in the upcoming generations, continued to push for a museum/cultural centre over the next twenty years. This goal was put on hold until basic living standards and services were improved across the Strait. Plans for a museum did not halt completely. John Singe, an enthusiastic and determined teacher, and long-time Torres Strait resident and local historian (Singe 2003), continued to work with Islanders by accessing state education funding for cultural programmes through the schools. These included the development of a small museum or keeping house at the Thursday Island State High School, which contains a small nineteenth century missionary collection,10 more recent items largely relating to dress and adornment, contemporary arts and crafts, and historic photographs.11 In addition to localized displays in island state schools and council offices, there are two other museums in the Torres Strait, one in the Old Fort on Thursday Island, and a museum attached to the Gateway Hotel on Horn Island. Both may be considered indigenous in the spirit of Thurnwald’s Buin Museum (Stanley this volume). They pertain to Torres Strait Islanders as well as

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settler history and encourage both Islanders and non-Islanders to visit. However, both museums were principally initiated by ‘outsiders’ and their exhibits are for ‘looking at’ rather than being 'involved in' the work on display. In contrast, Gab Titui takes indigenous participation as the key purpose of the centre. In Townsville, Islander communities have worked with the Material Culture Unit at James Cook University accessing collections to develop cultural programmes at local schools (personal communication, Ribis Day to Philp, 1996). In 1995 the TSRA sponsored a report to gauge the level of interest and activity in the arts environment across the Strait. It highlighted the inspirational potential of historic collections and revealed the limited opportunities for Islanders to create and market artworks (McGrath 1995: 1998). The cultural centre was envisioned as a place not only to engage with material from the past, but also a venue where visual and performing artists could produce, display and sell their work. The importance of fostering contemporary artistic production was seen as a vital part of the centre’s mission – the promotion of the living Ailan Kastom of the people of the Strait. Islanders have long been aware of collections of Torres Strait objects in Australian and overseas museums. The dissatisfaction which many experience in accessing distant collections was reinforced by the film Cracks in the Mask,12 widely distributed in Australia in the late 1990s, which now plays on continuous loop in the Ephraim Bani gallery. Islanders today feel the loss of some aspects of their cultural heritage, which has resulted from the onslaught of traders, missionaries, and colonial officials from the mid-nineteenth century. There are few Islander cultural objects from precolonial and colonial times remaining in the Strait. Yet there are thousands of historic Torres Strait objects in museums and private collections in Australia, New Zealand, Europe and North America. Of particular importance are the extensive collections of objects, photographs and associated archival material made by Alfred Haddon, during two field-trips to the Torres Strait, first in 1888 and subsequently as the leader of the 1898 Cambridge Anthropological Expedition. While the objects are now distributed between several museums in the U.K., Ireland and Australia, Cambridge holds the vast majority of the material from the 1898 expedition as well as the related photographs and archives. The publication of the comprehensive and well-documented Haddon collections (Moore 1984; Wilson 1988), the numerous academic visitors and Islanders who have come to research the material in Cambridge,13 the contemporary research conducted by Cambridge University Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology (CUMAA) staff and students in the Strait, and a number of collaborative projects involving Torres Strait material have meant that the Haddon collections, in particular the material at Cambridge, have assumed a particular significance. The relationships that developed between the expedition members and their Islander assistants, revealed through the careful recording of information from named Islanders, directly connect the material with people living in the Strait today. Many Torres Strait objects in museum collections do not have such a direct connection with specific people and places, and those that do are less well known.14

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The centenary of the Cambridge expedition in 1998 provided a catalyst, focusing local, national and international attention on the rich cultural and material heritage of the Torres Strait region at the end of the nineteenth century. While scholars explored the legacies of the Expedition in the context of British academic and intellectual histories (Herle and Rouse 1998), Islanders in conjunction with museum staff in Cambridge, Canberra and Sydney emphasized the importance of historic collections as a resource for Islanders’ knowledge about the past. In consultation with Islanders, a major centenary exhibition was held at the Cambridge Museum from 1998 to 2000 (Herle and Philp 1998; Herle 2000), encouraging numerous Islander visits to Cambridge (Herle 2002). In the same year, Islanders Tom Mosby and Brian Robinson, of the Cairns Regional Art Gallery, organized the first major exhibition of Torres Strait art, bringing together contemporary artists from throughout the Strait and the mainland. ‘Ilan Pasin: This is our way’ (Mosby and Robinson 1998) was an exhibition of diverse and experimental artworks, juxtaposed with historic objects (Robinson 2001: 29).15 The exhibition toured to numerous venues throughout Australia between 1998 and 2001.16 During this period the construction of the new National Museum of Australia (NMA) in Canberra was underway and plans were developed to organize a loan exhibition from CUMAA. The objects were shown in the inaugural exhibition for the first specially designated Torres Strait gallery in Australia when the National Museum opened in 2001.17 The loan objects were selected by five Torres Strait elders, with an Islander representative of the NMA staff and financial assistance from the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Arts Board of the Australia Council. Elders Ephraim Bani, Florence Kennedy, Goby Noah, Bishop David Passi and Frances Tapim, accompanied by Leilani Bin Juda, then Curator at the National Museum, visited CUMAA in 1999 to see the centennial exhibition and to research the objects, photographs and archives associated with Haddon. The resulting exhibition, ‘Past times: Torres Strait material from the Haddon Collection’18 (Philp 2001), while containing many of the same objects included in the Cambridge exhibition, was carefully organized according to the five subdivisions of the Torres Strait. Select writings from the 1898 Expedition’s Reports, including quotes from named Islanders, were re-presented to support the continuity of kastom. With the continued support of NMA, ‘Past Times’ also travelled to the Cairns Regional Gallery, a location noted both for its large Islander population and as the gateway to the Torres Strait. In his opening speech, Terry Waia, the then Chairman of the TSRA, used the occasion as an opportunity to promote plans for the new Torres Strait Cultural Centre. Although neither ‘Ilan Pasin’ nor ‘Past Times’ travelled to the Strait, primarily due to the lack of a suitable venue, these exhibitions raised people’s general awareness of the richness of historical material as well as vitality of contemporary artistic expressions. The strong ties between families on the mainland and in the Strait was highlighted by the second Torres Strait exhibition at the NMA, ‘Paipa’ (2002–2005). Curated by Bin Juda, it focused on the experiences of Islanders who migrated to the Australian mainland and their continued connection to Ailan Kastom.

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Following continued lobbying from the TSRA, cultural leaders and artists, in 2000 the Queensland Heritage Trails Network provided A$1,000,000 towards the establishment of a Torres Strait Cultural Centre. A further $350,000 was allocated in 2002 from the state and federal governments. The final budget of $3,000,000 combined resources from TSRA and Commonwealth and state governments. The TSRA set up an interim Steering Committee for the Cultural Centre with local representatives from the Torres Strait. Crucially, Leilani Bin Juda, Curator of the Torres Strait Islander Programme at NMA, was seconded to work with the Steering Committee on the development of the Cultural Centre, bringing professional museum expertise and the strategic partnership of the National Museum to the project.

Time and Place This chronicle of some key elements and events which led to the establishment of Gab Titui describes visible and practical aspects leading to the foundation of the Centre. While the provision of institutional and financial support were determining factors, crucial to the development of Gab Titui were local perceptions of the timeliness of the project and the importance that is attached to place. The long-term goal of the cultural centre resulted from the vision and persistent determination of particular individuals, while the continual dialogue within and between Torres Strait communities provided the local context and ultimately the necessary support. Many people stressed the importance of doing things according to ‘island time’, a factor upon which the success of a Cultural Centre in the Strait depended.19 Before the centre could fruitfully be developed, it was essential that people had adequate opportunity to discuss the issues and to voice their interests and concerns. The disparate population with communities scattered on distant islands and the mainland, the different languages within the Strait, and the importance attached to direct and personal communication necessitated considerable time for broad-based consultation. In this way Gab Titui is understood to have emerged from the legitimate needs of Islanders rather than from a top-down bureaucratic imposition. The notion that things are done at the right time may also include unforeseen circumstances which are understood, often retrospectively, as strategic events in the development of particular goals or actions (Philp 1998b). For Gab Titui the work of key individuals, events such as the ‘Ilan Pasin and Past-Times’ exhibitions, and the support of NMA and the Australian Museum had a direct relevance to the building of the Centre and the effectiveness of its work. Culture and languages affiliate with the land, with the sea and with the air. It is the sole identity of the custodian, his birthright and heritage. Culture gives directions as to when to fish, hunt or grow a garden. It is the sole strength for survival. All this can be

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achieved through long occupancy of the region. Ancient wisdom is the key for lasting ownership. To have our culture is abiding in the spirituality of the land which we enjoy and protect as our home … (Ephraim Bani quoted in Davis 2004: 32)

An ongoing concern in discussions about the cultural centre was the strong link between people, place and associated objects. While historical circumstances and the development of a pan-Island indigenous government have encouraged centralization, many Islanders retain strong attachments to their home islands. Historically, Thursday Island did not host a permanent community, but was used by people of the surrounding islands. It was set up as an administrative centre by British and Australian officials in 1877. Since then the population of Thursday Island has gradually expanded and is now home to over 2,000 people, whereas most communities in the Strait contain between 200 and 500 residents. This tiny and relatively crowded island is now the political and administrative centre of the region, home to the Torres Strait Regional Authority, the only high school and Tertiary and Further Education (TAFE) college in the Strait, as well as the Shire Council, customs offices, regional hospital, library, radio station and newspaper. Despite the amenities which attract people to Thursday Island, for many it is not traditional Islander land and therefore seen by some as an inappropriate place for certain cultural objects. Indeed the use of Thursday Island for Islander political and administrative purposes is contested by Kaurareg traditional owners, many of whom live on the adjacent islands of Horn and Muralag and affiliate themselves with Aboriginal peoples of Cape York. Gab Titui took great care to acknowledge local Aboriginal interests – the word ‘Islander’ was not included in the name ‘Torres Strait Cultural Centre’, the Kuarareg Elders Choir was involved in the soilturning ceremony held twelve months prior, and both the Aboriginal and Torres Strait flags are prominently displayed in front of the building. Yet, despite the largely successful attempts of the Cultural Centre’s organizers to accommodate different interests, some Kuarareg chose to express their dissatisfaction at the opening through a public assertion of their Aboriginal heritage. In contrast to the centralizing force of Thursday Island are the constantly reiterated claims as to the special and unique characteristics of each Islander community. Throughout the disparate islands of the Strait, people have strongly marked connections to particular areas of land and reef, which are often inscribed by the actions of cultural figures. For over two decades people have debated the suitability and accessibility of a keeping place for important historic material. For many, an object’s home is on the island from where it originated and it is often then associated with a particular family or custodian. Negotiations around a cultural centre for the whole of the Torres Strait have focused on its location, which objects or whose objects should be included, and which elements of kastom should be highlighted in expressing Torres Strait culture and identity. Similar discussions continue to take place in the context of local communities between council members, elders and family groups as well as with visiting researchers and museum curators.20

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There is also a strong political and cultural distinction between the Islanders living in the Strait and the resident population on the Australian mainland, many of whom retain links through family and church with their home communities on the Islands. Yet despite attempts by some groups based on the mainland to have a voice in the Strait, they have no say in the running of the TSRA or local Island councils (Beckett 2004: 9–12). For several generations Islander families have been building strong communities in cities such as Townsville and Cairns, and smaller groups are located throughout Australia. Over three-quarters of Islanders now live on the mainland,21 many of whom also have an interest in access to and control over historic collections. In 2001 Magani Malu Kes, a Meriam-centred Islander organization based in Townsville, was actively involved in organizing the Torres Strait section of the new Museum of Tropical Queensland. The resulting exhibition draws from recent material from the local community as well as on the important historic collections of the Queensland State Museum in Brisbane, including material collected by Haddon. The importance attached to the movement, placement and ownership of important artefacts is intensified by the inherent power or agency attached to specific things.22 The animate potential of objects was highlighted in the ‘PastTimes’ catalogue: ‘[t]o attach ‘superstition’ and/or doubt to the reality of indigenous beliefs of spiritual powers inherent in the artefacts (and of the broader spiritual context) is in reality an expression of ignorance in the mind that thinks it, as well as an absence of practical experience on his or her part’. (Passi quoted in Philp 2001: viii)

Indeed the location of special objects may influence the well-being of people as well as the spiritual welfare of the objects. Yet these potentially powerful things may be propitious or dangerous. For some Islanders the seclusion of distant museum stores is seen as a safe place to contain contested or potentially dangerous objects and keep them away from adversaries. Elders from Mer and Mabuiag who visited CUMAA identified some of the objects from their Islands as unsuitable for public display. Similarly in Brisbane, after extensive consultation with Meriam communities the cult figure of Waiet, removed from Waier Island in the 1920s and given to the Queensland Museum, was placed on restricted access within the Museum’s stores. Decisions about the location and ownership of precious objects inevitably bring issues of cultural and intellectual property to the forefront. Debates may be intensified in a cultural context where certain aspects of knowledge itself are owned and selectively revealed. Restrictions on knowledge transmission tend to limit access to certain objects both physically and/or in terms of the deeper meanings with which they are associated.23 Objects may productively connect people and places over time, or they may reignite contested claims over knowledge and associated resources. In the Torres Strait the act of claiming has been strongly reinforced by ongoing and complex legal processes involved in

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native title, where individuals have to assert and demonstrate their ancestral connections to particular places. Information from the Reports of the 1898 Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Straits (1901–1935) was used as important evidence in the landmark 1992 ‘Mabo case’, giving the work of the Expedition a particular political significance. There is the ever-present danger that the attempted affiliation to shared cultural symbols may give rise to competition over ownership or use, as described in other Melanesian contexts (Harrison 2002). On specific islands people tend to emphasize their kastom as relating to particular communities and families, not Ailan Kastom. Yet with remarkable vision, the TSRA and the Steering Committee for Gab Titui have respectfully promoted select elements of kastom as a vital source of social cohesion. The cultural centre has carefully downplayed its interest in ‘owning’ the objects on display and has emphasized its role in facilitating broad access to objects, through exhibition, loans, and as yet unspecified future repatriation negotiations.

Gathering and Giving Support: Gab Titui as a ‘Hub’ Older knowledge or ways of thinking are not lost; they are transformed to mean something in the present and in that is our continuity with the past, our continued role in producing relevant and meaningful knowledge for the contexts we live in. (Nakata 2003: 11)

6.7. Women wearing brightly coloured Ailan dresses playing traditional drums, buruburu, at the opening of Gab Titui. (Photo: George Serras, National Museum of Australia, 2004.)

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Through long and careful processes of consultation, planning and development, the creation of Gab Titui successfully brought together diverse cultural and political interests, as vividly expressed in the opening ceremonies (figure 6.7). The intensive discussions which were integral to the foundation of Gab Titui helped define the core goals of the centre – to establish a place run by and for the people of the Torres Strait which at once reflected the history of the region, encompassed its diversity and supported the continuity of artistic and cultural expression. Crucially, the cultural centre seeks to continue to ensure proper representation across the Strait. To be seen to privilege one Islander group over another would be a mark of disrespect and would create long-term difficulties. The TSRA, which has been pursuing strategies for equitable representation and shared resources over the last decade, has been instrumental in the development Gab Titui. Experienced personnel, the incorporation of specialist staff, and productive networks have enabled the centre to reach many of its targets. Self-conscious efforts to bring together distinct constituencies have been behind every aspect of the cultural centre, from the composition of the Advisory Committee, to the prolonged consultations, and the development of core activities. Gab Titui also needs to be able to respond quickly to unexpected and often fraught circumstances. For example, when Bani died some demanded that his name replace that of Gab Titui, a proposal which had the potential for upsetting the careful balance between different interest groups, Island communities and families. The matter was carefully resolved though intense negotiations – the name Gab Titui remained as it was also Bani’s legacy and the central gallery space was named in his honour. The success of the centre’s decision to uphold the Steering Committee’s work and appropriately honour the great debt that Gab Titui owed to Bani’s work was demonstrated by the broad support at the opening ceremonies. In common with the TSRA, the vision of the Gab Titui is to facilitate cultural and economic growth and act as a hub linking islands throughout region. Like other Aboriginal and Melanesian ventures, the focus is to harness customary knowledge and practices to address contemporary issues (Bolton 2003: 230–31). The centre delivers services, exhibitions and programmes to local residents, people living throughout the Strait and visitors to the region. It promotes a living cultural heritage through activities such as artist demonstrations, seminars, music and storytelling. The centre’s workshop provides a space for artists to work and an opportunity for skill sharing. For some artists, access to historic artefacts, the creations of their ancestors, is a potent source of inspiration. The centre is also a place to display contemporary artwork, while the retail shop provides the opportunity for marketing, thereby nurturing economic independence. A crucial ingredient in the success of Gab Titui was the creation of the Indigenous Regional Arts Development Fund in 2002/3. Established through a partnership agreement between the TSRA, Arts Queensland and the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Arts Board (ATSIAB) of the Australia Council for the Arts, a total pool of A$80,000 was provided for art development initiatives.24

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Under the direction of the Arts Development Officer, artists and community organizations were given the necessary support for self-determined projects through provision of materials for exhibitions, demonstrations, workshops, publications, artist residencies or marketing their work through Gab Titui’s shop. The Arts Development Fund is separate from the centre, enabling direct support across the whole region and to a diverse range of projects, which benefit communities at the local level while connecting them with the wider world. While extending programmes to reach to the outer islands, Gab Titui is in itself a training centre. The establishment of a daily operations manager and three indigenous trainees has enabled the development of skills in the arts and culture industry. With the assistance from Commonwealth and state governments and the local TAFE college, during the first year three trainees embarked upon a Certificate III in Tourism (Visitor Services). Additional hands-on training was provided by the Arts Development Officer, the Operations Manager and through internships supported by established museums. The introduction of an Indigenous Mentoring Programme has been initiated with funding assistance from the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Arts Board of the Australia Council. The development of trained indigenous personnel is crucial to Gab Titui’s goals to empower local people and facilitate the operations of the Centre. The staff are also cultural ambassadors for the region, promoting the Centre’s endeavours nationally and internationally. The provision of government funding from local, state and national levels, combined with the backing of national arts organizations, provided the necessary support for the creation of this ambitious and multifaceted Centre. Yet this dependence on nonrecurrent external grants raises another set of challenges for Gab Titui. Funding bodies have their own interests and require detailed documentation of achievements and stated goals as part of their own record keeping. The cycle of grant writing, documentation and reporting has been a dominant part of the Centre’s work and its continued success relies on the staffs’ abilities to draw in monies for cultural projects. Diverse community interests and expectations as well as local protocols do not necessarily align with the government frameworks within which the Centre has to function. The need to assess, quantify and report, combined with the language of ‘outcomes’, ‘outputs’, and ‘mission’, creates a tension between the government administrators and the community members. Furthermore, this places an increasing administrative burden on the limited staff to report and translate to and between these groups, which has been a requested service through the Arts granting scheme. Yet fulfilling this role takes away from other priorities, such as extending public programmes, organizing temporary exhibitions, and developing suitable storage facilities. Ultimately, there is the expectation that the Centre will strive for long-term financial independence. The ability of Gab Titui to directly link up with tourists who come to Thursday Island on day excursions is critical to the financial sustainability of the centre and the numerous artists which it promotes. Many of the centre’s programmes are expected to be funded through the marketing of

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Islander art and historic culture displayed at the centre and interpreted through its trainees. Here is another challenge for the future of the centre and indeed the Torres Strait itself – the sustainable development of tourism in the region. Gab Titui has successfully developed broad-based community support. It will have to work creatively to maintain its primary interest in enhancing cultural and social development while providing a tourist attraction to explain and market aspects of kastom to outsiders (Stanley 1998). Another important area of ongoing support is the strong networks Gab Titui has established with mainstream museums and international cultural organizations. The formal support of the National Museum of Australia and the Australian Museum25 has been invaluable in providing professional expertise for the development of Gab Titui and ongoing training for indigenous staff in all aspects of museum practice. Australian Museum staff also assisted with the preparations for the inaugural exhibitions. The centre maintains appropriate professional standards and physical conditions to enable loans from national and international collections. Further afield, institutions such as CUMAA have assisted with advice and access to the Haddon collections, both within the U.K. and in Australia. The first anniversary exhibition, opening April 2005, was based on Haddon photographs from CUMAA’s collections and future collaborative projects are planned. These networks operate in both directions and on different levels. As highlighted by the Aboriginal Director of the National Museum of Australia, founded in 2001, the Museum has ‘a profound contribution to the evolving discussion of national history and identity, the place of Indigenous peoples in a pluralistic settler society and the aspirations of present day Australians for the future’ (Casey 2001: 17). Facilitating access to museum collections and associated documentation for members of source communities may provide important information which is often shared between visitors and the host institution. Collaborative curatorial acts of interpretation and translation also give local communities a powerful voice in their representation in a variety of national and international contexts. Indigenous cultural centres are also gathering strength through their own national and international affiliations. Recently the TSRA’s Arts Development Officer teamed up with Franchesca Cubillo, Artistic and Cultural Director of Tandanya, Australia’s national Aboriginal Cultural Centre in Adelaide. An important destination in their international study tour of selected museums was Washington DC, U.S.A., where they respectively carried the Torres Strait and Aboriginal flags in a procession of thousands marking the opening of the National Museum of the American Indian at the Smithsonian Institution in September 2004. As part of their extensive research they also visited mainstream museums with indigenous collections in Hawai‘i, mainland United States, Canada, Britain and Japan. This marks the first time that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander museum professionals embarked on such a joint project, another example of the importance and rapidly increasing influence of indigenous cultural centres in Australia, the Pacific and beyond.

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Conclusion This exploration of the creation, activities and goals of Gab Titui, reveals complex and overlapping relations between diverse local interests and national and global systems within which the Centre actively participates. Through the work of trained professionals, Gab Titui has incorporated international museum standards, as well as the language and accounting practices of government funding bodies. Within eighteen months of opening, the Centre received the Queensland Tourism Award for the category of Indigenous Tourism. Yet, Cultural centres like Gab Titui also challenge and extend the traditional role of the museum through their extremely broad range of activities and their commitment to socioeconomic as well as cultural projects. This story of Gab Titui is not just about the adaptation of a Western institution arriving in the indigenous world. It is also about the dramatic ways that indigenous agency acts in and on museums. While the core goals of indigenous cultural centres and established museums vary, and at times may be at odds with one another, the examples discussed here highlight the potential of developing creative and mutually productive relations (Peers and Brown 2003). Working with indigenous institutions such as Gab Titui may challenge some fundamental assumptions of Western museology. Democratic notions of open public access to museum collections are shifting to accommodate local concerns regarding ownership and selective display. While established museums in settler countries and some international anthropology museums have been among the first to respond,26 powerful secular institutions, such as the British Museum, are being forced to reexamine their interpretation and display of collections with regards to the diverse belief systems of people from around the world. These engagements at times result in bitter controversy or they may facilitate creative dialogue and access which often extends beyond that of the museum. As indigenous peoples become active participants in mainstream museums, curatorial staff who have gained the trust of local community members may be privileged to visit sacred sites or attend ceremonies from which they would otherwise be restricted. On an international level, one sees an important distinction between indigenous and metropolitan museums, but as one changes scale, Thursday Island becomes the metropolis with respect to the Islands. Gabi Titui has demonstrated its potential to mediate between diverse local communities as well as develop crucial national and international networks. The challenge for the future is sustainability – to maintain its broad-based community support, and extend educational and training opportunities, while ensuring longterm economic feasibility. One of the keys to this process has been the strength of the Arts Development Programme, which empowers local communities, and connects them, through the work of the Centre, to the wider world. Yet the dependence on nonrecurrent external funding makes the Centre extremely vulnerable to the vagaries of government grants. For example, the demise of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC) in 2005 has resulted in a serious decrease in funding opportunities for indigenous services throughout

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Australia. There is a crucial difference between the Cultural Centres of small island states and those, like Gab Titui, which are encompassed within a colonial environment where funding is inevitably tied to national objectives. It is often difficult to find a balance between shifting national agendas while maintaining a strong community focus and local objectives. Gab Titui has maintained a position of respectful and selective inclusion, while attempting to avoid the assertion of strong proprietorial interests. Yet, the development of a Torres Strait Cultural Centre on Thursday Island has also focused attention on the ownership of cultural resources and stimulated localized concerns regarding the preservation of objects, photographs and cultural documents within home communities. In the two years following the opening of Gab Titui, discussions in the outer islands have been increasingly focused on the possibility of building their own cultural centres. Queensland State Library has begun an initiative to promote access to its services and resources through the development of Indigenous Knowledge Centres (IKCs), which currently take the form of small libraries located within the Council offices. Recently Mabuiag, Poruma/Coconut and Erub/Darnley islands have established Indigenous Knowledge Centres. A new indigenous cultural centre, encompassing both Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander culture, opened in Townsville in December 2005. It remains to be seen whether Gab Titui will play an integrative role in differential and at times competing interests in kastom, such has been forged over many years by the Fieldworkers Programme at the Vanuatu Cultural Centre – (see Bolton this volume). Gab Titui is much more than a physical centre, indeed its success may lie in its ability to further devolve decisions and activities to the local communities, while providing the necessary impetus and support to link regional, national and international interests.

Acknowledgements Our main thanks go to the numerous Islanders who contributed to this article directly and indirectly through conversation and advice, in particular Ephraim Bani, Ron Day, Victor McGrath, Florence Kennedy, Frances Tapim, Ken Thaiday and Terrence Whap. We are grateful to the editor, Nick Stanley, and to Barrina South and Peter White of the Australian Museum for constructive comments on earlier drafts of this paper. Invaluable support for background research has been provided by the Crowther Beynon Fund (University of Cambridge) and the British Academy (U.K.), who assisted with Herle’s Torres Strait field research in 2002. The Christensen Fund (U.S.A.) supported Bin Juda’s 2004 museum study tour.

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Notes 1. 2.

3.

4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

12.

13. 14.

15. 16. 17. 18.

Quoted from ‘Cultural Church on Thursday Island’ Presenter: Kate Humphreys, ABC radio broadcast Friday, 30 April 2004. Quoted from TSRA Press Release 185 2004 Gab Titui Cultural Centre Opens In The Torres Strait Friday 16 April 2004. The Torres Strait is located between Cape York in Northern Australia and Papua New Guinea. Although the region’s inhabitants are primarily Melanesian, the Strait is politically part of Australia. Ailan Kastom is defined as “the body of customs, traditions, observances and beliefs of some or all of the Torres Strait Islanders living in the Torres Strait area” (TSRA). Directed by Lee Robinson the film included international Australian star Chips Raffety and credited its Islander cast such as Salapata Sagigi. Islanders use the term ‘South-sea’ to acknowledge the heritage of a person whose origins relate to the history of colonization when people from Samoa, Loyalty Islands, Fiji, Vanuatu and across the Pacific came and were brought to the Torres Strait for the church, trading and labor industries from the 1840s (see Mullins 1995). Following Federation in 1901 many people of ‘South-sea’ descent were moved to a mission station at St Paul’s on Moa Island. There are three dialects of Kala Lagaw Ya, including Kala Kawa Ya, originating from the top western group of Islands These included Queensland Heritage Trails Network and the TSRA. The TSRA is a statutory authority and falls within the portfolio of the Commonwealth’s Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs. This collection was given to the people of the Torres Strait by the UK-based descendants of the LMS missionary Harry Scott who was based at Mer 1884–1887. In 1988 the University of Cambridge Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology donated copies of several hundred nineteenth-century photographs to the High School on Thursday Island. Ephraim Bani played the leading role in the film directed by Frances Calvert, which emphasised the separation of Islanders from Torres Strait material in UK and European museums. (Gunn 2001: 55–57; Nakata 2001: 610–612). Over the last decade over 40 Islanders have visited CUMAA in approximately 20 separate visits. Other museums which contain well-provenanced material include: the Queensland State Museum, The National Museum of Australia, the Australian Museum, the Material Culture Unit at James Cook University, the British Museum, the National Museum of Ireland, the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow, and the Berlin Museum fur Volkerkunde. Several Australian Museums lent objects to the exhibition. CUMAA sent a feathered dhari collected by Haddon which was featured on the cover of the catalogue. See N. Thomas (2000) for comparative review of the Torres Strait Islanders and Ilan Pasin exhibitions. The project was initiated with the then Islander curator Mary Bani and completed by her replacement Leilani Bin Juda. The term ‘past-time’ is used by many Islanders to refer to the period before the Christianity came to the Strait. The arrival of the London Missionary Society on 1 July 1871 is described locally as the ‘coming o f the light’.

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19. This came through strongly in fieldwork interviews conducted by Philp (1994–5) and Herle (2002). 20. For example, in 2002 the Curator for Anthropology at Cambridge, was invited to visited Mer and Mabuiag, the Islands which were the focus of the Expedition’s work. There she was involved in long formal discussions with the Chairmen and elders about the collections at Cambridge, the Past-times exhibition, and the importance of the kastom particular to these islands. 21. According to the TSRA Annual Report, the total population of the Torres Strait is 8,306 of which 6,168 are Torres Strait Islanders and Aboriginal people. Approximately 37,400 Torres Strait Islander people live outside of the region. (TSRA 2003:24). 22. The indexical or relational power ascribed to objects in much recent anthropological theory following from Gell (1998) is somewhat over-determined in the Torres Strait. People often refer to specific objects as animate. 23. For example, it is striking that Islanders researching historic collections at CUMAA will only talk about, and in some cases only look at, objects that originate from their home islands. 24. The TSRA and Arts Queensland contributed $25,000 each while ATSIAB provided $30,000. 25. The AM's Aboriginal Heritage Unit and Anthropology Division have provided materials, funds and streamlined loan procedures for the inaugural exhibition. Like other project s run by AHU's indigenous staff, support for Gab Titui is seen as a long term commitment. It is expected to include future loans, conservation assistance, and training for interns in all aspects of professional museum work. 26. For example, during the preparations for the Torres Strait Islanders exhibition in Cambridge, Herle and Philp consulted with Islanders about the possible display of sacred or culturally sensitive material. The text for the Malo Bomai section was re-written by Meriam elders with the assistance of Chairman Ron Day (Herle 2002: 238). Similarly an Islander consultation group led decision making process for Paipa and Past-times at the NMA.

References Bani, E. 2004. ‘Evidence of Cultural Custodianship’ in Woven Histories, Dancing Lives: Torres Strait Islander Identity, Culture and History, R. Davis, (ed.). Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 31–32. Bani M. and A. Herle. 1998. ‘Collaborative Projects on Torres Strait Collections’, Journal of Museum Ethnography 10, 115–20. Beckett, J. 1997. Torres Strait Islanders: Custom and Colonialism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Beckett, J. 2004. ‘Writing about Islanders: Recent Research and Future Directions’ in Woven Histories, Dancing Lives: Torres Strait Islander Identity, Culture and History, R. Davis (ed.). Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 2–14. Bin Juda, L. 2001. ‘The Torres Strait Islander Exhibition Space at the New National Museum of Australia’, The Journal of the Pacific Arts Association 23 & 24, 35–37. Bolton, L. 2003. ‘The Object in View, Aborigines, Melanesians and Museums’, Museums and Source Communities, L. Peers and A. Brown. (eds.). London: Routledge, 42–54.

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Casey, D. 2001. ‘Case Study: The National Museum of Australia’, Humanities Research Special Edition: Museums of the Future, the Future of Museums, Canberra: Australian National University, 8(1), 17–23. Daniel, Gibuma et al. 1991. Boigu: Our History and Culture. Canberra: Studies Press. Gell, A. 1998. Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Gunn, M.2001. ‘Video review of Frances Calvert’s “Cracks in the Mask”, The Journal of the Pacific Arts Association, 23 & 24, 55–57. Haddon, A. (ed.). 1901–1935. Reports of the 1898 Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Straits. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harrison, S. 2002.‘The Politics of Resemblance; Ethnicity, Trademarks, Head-hunting’ The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 8(2), 211–32. Herle, A. 1998. ‘The Life-Histories of Objects: Collections of the Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to the Torres Strait' in Cambridge and the Torres Strait: Centenary Essays on the 1898 Anthropological Expedition. A. Herle and S. Rouse. (eds.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 77–105. ——— 2000. ‘Stories from an Exhibition’, Ethnos, Journal of Anthropology, 65(2), 253–73. ——— 2002. ‘Objects, Agency and Museums: Continuing Dialogues between the Torres Strait and Cambridge’, Pacific Arts: Persistence, Change and Meaning, A. Herle., N. Stanley., K. Stevenson and R.L. Welsch (eds.). Adelaide: Crawford House Press, 231–49. Herle, A. and J. Philp. 1998. Torres Strait Islanders: An Exhibition Marking the Centenary of the 1898 Cambridge Expedition. Cambridge: University Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. McGrath, V. 1995. ‘Arts Environmental Analysis of Torres Strait, a Report Prepared for Torres Shire Council, Thursday Island’. McGrath, V. 1998. ‘Contemporary Torres Strait Arts’, in Ilan Pasin (This is Our Way) Torres Strait Art. T. Mosby and B. Robinson. (eds.). Cairns: Cairns Regional Gallery, 101–12. Moore, D. 1984. The Torres Strait Collections of A.C. Haddon: A Descriptive Catalogue. London: British Museum Press. Mosby. T. and B. Robinson (eds.) 1998. Ilan Pasin (This is Our Way) Torres Strait Art. Cairns: Cairns Regional Gallery. Mullins. S. 1995. Torres Strait: a History of Colonial Occupation and Culture Contact, 1864–1897, Rockhampton: Central Queensland University Press. Nakata, N.M. 2003. ‘Indigenous Knowledge, New Times and Tomorrow’s Archives’, Sydney: State Library of New South Wales, www.sl.nsw.gov.au/about/publications/occasional.cfm Nakata, M. 2001. ‘Cracks in the Mask’, The Contemporary Pacific: A Journal of Island Affairs, 13:2, 610–12. Peers, L. and A. Brown (eds.). 2003. Museums and Source Communities, London: Routledge. Philp, J. 1998a. ‘Owning Artifacts and Owning Knowledge: Torres Straits Island Material Culture’, Cambridge Anthropology, 20(1–2), 7–15. ——— 1998b. ‘Resonance: Torres Strait Islander Material Culture and History’, Unpublished Ph.D. Thesis, Department of Social Anthropology, University of Cambridge. 1998. ——— 2001. Past Time: Torres Strait Islander Material from the Haddon Collection, 1888–1905: A National Museum of Australia Exhibition from the University of Cambridge, Canberra: National Museum of Australia. Robinson, B. 2001. ‘Ilan Pasin’: Torres Strait Art’, The Journal of the Pacific Arts Association, 23 & 24, 35–37. Rolands, M. 2002. ‘Heritage and Cultural Property’, in The Material Culture Reader, V. Buchli (ed.). Oxford: Berg, 105–14.

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Sharp, N. 1993. Stars of Tagai. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Singe, J. 2003. My Island Home: a Torres Strait Memoir. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Stanley, N. 1998. Being Ourselves for You: The Global Display of Cultures, London: Middlesex University Press. Thomas, N. 2000. ‘Islands of History: Reflections on Two Exhibitions of Torres Strait Islander Culture’. ART Asia Pacific 28, 70–77. Torres Strait Regional Authority. 2003. Annual Report 2002–2003, Commonwealth of Australia. Wilson, L. 1988. Thathilgaw, Emeret Lu: A Handbook of Traditional Torres Strait Islands Material Culture. Brisbane: Queensland Department of Education.

7 ‘Quite Another World of Aboriginal Life’: Indigenous People in an Evolving Museumscape Eric Venbrux Introduction ‘Morning tea with Tiwi Ladies’ is one of the attractions for tourists visiting Bathurst and Melville Islands in northern Australia. Indigenous graveyards and the production of arts and crafts are part and parcel of the itinerary. The islands have a history of one hundred years as a ‘destination culture’ (KirshenblattGimblett 1998) for tourists and anthropologists alike. From the early years of the twentieth century onwards museum interests have been a steady factor in shaping the islanders’ interrelationship with the wider world. Items of material culture were collected here in great quantities and ended up in museums all over the world. The current urge of metropolitan museums to set up a dialogue with source communities concerning collections assembled in the past, as well as indigenous people’s reclaiming their dispersed cultural heritage, has gained considerable attention in the museum-studies literature (e.g., Simpson 1996; Peers and Brown 2003). Although local museum buildings may be of recent date, many indigenous ‘source communities’ have long since been affected by the process of museumification. In this chapter I want to consider this process, and extend the idea of indigenous museums, by looking at twentieth-century Bathurst and Melville Islands through the lens of an open-air museum. This case study thus seeks to contribute to a better understanding of indigenous people in an evolving museumscape. In particular, I want to make clear that due to its museumification the so-called source community can be conceived of as being part and parcel of the circuit of museums. In this regard the source community is not a mere source of artefacts, but another museum in itself: a type of museum that comes close to an eco-museum or open-air museum.

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The indigenous museum could be visited as such. De-accessioning of duplicates, of course, occurred to a greater extent than in metropolitan museums (although their involvement in exchanges with other such museums should not be underestimated). A shift in perspective, however, helps to see that the museal source community had its source in preexisting models of museumification. For example, the model of an open air-museum was around when Bathurst and Melville Islands opened to the world in around 1905. It was a model with its antecendents in the world exhibitions (see Stoklund 2003). Museum interests had also become intertwined with the colonial enterprise (Fabian 2001). This was a ‘valuable advertisement of the country’s capabilities’, according to the then government resident, who established an ethnographic museum in his residence in the Northern Territory’s capital, immediately south of Bathurst and Melville islands (Herbert 1906). What is more, ‘Aboriginal cultural knowledge and material had been “up for sale” in the Northern Territory since the turn of the century’ (Povinelli 1993: 75). This commoditization also took place on Bathurst and Melville Islands (see Venbrux 2001, 2002), and it implied a production of difference. Baldwin Spencer, director of the National Museum of Victoria, conceived of them, in 1911–12, as ‘quite another world of aboriginal life’ (1928: 695). The islands were treated as an open-air museum. Museumification is closely linked to folklorization (De Jong 2001: 21–24), and likewise can be seen as special form of creation (Bogatyrev and Jakobson 1929). First and foremost, these are forms of cultural production sited in ‘an intercultural space’ (Merlan 1998; Myers 2002). In considering the museumification of the islands, both external influences and indigenous agency have to be taken into account. Below, I will discuss some of the conditions and local practices that constitute the process of museumification. I want to show how local, indigenous people have participated in an evolving global museumscape over the past hundred years. In the last few decades the islands have not only served as a kind of open-air museum, particularly in terms of small-scale tourism, but also boast indoor exhibition rooms. These galleries further enhance the process of museumification of local history and culture. Referring to the early twentieth-century example of Richard Thurnwald’s open-air museum in the island of Buin, Nick Stanley (this volume) states that the open-air museum provides a model that ‘thrives today in most of the cultural centres across the Pacific’. With regard to the case of Bathurst and Melville Islands I would like to go a step further, and demonstrate that this source community for a hundred years has been a de facto open-air museum. The process of museumification, in other words, may be more decisive than the formal product or institution when we are speaking of or conceptualizing an indigenous museum: the indigenous museum as a cultural form has a future firmly rooted in the past.

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A Preserved Site At the height of the ‘museum period’ (1880–1920; cf. Stocking 1983), Europeans gained access to Bathurst and Melville Islands. It was generally believed that in the two islands – at a distance of 60 km from the principal port in northern Australia – a pristine, primordial culture had been preserved. ‘For long ages past a narrow stretch of water seems to have isolated the Islanders with their remarkable culture’ (Spencer 1928: 709). The islanders formed ‘the one tribe which offered consistent, uncompromising resistance to European intrusion’ until the eve of the twentieth century (Reid 1990: 97). Consequently, the islands were seen as one of the few remaining locations where ‘the aboriginal in his natural state’ could still be observed (Spencer 1914: 41; cf. Klaatsch 1908: 674; Basedow 1913: 291). Both the landscape and the inhabitants of this secluded space happened to be designated as ‘wild’ and ‘picturesque’ by early twentieth-century visitors (Venbrux 2001). In their gaze it seemed faithful to the image of a primitive isolate, ‘a hermetic aesthetic place’ (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1991) not unlike a museum park. European visitors tended to regard the islanders as museum pieces, ‘a relic of the early childhood of mankind’ (Spencer 1922: 13). These Aborigines, ‘hitherto practically uncontaminated by European influence’ (Frazer 1912: 73), provided a unique opportunity to come face-to-face with humanity’s contemporary ancestors. Thus framed visits to the islands helped to create a local ‘experience economy’ (Pine and Gilmore 1999) geared towards showing a primeval Aboriginal life-world in evidence. Visitor expectations had their antecedents in social theorizing, and its popular dissemination in exhibitions, representing the Australian Aborigines as the primitive society par excellence (Kuper 1988, Morphy 1988, Hiatt 1996). How persistent the idea of a primitive isolate was follows from the account of a National Geographic expedition in the 1950s. The leader presents the islanders as ‘one of the few archaic peoples left on earth’. The visiting party was ‘travelling backward in time’ and ‘in the little-known land … would see man living as much as he did 50,000 years ago’ (Mountford 1956: 417). At that time, Bathurst and Melville Islands were Aboriginal reserves. Throughout the twentieth century the islands, in addition to the physical boundaries, have been hedged around with legal barriers restricting access. They were initially leased to private interests, then declared Aboriginal reserves, and finally granted as Aboriginal land. Permission was required to gain entrance to the islands. (Since the 1980s tourists have been required to pay a visitors’ fee.) The marked-off area in this sense also resembles an open-air museum. The distinctive ‘world of aboriginal life’ that Spencer and others found here was attributed to the islands’ isolation until early in the twentieth century. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, however, sporadic exchanges took place with the crews of visiting ships. In 1824, Melville Island even became the site of the first colonial settlement in northern Australia. But the British Fort Dundas, a military and trading post, turned out to be a failure. Within five years the fort had

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to be abandoned (Campbell 1834). Although no friendly relations with the islanders were established, an indigenous graveyard with sculptured posts had been observed, the record of which was to inspire later European visitors. The remains of the short-lived fort would also become a popular destination for them. Among white people in Palmerston (the present city of Darwin, founded in 1869) on the mainland, the islanders had a reputation for hostility (Foelsche 1882: 17; Swoden 1882: 21) probably as a result of the earlier failure to establish friendly relations with them at Fort Dundas, and their subsequent attacks on people who visited or were stranded on the islands.1 Requests by prospectors, speculators and Jesuit missionaries to be granted land on the islands were turned down by the administration (Reid 1990). The financial crises of the early 1890s (Trainor 1994) must have paved the way for the government to give Europeans access to the islands’ resources, including timber and feral buffaloes (a legacy of the British fort). Hence, intermittent buffalo shooting took place on Melville Island from 1895 onwards. Some crews of Asian ships (operating from the mainland port) that frequented the islands’ waters developed more peaceful relations with the islanders (Pilling 1958: 17). Cape Gambier, in the southwest of Melville Island, was to be the primary ‘contact zone’; the closest anchorage to the mainland, a function that it continued to fulfil when Europeans took over.2

The Source Community as a Living Museum The new era, one of sustained contact with Europeans, commenced in 1905. The governor landed in the southwest of Melville Island with a party of Europeans ‘in the hope of meeting some wild natives, which was the principal object of H.E.’s visit to the island’ (The Northern Territory Times and Gazette, 9 June 1905). But they failed to meet them. In the second half of June, however, a white man named Joe Cooper established himself on Melville Island as the lessee’s manager. In the previous decade Cooper and associates had ventured into the island several times to shoot buffalo for their hides and horns. Encounters of these parties with the islanders had been of a violent nature. Cooper now gained access with the help of a few islanders he had kidnapped in 1896. He was accompanied by his brother and an armed workforce of thirty mainland Aborigines. Their gun power was instrumental in the ‘pacification’ of the islands. The Cooper brothers took up buffalo shooting; to a lesser extent they engaged in logging and trepanging (collecting sea cucumbers or bêche-de-mer). The Coopers and their mainland employees camped on various places on the island. Young islander men became attached to the camps, working in exchange for introduced foods and goods.3 Once the enterprise was established it attracted a stream of European visitors. These visitors relied on Cooper’s protection and the guidance, transport and other facilities offered by him. A major objective was to view ‘wild’ Aborigines and their cultural expressions in the islands that had been out of bounds before. Already some European men and women had ‘availed themselves of this

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opportunity for a flying visit to the island’ when the Coopers shipped in horses and gear: ‘Mr. Corr, who had taken his camera with him, is said to have obtained a good snapshot of a group of wild natives, who are described as a far finer and healthier looking lot than their opium and alcohol contaminated compatriots in and around the settled districts of the mainland’ (The Northern Territory Times and Gazette, 30 June 1905). The shift in the colonial frontier brought first-hand experience of ‘genuine’ Aborigines within reach. ‘The opening door’, to use Morris’s expression (2001: 79), was one to a living museum. Cooper was quick to pick up on this interest: evidence of the islanders’ authenticity and distinctiveness could be presented. His guests witnessed the performance of dances and ceremonies by the islanders, were shown burial sites, and often paid a visit to the remains of Fort Dundas. Furthermore, the visitors were given demonstrations of primitive technology, took photographs, and obtained ethnographic artefacts from the islanders in exchange for trade goods. An example of this pattern of visitor activities, is the account of a visit provided by a German scientist, Hermann Klaatsch, in September 1906. Europeans on the mainland were to read it, under the heading ‘A trip to Melville Island’, in the newspaper. Klaatsch considered his brief stay at Cooper’s camp ‘an experience never to be forgotten by him’. He not only had ‘the most invigorating and glorious natural bath conceivable’ in a waterhole (something still on offer for tourists) in a ‘picturesque valley’, but he also relates that he ‘on each night was an interested spectator of corroborees inaugurated in honour of his visit by the natives’ (The Northern Times and Gazette, 5 October 1905). Although the scientist was primarily interested in data to confirm his evolutionary theory that Aborigines represented ‘the missing link’, he sought to fund his endeavour by bartering for ethnographic objects at source and selling them to metropolitan museums.4 Given those museums’ demand for Aboriginal artefacts, he was able to get a handsome profit by playing them off against each other (Völger 1986). His trade, facilitated by Cooper, also smoothed his relations with the islanders with whom he was unable to speak (Klaatsch 1908: 586). What is more, islanders frequently took the initiative and approached European visitors. The islanders’ ‘mercantile ambitions’ (Fabian 2001: 129), resulting in a commodified display of culture, coincided with the quest of visitors to witness and document a pristine, authentic Aboriginal culture before it was ‘too late’. The formation of such a ‘destination culture’, an intercultural space, however, implied a shift in the context of indigenous cultural practices. In particular, the change in function and meaning of objects, dances and so forth, entailed their museumification (cf. De Jong 2001). This extended to the islanders themselves, being subjected to the visitors’ gaze (cf. Rooijakkers and Van de Weijer 2002). In accordance with the image of the islands as an open-air museum, there was a certain selectiveness as to what merited attention. The focus was on matters that demonstrated the authenticity and distinctiveness of the islands’ Aborigines. For Europeans Aboriginal dances and ceremonies provided a sort of litmus test of authenticity (Povinelli 1993: 74), evidence that they were dealing with

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‘genuine’ Aborigines. A clear example of the islanders’ adjustment to this expectation are the so-called ‘welcome dances’ with which they greeted European visitors upon arrival in exchange for tobacco (Klaatsch 1908; Basedow 1908; Spencer 1914, 1928; Gsell 1956: 47). The dances for entertainment, furthermore, could be staged at any moment and place convenient for a European audience (Murphy 1920; Hill 1943; Simpson 1954). Basedow remarks that ‘whenever we came into contact with the blacks and presented them with divers small articles, a corrobboree was immediately inaugurated; even though the encounter happened to occur in the middle of the day’ (1913: 305). Such dances are performed for tourists up to the present day. The staging of welcome dances for visitors was one thing, a flexibility in the schedule of planned rituals another. It is no coincidence (although they believed that it was) that one visitor after another had the ‘good luck’ or ‘good fortune’ to attend ceremonies being held (Venbrux 2001). They did not have to wait for long to see one; especially postfuneral rituals – dance and song ceremonies – that could take place between two months and two years after a death.5 Spencer (1914, 1928) regarded the mortuary rituals as ‘the wildest’ he had ever witnessed in the whole of Australia. They offered sought-after photo opportunities. The timing of the visitor-attended rituals can also be seen as an indigenous strategy to generate an instant collection of artefacts. Next, the second-hand, desirable ‘authentic’ objects could be transacted to the visiting Europeans, who collected such items – ‘used in ritual’ – almost without exception. The influence of external museum interests also showed in the preference for distinctive Aboriginal artefacts, unique to the islands. In demonstrating a particular interest in precisely those things that distinguished the islanders from mainland Aborigines, European visitors cum collectors contributed to a museumification of local culture that was not only selective but also determined by what stood out from a European perspective. In due time, however, these items also became accepted as cultural icons by the islanders themselves. The favoured objects included barbed spears, bark containers and grave posts, all decorated with geometrical designs. The period before the First World War, when Westerners – museums, in particular – had the greatest interest in acquiring artefacts of Australian Aborigines, was formative in this respect. Indigenous handicrafts were also included in submissions to exhibitions aiming to show the Northern Territory’s potential for development. At the first Australian Women’s Exhibition in Melbourne in 1907, for instance, ‘the work of Aboriginal women from Melville Island was particularly featured’ (James 1989: 71). For Cooper the transactions of his visitors went hand in hand with his commercial interests. It created the goodwill of visiting dignitaries and earned him some money. He not only facilitated the collection of artefacts by representatives of museums but also acted as an agent, trading in ethnographic objects, and if necessary commissioning them to size (Venbrux 2001). Cooper attained legendary status as ‘the only white man among hundreds of savages’ (Masson 1915: 57). He was appointed sub-protector of the Aborigines on

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Melville Island. In addition to the authorative knowledge of islander culture with which European visitors (including Baldwin Spencer) credited him, this seemed some kind of curatorial role. In 1911 the federal government took over the administration of the Northern Territory from South Australia. At that point, Father Gsell, a French missionary of the Sacred Heart order, established a small mission station at the southeastern point of Bathurst Island, opposite Cooper’s camp on Melville. The southeastern part of Bathurst Island was leased to the Roman Catholic Mission, and the rest declared an Aboriginal reserve. When Cooper left the islands in 1916, his honorary role of sub-protector was transferred to a priest at the mission station. Although the European presence in the islands was of crucial importance for visitors, indigenous agency should not be underrated. Some islanders acted as stranger-handlers. They specialized in guiding European visitors (Hart 1954). The latter were given demonstrations of the making and painting of, among other things, bark baskets, spears and grave posts. And they could hardly miss seeing dances and ceremonies. Even near the mission station performances of ‘pagan’ ceremonies were staged for parties of European tourists. Sometimes such an almost inpromptu ceremony ‘was not well done’ in the opinion of the Islanders.6 The visitors often happened to be too short of time for a properly prepared ‘corroboree’. ‘The advent of the due date was accelerated by a liberal distribution of tobacco’, notes a member of a party of nine Europeans visiting the mission station in 1920 (Murphy 1920: 79). It had become standard practice for Europeans to hand out tobacco and trade goods to Aborigines as an incentive (Basedow 1926: 100). These visitors often relied upon information from earlier visitors. They behaved in a predictable way, revisiting the same places (e.g., burial sites with the prized grave posts, waterholes, the remains of the British fort). Those in the business of showing Europeans around would also direct them to the camps of close relatives. Moreover, along established routes Aborigines approached or pointed the way. Important in this respect was the area around Papiau beach, in the northeast of Bathurst Island, at the Apsley Strait. Boats that went up the Apsley Strait had to wait for the tide to turn between Papiau, on Bathurst, and Fort Dundas, on Melville Island. During the stop-over Bathurst Islanders approached by canoe, taking the opportunity to trade their artefacts with European passengers.7 Willing visitors were also led to an indigenous camp a little inland. Here they were shown, among other things, the production of bark baskets and aspects of ceremonial life. Conigrave writes that at the Papiau camp a number of ‘freshly painted’ spears stood ready: ‘These, and many baskets and other objects of native arts and crafts, we took in barter, and we soon had a full cargo for the dinghy’ (1936: 169). Furthermore, it appeared that the Islanders were used to posing for photographs, even in the anthropometric style so popular with museums (cf. Venbrux and Jones 2002). Hence there was the perception of a ‘photographic salon’: ‘our subjects very quickly seized our anxiety to take them full face and profile. If when the former had been taken, a native was slow in turning for his other portrait, he

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was given some “hurry-up” by those looking on, and when the focal plane shutter went off with a snap, there was satisfied clicking of tongues against their cheeks that seemed to assure us that we had done our job well’ (Conigrave 1936: 170). The site had the double function of production centre and tourist trap. The Aboriginal reserve or living museum, if it may be called so, thus was less ‘uncontaminated by European influence’ than often supposed. The source community underwent dramatic changes in many respects (see Pye 1985; Venbrux 2000b), but despite the impact of external forces attention focused on those areas that were thought to represent ‘traditional’ (read: precontact) Aboriginal society, frozen in time. These were set apart, lifted out of context, as is characteristic of museumification. European visitors and museums wanted the tokens of ‘real’ or ‘authentic’ Aborigines. European representations of the Islanders (in museum collections, earlier accounts and popular culture) fed back into local cultural production. Time and again, while adjustments had to be made to economic and sociocultural change, emphasis was put – as regards hunting and gathering, ceremonies, and artefacts – on the past. The understandings of that past shifted in a process of negotiation between indigenous people’s current ideas about the past (palingari) and consumer expectations over time. ‘Being ourselves for you’, as Stanley (1995) notes in his book of the same title, can be read in two directions. The encounters contributed to a mutual process of identity formation. In need of a tribal name for the Bathurst and Melville Islanders anthropologist C.W.M. Hart coined the word Tiwi (meaning ‘human beings’; Hart 1930). The Islanders themselves gradually accepted the designation Tiwi as an expression of their communal identity. Besides dance and ceremony, distinctive artefacts and a characteristic painting style came to be seen as icons of Tiwi-ness. The massive production of ‘authentic’ objects from the beginning of the twentieth century, kept in European museums, slowed down somewhat in the period between the two world wars. Yet, European visitors to the islands (and Darwin, where the islanders sometimes performed for Europeans and traded in artefacts) still wanted look-a-likes of these emblematic museum artefacts as mementoes. In time these would also end up in museums. To satisfy demand Islanders continued to produce the bark containers long after they had fallen into disuse. The large barbed spears that had proven to be ineffective against highpowered rifles at the time of ‘pacification’ (Powell 1988: 124) remained collectors’ items. The same was true for grave posts, often repainted by the islanders for European customers (Venbrux 2001). The cultural heritage presented was mainly so-called decorative art. Even previously undecorated bark containers were painted (see Venbrux 2002). Instead of the spear being three to four metres in length, and therefore difficult to transport elsewhere, the Islanders started to produce barbed spearheads. Members of the allied armed forces who resided in the islands during the Second World War acquired many of these transformed objects (some have now been repatriated to the Milewurri Museum in Milikapiti on Melville Island). In the next few decades islander carvers further transformed them into fantasy pieces (with exaggerated proportions and ornaments) for

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European visitors looking for ‘primitive’ art. These objects too ended up in private collections and museums, and came to be seen as timeless and authentic. ‘It is a marvel that their culture has survived with so little change’, remarks Mountford with regard to the year 1954 (1956: 417). At that time, however, the majority of the islanders lived at the Bathurst Island mission and on the two government settlements, Garden Point and Snake Bay, on Melville Island (formally an Aboriginal reserve since 1933). Goverment policy towards Aborigines had changed from ‘protection’ to assimilation. In 1953 a bill had been passed that made Aborigines on reserves ‘wards of the state’, in effect, inmates of a total institution (Rowley 1972). Placed under close supervision of European superintendents, they were supposed to adopt a European lifestyle and work ethic. Despite ‘a complete ecclesiastical ban’ on indigenous ceremonies at the Bathurst Island mission (Mountford 1958: 60), the missionaries encouraged the production of artefacts (along with other handicrafts) for sale (Venbrux 2000a). Mountford on Melville Island gave a new turn to the idea of local, ‘traditional’ Aboriginal society. He did so not only by promoting a novel form of bark paintings (derived from the bark containers), but also by instigating mythological themes as the subject matter for the works. Although he had been unable to detect such themes in either islander designs or ceremony (see Mountford 1958: 110, 160), the new emphasis on myths of creation times demonstrated in European perception that the islanders were ‘genuine’ Aborigines. The Islanders responded creatively to the European desire for Dreamtime stories which were known from exhibitions and publications of Arnhem Land bark paintings. Adding to the mystique were figurative carvings of ‘mythical ancestors’, another innovation (emerging from the tradition of carving grave posts, and probably inspired by the statues of Catholic saints). This striking art attracted many visitors from the 1950s to the 1970s, wanting to see the islanders and getting work and stories from them. Because visitors needed permission of the responsible government department in order to enter the islands, white superintendents on both islands acted as intermediaries. Dances and ceremonies continued to be performed for European tourists. The shift towards mythological interpretations in museum representations of Aborigines had a clear impact on the source community. The entanglement was to be even greater because the formidable collection of innovative work made and inspired by Mountford was disseminated to state museums, supposedly representing the source community’s tradition in its most authentic form. It was indeed becoming a tradition in its own right: repeatedly – in the 1960s, the 1980s, and around 2000 – Europeans engaged in the local arts and crafts industry referred islanders to (illustrations of ) the bark paintings with mythological themes from 1954 as the example of proper traditional art. In recent years, a number of islanders were sent to view them in museum stores in order to reclaim ‘traditional Tiwi imagery’ (Burbidge 2000: 17). There have been frequent exhibitions of carvings and paintings with a mythological story assembled by notable collectors (such as Dorothy Bennett, Karel Kupka, Louis A. Allen, Helen Groger-Wurms and Sandra

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Holmes) in the period from the mid-1950s to the mid-1970s. These works long dominated the representation of Bathurst and Melville Islanders in the Northern Territory Art Gallery and Museum in Darwin: ‘the museum effect’ (KirshenblattGimblett 1991: 410–413) has left an imprint on tourists to the islands. A reflection of the museumification of islander culture in the postwar era can also be seen in the appearance of ceremonial scenes and artefacts as subjects of paintings on bark and in the carving of sets of miniature grave posts. The implementation of the policy of assimilation made inroads on the islander lifeworld (cf. Department of the Territories 1963). In the face of modernization it was believed that certain ceremonies were ‘no longer valued’ by the islanders themselves (Goodale 1971: 225). They would inevitably cease to exist (Mountford 1958). It could no longer be taken for granted that the mortuary rituals, forbidden by the missionaries, were still being carried out (Brandl 1971). A European visitor could not help observing the sociocultural change ‘without feeling the breath of a dying culture on the back of your neck’ (Simpson 1954: 162). Another visitor, cartoonist Eric Joliffe, was of opinion that ‘Melville Island bark paintings would shortly affect Western-style industrial design’: ‘The patterns are all original, which is what designers are looking for. They show no trace of influence by any other culture’ (The Northern Territory Times, 12 August 1954). Other artistically inclined visitors, in 1958, commissioned new grave posts, rather than a repainting of discarded ceremonial ones. Islanders carved and painted the posts in front of cameras, as it was an event in itself, to be carefully documented for a museum (see Neale 2000: 82–87). This set of posts was the first Aboriginal work put on display, in 1959, in ‘a major art institution’ (The Art Gallery of New South Wales in Sydney, Jones 1988: 175). Although the posts had long been prominent in ethnographic collections from Melbourne to the Vatican, this new production of course increased the desirability of this icon for museums and for visitors to the islands of viewing the ‘real’ thing at burial sites or in ceremonies. In the 1960s Aborigines gradually acquired civil rights. In 1977 a bill was passed to grant land rights to Aborigines on reserves in the Northern Territory. Government policy towards Aborigines gradually changed from assimilation to self-determination or self-management. To secure decision-making power over their lands, the people from Bathurst and Melville Islands created their own land council in 1978. The Tiwi Land Council, formed by delegates of the islands’ ‘traditional owners,’, administers the Tiwi Land Trust. With the decline in supervision of their daily lives, the right to social security benefits, and the regaining of their lands, Aboriginal societies in northern Australia underwent a cultural renaissance. The cultural revival in Bathurst and Melville Islands was, I think, initiated by the performance of two old-style ceremonies or postfuneral rituals in the 1970s. These were recorded on film at the explicit request of the close relatives of the deceased. In this respect the record differed from Baldwin Spencer’s filming of these ceremonies in 1912: the people concerned wanted to have it as a document of their culture. But they also took pride in the registrations being released as

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ethnographic films. That the rituals no longer needed to be hidden from the missionaries also meant that a wider participation was possible. This celebration of culture was further emphasized in the fact that the Tiwi Land Council welcomed anthropologists to document the reflourishing ceremonial life (cf. Grau 1983; Goodale 1988; Venbrux 1995). Sometimes such an anthropologist would hear islanders claim in theirs lyrics that they were ‘important’, because white people came to see (or listen) to them. The elderly, who had obtained the skills and knowledge, led the ceremonies; in areas of uncertainty they often referred to ‘the old people’ from the past to convince others that things had to be done in a certain way.8 Apart from burials, the other main ceremonies were held at weekends to fit in with a Westernized lifestyle. An objectification of culture took place in the so-called ‘culture classes’ in primary schools. At times, older people were invited to tell the children ‘traditional’ stories, to teach them Tiwi songs, and to instruct them in bush crafts and the performance of ‘traditional’ dances, and to demonstrate the making of artefacts. ‘Tiwi culture’ was embraced in manifold ways at the Bathurst Island mission: in bilingual education, the decoration of the church interior and mission premises with Tiwi designs, hymns in Tiwi and sometimes the adding of ‘traditional’ dances to the liturgy, integrating Mass with islander funeral dance and song ceremonies, and even allowing grave posts (previously rejected as ‘a pagan symbol’, see Fallon 1991: 13) to be erected at the Catholic cemetery. Clerical vestments and chalices were produced in ‘Tiwi style’ by the local arts and crafts industry, started up by the missionaries in the late 1960s. Under the guidance of European ‘arts advisers’ this industry would further develop; also on Melville Island, drawing on the Tiwi picturial tradition and ceremonial life and objects of the past. Locally printed fabrics with a Tiwi Design trademark came into use as loin cloths and skirts and as payments for ritual services in mortuary rites, as well as being sold to tourists. From 1980 onwards, the people from Bathurst and Melville Islands have been involved in the development of a local tourist industry. It was one of the first ventures considered to provide economic support for ‘Tiwi national development’ (Tiwi Land Council 1990: 5). Over the years Tiwi Tours has contributed greatly to the museumification of the Islander life-world. It has been run mostly by European managers or operators in joint venture. It focuses on cultural and ecotourism (see Venbrux 2000a). The idea of an open-air museum is strongly suggested by the promotional pamphlet. Here the itinerary and highlights on the map show what is on offer. Inevitably, visits are suggested to burial sites with grave posts and to the remains of Fort Dundas, with a swim in a scenic waterhole, demonstrations of the production of artefacts, dance and ceremony, and the purchase arts and crafts. Some islanders specialize in guiding the European visitors. The camps that were production centres have been replaced by workshops and art centres. Tourists arrive by plane, and are moved around in the islands in motor vehicles and motorized boats. The former church of the Bathurst Island mission, a wooden construction, has become part of the cultural heritage on display.

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Nearby the story of the mission is told in a museum. The ‘picturesque’ towards the end of the twentieth century gained a new meaning with the ubiquitous paintings in Tiwi style in contact zones. This aestheticizing with the help of murals sends the same message as the freshly painted spears that stood ready for European visitors at Papiau camp in 1914. Tiwi fine art is now purchased in large quantities by all the major museums in Australia and several others overseas. It is through this continuous history of collection that indigenous people have been involved in an evolving museumscape over a period of a hundred years. The source community, in effect, has continued to exist as a living museum.

Museum Constructions In the late twentieth century the people of Melville and Bathurst Islands have themselves adopted strategies of salvage ethnography such as recording oral histories and knowledge relating to practices, ceremonies, plant and flora (Puruntatameri et al. 2001). They have also collected traditional artefacts in museums, with a view to retaining their culture. Broadcasts on the islands’ closed-circuit television system serve the same purpose. In the 1990s the Tiwi Land Council, fearing a loss of culture, decided to start paying people for the performance of ‘traditional’ ceremonies, including mortuary rites. A long-term dream of a Tiwi Cultural Centre at Three-Ways (on Melville Island), where the roads to the three major townships meet, has not yet materialized. The maquette has become a museum piece in the offices. It may eventually happen under the new Tiwi Islands Regional Government. But here, as in other source communities such as the Torres Strait Islands (see Herle, this volume), there are more urgent matters and problems first to be taken care of (e.g., keeping the Australian government to its promises to fund badly needed health programmes). Yet, two local museums, one on Bathurst Island, the other on Melville, already exist. The Patakijyali Museum at Nguiu (Bathurst Island) was started by Sister Ann Gardner of the Bathurst Island Mission in corrugated iron sheds on the mission grounds dating from the Second World War. The buildings had previously been used as a bakery and dining rooms for children staying at the mission. The museum initially consisted of a collection of artefacts, donated by local people, especially the late Raphael and Declan Apuatimi, who had a close association with the mission. The museum was ventilated by fans, but there was no airconditioning. From the 1980s onwards, the museum has become a small-scale attraction to tourists visiting the islands. In the early 1990s, the exhibition rooms were professionally upgraded under the guidance of curator Glenn Cole from the Department of Regional Museums of Northern Territory Museum of Arts and Sciences in Darwin. The museum is named after the founder of the Roman Catholic mission, Father Gsell (Patakijyali).

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Currently, the museum contains three galleries, which have a similarity in style to the ones at the museum in Darwin. The first room celebrates the history of the mission. Next is the gallery known as Arraliki or the Tiwi Culture Room. Here ‘traditional’ artefacts, historical photographs and explications about the habitat of the mangrove swamps and hunting and gathering are on display. Finally, one enters Apupwamkiyimi or the Tiwi Dreaming Room, which connects creation myths with the yam ritual, mortuary rituals and the production of bark baskets (cf. Tungatalum and Cole 1996). Photographs, texts and objects illuminate the making of the bark containers. An arrangement of standing grave posts relates to the mortuary rituals. In the middle of the room a miniature diorama shows the scene of the performance of a seasonal ritual in progress. Photographs and accompanying texts provide some explanation. The last two galleries about the traditional way of life and the ‘Dreaming’ (ritual and cosmology) stand in stark contrast to the first gallery, which is dedicated to technological achievement and development accomplished by the mission. In order not to upset local Aboriginal visitors, pieces of paper are temporarily pasted over the tabooed photographs of the recently deceased. The Muluwurri Museum at Milikapiti on Melville Island was founded at the end of the 1980s. Anne Marchant, then an adult educator, took the initiative. The air-conditioned, one-room museum or gallery is part of a larger complex of buildings containing the Jilamara arts and crafts centre. According to Marchant, the museum in the newly built complex had several functions: preserving a selection of locally produced artefacts or art, stimulating Tiwi artists, attracting tourists and serving as a community museum of culture and history (personal communication). Again, assistance was provided by the Northern Territory Museum of Arts and Sciences in Darwin through the government-funded Regional Museums Programme for the establishment of Cultural Keeping Places. The upgrading of the museums has also served to improve ‘the tourist infrastructure’ (Cole 1996: 19–20). On display are artefacts such as a set of grave posts, spears, clubs and throwing sticks, carvings of birds and human figures, and bark containers. Photographs depict islanders performing mortuary rituals. A small case shows some of the medals Tiwi men received for their services in the Second World War. From that period there are also repatriated spearheads hung on the wall. Artists Pedro Woneaemirri and John Wilson proudly led me to their museum, in 1998, to show me some of their sculptural work in progress. Wilson, Woneaemirri and others, at times, used to paint inside the museum as a comfortable place to be. Unlike the other art centres in the islands, the people at Milikapiti only use ‘natural pigments’ for paint. Their work is in demand as, for instance, a significant order from a dealer in Amsterdam attested. Wilson produced a photocopy from a catalogue with works made at Milikapiti in the 1960s and 1970s. A female collector from Queensland had commissioned him to create a grave post containing carved human figures, similar to the one on the photocopy he received. Woneaemirri expressed a strong interest in my records of a seasonal ritual he attended as a child with his late grandmother at Pirlangimpi

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almost a decade ago (cf. Venbrux 1995: 119–49). He felt empty, he said, because so many of the older generation had died there. His interest in recent history took on a personal meaning. The photographs in the museum speak about relatives and events; like artefacts, they embody a history of social relations and distinctive, personal identities. The primary purpose of the museum attached to the art centre, as on Bathurst Island, is a display of Tiwi culture for visitors. These museums are part of the cultural-tourism infrastructure. So also are the art centres which serve as outlets for arts and crafts. The art centres are integrated into special art tours by plane. Tourists come to see indigenous artists at work in situ. Framing the visitors’ gaze not only contributes to ‘the museum effect’, as a ‘genuine’ museum with objects not for sale, but it also seems to increase the desirability for things that are apparently special and rare. In 2002, an art centre at Pirlangimpi (Melville Island) was also planning to start a museum. This was to be something different to the art and artefacts for sale on display in a special room. The Keeping Place at Nguiu (Bathurst Island), however, seems to have the magic and secrecy of museum.9 It is a striking building, the interior decorated with Tiwi paintings, hidden somewhat between the airstrip and the community. Here tourists could freely look around among the artefacts on display for sale. A selection of these products went to museums, either directly or indirectly. Museum interests have helped to shape the islands’ destination culture. Bathurst and Melville Islands have been a locus of musealization ever since the era of sustained contact with Europeans commenced in 1905. It was in this initial phase that a pattern of interaction emerged which may be considered a cultural form in its own right. The source community from which artefacts were (and are) withdrawn gained the outlook of a living museum. It is as such a site of dialogue that can be seen as part of a global museumscape.10 Had Baldwin Spencer, who ‘had always wanted to see Melville Island’ (1928: 641), visited the islands at the end of the twentieth century, he would have seen ‘quite another world of aboriginal life’ (1928: 695). Currently, a life-sized statue of Spencer is sitting in a glass box in the Melbourne Museum. He is surrounded by artefacts from Bathurst and Melville Islands, dating from 1911–1912. Islanders have come to visit. The exhibit invites viewers to reflect on the terms of understanding, in the past and the present.

Notes 1. 2.

Geologists sent by the South Australian government briefly explored Melville Island for mineral resources in 1877 and 1905 (Brown 1906; Gee 1907). The government’s newly introduced White Australia policy allowed heavy taxes to be demanded from Asian competitors in the marine industries. The white men sometimes kidnapped Aborigines, especially from the Cobourg Peninsula, to use them as a labour force. Aboriginal violence was answered with punitive squads (Reid 1990). Mulvaney and Calaby suggest that these so-called ‘dispersals’ took place on Melville Island (1985: 271).

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3.

See, among others, Pilling (1958), Mulvaney and Calaby (1985), Morris (2001) and Venbrux (1995, 2001). 4. See Klaatsch (1907, 1908), The Northern Territory Times and Gazette, 5 October 1905 and 30 November 1905, and Völger (1986). 5. It must be noted that in the Aboriginal domain also a commoditization of things took place within the context of these rituals. 6. H.K. Fry, Fieldnotes, entry 17 April 1913. Anthropology Archives, South Australian Museum, Adelaide. 7. See, for instance, Klaatsch (1908: 591), Spencer (1914: 398), Conigrave (1936: 167–70) and Fry (1950). 8. Unlike in the mortuary rituals (pukamani), participation in the seasonal rituals (kulama) remained limited to a small, select group of mainly elderly people. Nevertheless the annual performance was upheld by almost everybody as of utmost importance for the continuity of Tiwi culture. 9. ‘The term “keeping place” emphasises the part the centres play in retaining Aboriginal culture and maintaining Aboriginal values’ (Howie-Willis 1994: 541). 10. The artefacts ended in museums in Cologne, Warshaw, Adelaide, Melbourne, Oxford, the Vatican, Leyden, Canberra, Philadelphia, Paris, Basle, Perth and Dresden. It must be noted that, as Anderson puts it, ‘Museum activity in general is not really any longer primarily about collections. Rather, museums are now more about the meanings people attribute to objects and collections, and the interactions between people and objects, past and present’ (1999: 94–95).

References Anderson, C. 1999. ‘Old Galleries, New People’ in Art and Performance in Oceania B. Craig., B. Kernot and C. Anderson (eds.). Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 94–103. Basedow, H. 1913. ‘Notes on the Natives of Bathurst Island, North Australia’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 43, 291–323. ——— 1926. ‘How Should the Visiting Scientist Approach the Primitive Australian Aboriginal?’ in Practical Hints to Scientific Travellers,. H.A. Brouwer.(ed.). The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 4, 96–103. Bogatyrev, P. and R. Jakobson. 1929. ‘Die Folklore als eine besondere Form des Schaffens’ in Donum Natalicium Schrijnen. Nijmegen: Dekker & Van de Vegt, 900–913. Brandl, M.M. 1971. ‘Pukumani: the Social Context of Bereavement in a North Australian Aboriginal Tribe’, Ph.D. thesis. University of Western Australia, Perth. Brown, Y.H.L. 1906. ‘Northern Territory of South Australia, Northwestern District. Reports (Geological and General) Resulting from the Explorations Made by the Govenment Geologist and Staff During 1905’. Adelaide: C.E. Bristow. Burbidge, M. 2000. ‘Task of the Tiwi: Reclaiming Traditional Heritage’ Arts Yarn Up, 9, 16–17. Campbell, J. 1834. ‘Geographical Memoir of Melville Island and Port Essington on the Cobourg Peninsula, North Australia; with Some Observations on the Settlements which have been Established on the North Coast of New Holland’, Journal of the Royal Geographical Society 4, 129–81. Cole, G. 1996. ‘The Regional Museums Programme of the NT Museum of Arts and Sciences’, COMA: Bulletin of the Conference of Museum Anthropologists 28, 18–20.

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Conigrave, C.P. 1936. North Australia. London: Jonathan Cape. De Jong, A. 2001. De dirigenten van de herinnering. Musealisering en nationalisering van de volkscultuur in Nederland, 1815–1940. Nijmegen: SUN. Department of the Territories. 1963 [1958]. Progress Towards Assimilation: Aboriginal Welfare in the Northern Territory. Canberra: Department of the Territories, Commonwealth of Australia. Fabian, J. 2001. Curios and Curiosity. Anthropology with an Attitude: Critical Essays. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 118–39. Fallon, J. 1991. ‘The Good Old Days’, Nelen Yubu 48, 12–16. Foelsche, P. 1882. ‘Notes on the Aborigines of North Australia’, Transactions and Proceedings and Report of the Royal Society of South Australia vol. 5, 1–18. Frazer, J.G. 1912. ‘Anthropological Research in Northern Australia’, Man 12, 72–73. Fry, H.K. 1949. ‘A Bathurst Island Mourning Rite’, Mankind 4, 79–80. ——— 1950. ‘A Bathurst Island Initiation Rite’, Mankind 4, 167–68. Gee, L.C.E. 1907.‘Notes on a Cruise Round Melville and Bathurst Islands’, Australasian Association for the Advancement of Science, Report 11, 539–47. Goodale, J.C. 1971. Tiwi Wives: a Study of the Women of Melville Island, North Australia. Seattle: University of Washington Press. ——— 1988. ‘The Tiwi Revisited: 1954–1987’. in The Tiwi of North Australia C.W.M. Hart, A.R. Pilling and J.C. Goodale. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 127–45. Grau, A. 1983. ‘Dreaming, Dancing, Kinship: the Study of Yoi, the Dance of the Tiwi of Melville and Bathurst Islands, North Australia’, Ph.D. thesis. The Queen’s University, Belfast. Gsell, F.X. 1956. The Bishop with 150 Wives: Fifty Years as a Missionary. Sydney: Angus and Robertson. Hart, C.W.M.1930.‘The Tiwi of Melville and Bathurst Islands’, Oceania 1, 167–80. ——— 1954. ‘The Sons of Turimpi’, American Anthropologist 56, 242–61. Herbert, C.E. 1906. Government Resident’s Report on the Northern Territory, 1905. Adelaide, South Australia: Northern Territory Administration. Hiatt, L.R. 1996. Arguments About Aborigines. Australia and the Evolution of Anthropology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hill, E.1943. The Great Australian Loneliness. Melbourne: Robertson and Mullens. Hingston, J.P. 1938. ‘Exploration of Melville Island [1877]’, Royal Australian Historical Society Journal and Proceedings 24, 157–63. Howie-Willis, I. 1994. ‘Keeping Places’ in The Encyclopeadia of Aboriginal Australia,. D. Horton. (ed.). Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 540–41. James, B. No Man’s Land: Women of the Northern Territory. Collins, Sydney, 1989. Jones, P. 1988. ‘Perception of Aboriginal Art: a History’ in Dreamings: the Art of Aboriginal Australia. P. Sutton (ed.). New York: Viking/Asia Society Galleries, 143–79. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B. 1991. ‘Objects of Ethnography’ in Exhibiting Cultures: the Poetics and Politics of Museum Display, I. Karp and S.D. Lavine. (eds.). Washington, D.C: Smithsonian Institution Press, 386–443. ——— 1998. Destination Culture: Tourism, Museums, and Heritage, Berkeley: University of California Press. Klaatsch, H. ‘Schlüssbericht über meine Reise nach Australien in den Jahren 1904–1907’, Zeitschrift für Ethnologie vol. 39 (1907): 635–90. ——— 1907. ‘Some Notes on Scientific Travel Amongst the Black Population of Tropical Australia in 1904, 1905, 1906’ in Report of the Eleventh Meeting of the Australasian

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Association for the Advancement of Science, held at Adelaide, 1907. W. Howchin (ed.). Adelaide: Australasian Association for the Advancement of Science, 557–92 + plates. Kuper, A. 1988. The Invention of Primitive Society: Transformations of an Illusion. London: Routledge. Masson, E.R. 1915. An Untamed Territory: The Northern Territory of Australia. London: Macmillan. Merlan, F. 1998. Caging the Rainbow: Places, Politics, and Aborigines in a North Australian Town. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Morphy, H. ‘The Original Australians and the Evolution of Anthropology’ in Australia in Oxford eds. H. Morphy and E. Edwards. Pitt Rivers Museum, University of Oxford, Oxford, 1988: 48–61. Morris, J. 2001. The Tiwi: Fro Isolation to Cultural Change. Darwin: NTU Press. Mountford, C.P. 1956. ‘Expedition to the Land of the Tiwi’. The National Geographic Magazine, 59(3), 417–40. ——— 1958. The Tiwi: their Art, Myth and Ceremony. London: Phoenix House. Mulvaney, D.J. and J.H. Calaby. 1985. ‘So Much that is New’. Baldwin Spencer 1860–1929: A Biography. Carlton: Melbourne University Press. Murphy, J.F. 1920. ‘Bathurst Island: A Mission Station for the Aborigines’, Australia (March ), 77–80. Myers, F.R. 2002. Painting Culture: The Making of an Aboriginal High Art. Durham: Duke University Press. Neale, M. 2000. Yiribana: An Introduction to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Collection. Sydney: The Art Gallery of New South Wales. Northern Territory News. 1954. ‘Island Art May Prompt New Designs’, The Northern Territory News, August 14. Peers, L. and A.K. Brown. (eds.). 2003. Museums and Source Communities. London: Routledge. Peterson, N. 1993. ‘Demand Sharing: Reciprocity and the Pressure for Generosity among Foragers’, American Anthropologist 95, 860–74. Pilling, A.R. 1958. ‘Law and Feud in an Aboriginal Society of North Australia’, Ph.D. thesis. University of California, Berkeley. Pine, B.J. and J.H. Gilmore. 1999. The Experience Economy. Boston: Harvard Business School Press. Povinelli, E.A. 1993. Labor’s Lot: The Power, History, and Culture of Aboriginal Action. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Powell, A. 1988. Far Country: A Short History of the Northern Territory. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Puruntatameri, J. et al. 2001. Tiwi Plants and Animals: Aboriginal Flora and Knowledge From Bathurst and Melville Islands, Northern Australia. Darwin: Parks and Wildlife Comission of the Nothern Territories. Pye, J. 1985. The Tiwi Islands. Darwin: Coleman’s/Catholic Headquarters. Reid, G. 1990. A Picnic With the Natives: Aboriginal-European Relations in the Northern Territory to 1910. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Rooijakkers, G. and R. van de Weijer. 2002. ‘“Ze komen mij bezichtigen”: de musealisering van het platteland’ in De musealisering van het platteland. De historie van een Brabants boerenhuis G. Rooijakkers, A. van Lierop and R. van de Weijer. (eds.) Nijmegen: SUN, 9–33. Rowley, C.D. The Destruction of Aboriginal Society. Penguin Books, Ringwood, Victoria, 1972. Simpson, C. 1954. Adam in Ochre: Inside Aboriginal Australia. Sydney: Angus and Robertson.

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Simpson, M. 1996. Making Representations: Museums in the Post-Colonial Era. London: Routledge. Sowden, W.J. 1882. The Northern Territory as It Is: A Narrative of the South Australian Parliamentary Party’s Trip, and Full Descriptions of the Northern Territory; Its Settlements and Industries. [Reprint by the History Unit of the University Planning Authority, Darwin, n.d.] Adelaide: W.K. Thomas. Spencer, B.W. 1914. Native Tribes of the Northern Territory of Australia. London: Macmillan. ——— 1922. Guide to the Australian Ethnological Collection Exhibited in the National Museum of Victoria. Melbourne: Albert J. Mullet, Government Printer. ——— 1928. Wanderings in Wild Australia. vol. 2. London: Macmillan. Stanley, N. 1998. Being Ourselves For You: The Global Display of Cultures. London: Middlesex University Press. Stocking, G.W. 1983. ‘Essays on Museums and Material Culture’ in Objects and Others: Essays on Museums and Material Culture. G.W. Stocking (ed.). The Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 3–14. Stoklund, B. 2003. ‘Between Scenography and Science: Early Folk Museums and their Pioneers’, Ethnologia Europaea vol. 33(1), 21–36. Tiwi Land Council. 1990. Eleventh Annual Report 1 989/90. Darwin: Tiwi Land Council, n.p. Trainor, L. 1994. British Imperialism and Australian Nationalism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tungatalum, N. and G. Cole. 1996. ‘Patakijiyali Museum’, COMA: Bulletin of the Conference of Museum Anthropologists 28, 18. Venbrux, E. 1995. A Death in the Tiwi Islands. Conflict, Ritual and Social Life in an Australian Aboriginal Community. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ——— 2000a. ‘Tales of Tiwiness: Tourism and Self-Determination in an Australian Aboriginal Society’, Pacific Tourism Review 4(2/3), 137–47. ——— 2000b. ‘Cross with the Totem Pole: Tiwi Material Culture in Missionary Practice and Discourse’ in Anthropology and the Missionary Endeavour: Experiences and Reflections. A. Borsboom and J. Kommers (eds.) Saarbrücken: Verlag für Entwicklungspolitik, 59–80. ——— 2001. ‘On the Pre-Museum History of Baldwin Spencer’s Collection of Tiwi Artefacts’ in Academic Anthropology and the Museum: Back to the Future? M. Bouquet (ed.). Oxford: Berghahn, 54–70. ——— 2002. ‘The Craft of the Spider Woman: A History of Bark Baskets in the Tiwi Islands’ in Pacific Art: Persistence, Change and Meaning. A. Herle, N. Stanley, K. Stevenson and R.L. Welsch (eds.). Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 324–36. Venbrux, E. and P. Jones. 2002. ‘“Prachtaufnahmen”: Police Inspector Paul Foelsche’s Anthropometric Photographs of Aborigines from Northern Australia,1879’ in De bril van Anceaux/Anceaux’s Glasses: Anthropological photography since 1860 L. Roodenburg (ed.). Zwolle: Waanders/Leiden: Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde, 116–27. Völger, G. 1986. ‘“Die Wissenschaft lebt nicht nur von die Luft” Bemerkungen zur Australiensammlung des Rautenstrauch-Joest-Museums’, Wallraf-Richartz-Jahrbuch 47, 247–60.

Part III New Guinea

8 The Papua New Guinea National Museum and Art Gallery as a Modern Haus Tumbuna Sebastian Haraha In most developing countries the role of traditional art has changed since independence, and it is no different in Papua New Guinea (PNG). The PNG National Museum and Art Gallery was an independence gift from the Australian government, built next to the Parliament building in Waigani, one of the new suburbs of Port Moresby, our national capital. For more than fifteen years I have worked in the Department of Anthropology of the National Museum and Art Gallery as a senior technical officer. I have also been fortunate to have visited a number of large and important museums, such as the Australian Museum in Sydney, the Field Museum in Chicago, the American Museum of Natural History and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, the National Museum of Natural History in Washington, and the Bishop Museum in Honolulu. All of these are impressive institutions with large collections from Papua New Guinea, but none of them has as many PNG objects as the National Museum in Port Moresby. When I saw all of these important museums it was clear to me that they serve a very different role for their home countries than the National Museum serves for PNG. In this essay I consider some of the different functions our museum is starting to serve, as a Haus Tumbuna or house of the ancestors for people in my country. To understand these functions I focus my discussion on objects from the Gulf Province, which is my home province in the Papuan Gulf. I consider how objects and the museum itself are changing their meanings and the role these objects are playing in PNG today.

A Modern Haus Tumbuna One morning in mid-1996, a young man from Hururu village in the Orokolo area appeared at the museum. Hururu is less than twenty minutes’ walk from my

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home village of Iuku and about half-an-hour’s walk from the former National Museum Director Soroi Marepo Eoe’s village of Harevavo. All three of us are from the Orokolo area in Ihu District. We all speak the same language (Orokolo) and have the same traditions. The young man told me that he had two objects in the village that he wanted to sell to the museum. I told him that he could bring them to the museum whenever he was able. Several weeks later, he returned with a flat, wooden figure and a small forked stick. He told me the following about them. Both objects belonged to his great-great-grandfather. They had passed from father to son until they came to his father. When his father was dying the father gave it to his brother (this man’s uncle) as this young man was only a toddler. While the young boy was growing up, the uncle died and his wife put the objects away for safe keeping. The wife had looked after them until she felt this young man was old enough to possess them, as such objects ordinarily should not be seen or handled by women or children, or even by young men until they are about thirty years old. When the child had grown into a man, the uncle’s wife gave the objects to the young man, but she told him nothing about them. For much of the time that she had been keeping these objects, the wife was often ill and felt she might die. She did die about a year later. The figure is thought to be Kivovia, the mythical hero of the Kaia (sky) clan. The forked stick was the stick used in mythical times to lift the sky up to the position it now has high up in the sky. This man knows very little about either object but his uncle’s wife did tell him that they were very powerful and had to be looked after properly. But the young man had little knowledge about how one ought to care for them in the traditional way. For this reason, he believed that his family was being cursed by the spirits of the two objects and this was why the family was becoming ill all the time. The most common sickness was scabies, a condition customarily believed to be caused by spirits. After three years, and fearing an even worse illness, he approached the museum wanting to sell the two objects. I was happy to acquire the objects for the National Museum and explained to him the role of the museum as a custodian and the function the museum now has, which resembles the role that the elavo (men’s ceremonial house) had in the past (Eoe: 1991). The museum purchased both objects and they are now safely stored in the museum’s collection. In the years since then, the young man has come to the museum twice to check on his objects; he just wanted to see that they were alright. This young man’s strong belief in the spiritual or magical power of these two objects demonstrates his strong feelings about them. This connection between objects and spirits or spiritual power is still very much alive even though nearly all of the ceremonial and magical objects of the Orokolo area have been destroyed. For this man, the museum was the best place to store these objects because today the National Museum has become a haus tumbuna, a storehouse for old things from Papua New Guinea’s traditional cultures. It has become a place that can safely look after these powerful and even dangerous things from our region’s old cultures.

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The National Museum’s Collection from the Papuan Gulf The Papua New Guinea National Museum and Art Gallery holds more than 50,000 ethnographic objects in its collections. Of these, roughly a thousand objects are from the Papuan Gulf. The National Museum’s collection has surprisingly few objects from such an important and prominent art-producing region, one that should rival the much better represented Sepik River area. The collection contains a significant number of carved and painted boards and shields. With more than 200 objects in this group, it is the largest collection of boards and shields in any museum. It also holds a large number of figures and pillows. Yet, for me, the National Museum’s collection is a very incomplete one, with many gaps and few examples of good, early pieces that can tell the story of how art has changed and can give meaning to the more recent collections we do have. Not all areas of the Gulf are represented, and only a few parts are well represented. Most of our collection was put together fairly recently. It lacks the richness of some of the early collections in Sydney and Chicago. Some of our best material was obtained by museum-sponsored field trips or through enforcement of the National Cultural Property (Preservation) legislation. Most of our Papuan Gulf collection has very little documentation data and accession information. By the time the National Museum was formed in 1963, most of the important early pieces had already been acquired by museums around the world or was in the hands of private collectors. One of the most important parts of the collection was made by Ulli Beier and Albert Maori Kiki around 1967 from the Orokolo region, which was Kiki’s home area (see Beier and Kiki: 1970 and Kiki: 1968). In fact, several of the boards featured in Beier and Kiki’s book Hohao are in the PNG National Museum collection and two are exhibited in our masterpiece gallery. Although their book offers valuable information and other documentation about these pieces we know very few other details about these objects. Perhaps the largest part of the Gulf collection was assembled by Thomas Schultze-Westrum in the mid-1960s (see Schultze-Westrum: 1972). Although we sometimes know the names of the villages where Schultze-Westrum collected these objects, we have no other documentation about this collection. Schultze-Westrum claims to have left documentation about each piece at the museum (Welsch, personal communication, 2001), but I have not been able to locate these notes in our files. Two of the more than fifty boards he collected are on display in the museum’s masterpiece gallery. In addition, we have about 50 of Schultze-Westrum’s kakame figures from the western part of the Gulf. One other important part of the Papuan Gulf holdings is simultaneously both the oldest part and the newest part of our collection. This is the official collection made by Sir William MacGregor when he was Lieutenant Governor of British New Guinea from 1888 to 1898. While he was governor of Queensland, MacGregor placed his collection at the Queensland Museum with the understanding that it belonged to the people of Papua and should go back to them once there was a safe and secure home for it in Port Moresby. For the past decade

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Queensland Museum Curator Michael Quinnell and National Museum Director Soroi Eoe have worked to divide the collection into two parts, one part to be repatriated to the Papua New Guinea National Museum and the other, largely duplicates, to remain in the Queensland Museum. Most of the selected material from the Papuan Gulf has come back to PNG and is being integrated with our other collections. But, as Quinnell (2000) suggests, this collection is very uneven. Smaller collections of boards and other objects have been collected by James W. Rhoades during an expedition sponsored by the museum. Two museum staff members, Brian Egloff and Nathan Laa, also assembled a collection from the western part of the Gulf region, most of these smaller objects and ornaments. Several smaller collections were made separately by art dealers Rudi Caesar and Morris Young. While both of these collections contain a few boards and figures, they mostly consist of smaller objects and ornaments. An important collection was made by Soroi M. Eoe and Dirk Smidt, consisting mostly of ornaments, drums, nets, sago-making equipment, and other useful objects. Other smaller collections were made by Ivia Laura (from the Baimuru Council), T.A. Steen, A. Stokes, Sir Michael Somare, John Austing, and A.C. Jeffries. During my own field trip in 1991 I added eight boards and a few other pieces to the collection. Not long afterward Mark Busse and Nick Araho collected some material from Goaribari Island and the Kikori River villages during a research expedition for their book (Busse, Turner and Araho: 1993). Although I am from the Papuan Gulf and grew up there, most of what I know about the art and material culture of the region I learned since I began working at the National Museum. The most obvious way that I learned about the collection was as a senior technical officer responsible for managing one of the museum’s storerooms. It happens that my storeroom was the one that held nearly all of the Papuan Gulf boards, figures, shields, and skull racks. These object types, of course, are the ones that have made Papuan Gulf art famous for the past century or more, and since they were from my home area I took special a interest in them. I have long been particularly interested in the pieces from Orokolo, but not to the exclusion of other areas in the Gulf. In 1991 the museum paid for me to visit the western part of the Gulf, allowing me to spend two weeks in Baimuru, Urama Island, Goaribari Island and a few surrounding villages in the Kerewa area, and the villages and settlements around Kikori. During this field trip I was trying to find out what was happening with the production of art objects in the region. As a technical officer responsible for enforcing Papua New Guinea’s National Cultural Property Act, I needed to learn more about this area because many dealers were interested in the region’s art. So, I conducted a brief survey of art production in each of the villages I visited, taking photographs of some of the especially important pieces, talking with carvers, sleeping in the villages, and watching the carvers at work. Subsequently, many people from Gulf villages have visited the museum and I discuss some of their stories below. Although I still visit my own home village regularly, financial problems at the museum have kept me from conducting

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similar surveys in the intervening years. But in 2000 I was able to accompany Robert Welsch and Joshua Bell on their survey of more than thirty villages across the Gulf, from my village of Yuku in the east to Goaribari in the west. We went inland as far as Irimuku and Aird Hill on the Kikori river, Gibi and Meagoma on the Era river, Ipiko on the Purari, and Old Iare further to the east. Since then I have been back to the Purari several times to visit Bell or to travel with Welsch. But most of the insights I have about traditional objects comes from the old men that I have interviewed over more than a decade. And it is thanks to these men’s knowledge that I know the things I do know.

Trying to Preserve Traditional Knowledge From 1993 to 1995, the Anthropology Department of the museum engaged an old man from Meii village near Kerema town to help us in identifying some of our Gulf collection. The man’s name was Iopa Karave and at that time he had grey hair and was in his early sixties. He speaks the Tairuma language, which is related to Orokolo. He was a teenager during the Second War, but because he was too small he was not selected to be a carrier during the war. He told me that he was sent to the London Missionary Society boarding school in Orokolo when he was a teenager. Later, after the war, he went to Samarai in Milne Bay Province as a cook in a girls’ nursing school. He had also worked as a clerk at the Old Hospital in Port Moresby, and as a driver for Hohola Soft Drinks in Port Moresby in his early years. Iopa Karave first came to the museum to see if we could loan him some costumes from his area that we might have in our collection. He and his dance group wanted to use them for the Hiri Moale Festival held in Port Moresby in September every year, which celebrated traditional arts, crafts and dancing from the Motu and Gulf regions. His inquiry was given to me to handle and I told him that loaning material in our collections was not possible. I explained that the museum’s responsibility was to conserve and preserve those objects and that we acquired objects with that understanding from their owners (see, e.g., Eoe and Swadling: 1991). He left that day, but several weeks later he returned to ask if the museum was able to acquire some pieces that he wanted to carve for the museum. On his previous visit, he had seen nothing on display from his area. I told him that he did not need permission from the museum to make such objects. He should make whatever cultural objects he wished and should bring them to the museum. Only then could the museum make a decision about buying them. He returned with a kovave mask and two bullroarers (see Kiki: 1968; Williams: 1977). Although the quality of these three objects was not very good, the museum acquired them as representative of objects from this area. The museum has almost nothing in its collection from the Tairuma area and what made these objects rather special was that he knew a great deal about the meaning of the designs on the bullroars and the personal name of his kovave. Because of this knowledge about his pieces, the department decided to show him some of the objects that we had in our

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collection. I took him into the storeroom and showed him hohao boards, because the Tairuma people have similar art styles as the Orokolo people. When he saw these boards, he could identify what the designs were and the clans that owned them. When I pressed him further, he told me that he was the last person to go through all the initiation rituals in the last men’s ceremonial house (elavo). He had also inherited the chieftainship from his father. Since then, the men in his village had never built a new men’s house and then he moved away to the city looking for employment. But because of his chieftainship, he was identified as having a leadership role in the village and he was honoured with a Queen’s Medal in 1975 during Papua New Guinea’s first Independence Day celebrations. Mark Busse, who at the time was Chief Curator in the Anthropology Department at the National Museum, was so interested in Iopa’s knowledge that he wrote to the Director seeking funds to hire him as an informant to help us document the collection further. Unfortunately this request was turned down because of the museum’s ongoing financial problems. Nevertheless Busse was so committed to this approach that he decided to proceed with the plan and offered to pay Iopa K10.00 per visit for two hours twice a week from his own pocket. Iopa agreed but wanted us to write up his own knowledge of oral history, legends and magic instead of focusing on what he could tell us about the objects in our collection, which was our primary interest. Both Busse and I thought such topics were a good place to begin. In addition it would give us a chance to understand this man before we started asking him about specific objects. With the Director’s blessings we purchased a couple of tape recorders and some blank tapes and set to work recording Iopa’s stories. So in mid-1993, I started recording Iopa Karave’s stories about who he was and what his father and uncles had taught him while growing up in the longhouse (elavo) in Meii from about the age of about five or six. His mother had passed away about that time so he moved into the elavo with his father. He told stories about his gardening magic for planting food crops such as yams, sweet potatoes, taro and banana and about magic for readying a new garden. He told us about how he views the food crops while they are growing, and about his fishing magic. For him a banana or a taro is not just a banana or a taro: the taro is a young woman and the banana is a man. Each has its own personal name just as people do. He also told us the oral history of his Vailala clan and legends associated with it. There were also many songs associated with each story, and much of our work involved recording, transcribing and translating these songs. It was a long and slow process because it took me a while to understand his Tairuma language by building up a word list that I used to understand and translate. Later I learned the vocabulary on my own and was able to transcribe and translate it into English. I always spent a lot of time transcribing his stories word by word and paragraph by paragraph and would then translate them into English. Then I typed them into the computer. One can image how slow and challenging a process it was. Most of this work was done during my own free time on work days or on weekends at home.

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During these three years of transcription, Iopa often had health problems and Busse was very generous, helping him with his medical bills. In some cases we arranged transportation to take him to hospital. Several times Iopa took time off to go back home to visit his family in Meii village. At times he took part in Hiri Moale Festivals in Port Moresby and also took time to teach the songs and dances to his group of performers. The work came to a standstill when Iopa had a major heart problem and was hospitalized for three months at the intensive care unit of Port Moresby General Hospital. When Iopa was discharged from the hospital, he came to the museum asking for help to get back to his home village in the Gulf. After hearing from me about what we had worked on so far and about how much of his oral history and stories we had recorded, the Director was very pleased and he agreed that the museum should pay for Iopa’s transport and would provide a small amount of money to help him settle into his village. These expenditures were not typical museum policy because Iopa was not formally an employee of the museum. But it was a token of appreciation for his assistance to the museum in helping us understand some of the ethnographic objects in our collection. Busse’s approach to our work with Iopa was a very good example for the museum and I was happy to work with Iopa because he had so much knowledge that should be preserved. Papua New Guinea’s traditional history was never recorded in the past, but passed from generation to generation as oral history; important events became stories and legends. It is such oral clan histories and legends that are, in fact, associated with objects. The past can thus make sense of certain objects, making these objects in museum collections more meaningful, not just objects in the National Museum but those in other museums around the world as well. Objects in museums are not just art objects; they also speak about the life of the people, events in their lives, their beliefs, and their ways of life (Craig and Eoe in press). These objects can be viewed as art, but such objects in the Papuan Gulf are much more than just pretty faces or designs. Carvers in traditional times did not make these objects as art, they made them for a purpose and gave them personal names. Their purpose was not simply as decoration, but as a way of controlling the power of the spirit world. If we know their personal names, we can communicate with these objects and they can communicate with us. It is clear that no such old objects exist among the Tairuma people in Kerema Bay, but Iopa’s knowledge of things used in ceremonies and other cultural objects means that the magical powers associated with them are still seen as knowledge of powerful forces that continue to exist in individual family or clan groups.

Preserving Objects in the Museum In March 1993, a man called the museum wanting to bring in a very important historical family possession. This man was from Vailala West in the Orokolo area but was living in Port Moresby where he worked at the National Parliament, a

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short distance from the museum. I told him to bring it in when he could. Two weeks later, during one of his breaks, he brought the object over. It was a metrelong fighting club made of black palm wood. Carved on one of the flat surfaces was a human figure but the right leg was incomplete. He did not have time to give us any information about the club, but left his contact telephone number. The next day I phoned him, but he was not in his office. After several phone calls I finally reached him and he said that when he had the chance he would come and see me and the Director to discuss the fighting stick. But he never came to see us. Several months later, I happened to run into this man at the Parliament Kiosk during one of my lunches there. He joined me for lunch and I asked him about the club. It was then that he told me that he knew very little about it. He had got it from his father, who was a retired missionary, a pastor with the United Church. His father had only told him that it was made by his great-great-great grandfather and his father had kept it until his death. When the current owner was a young man, during an argument he had seen his father hit a man with this club, almost killing him. The club was always kept hidden away, so when the father got upset, he ran inside, got the club, then ran back outside calling his war chant and the personal name of the club before hitting the man. As he was the eldest in the family, the club was passed to the man when his father died. He said he had wondered what to do with it and thought the museum would be the best place to keep it. I asked him whether his father had told him anything about the club, but he said no; he had not come back to talk with us at the museum because he wanted to talk with a few elders in the clan to see if they knew some information about the club. A year later this man left his employment at the National Parliament. I had asked him several times what he wanted to do with the club and if he wanted to sell it to the museum; if so, then, for how much? He did not want to talk about the issue of selling the club as he kept telling me that whether the museum bought it or not was up to me and the Director to decide. But one thing he made very clear to me; he felt safer since the object entered the museum. I told him about the role of the museum and explained that he needed to inform the museum as to what he wanted to do with the object because he was still the legal owner until some agreement or decision was made. From our point of view at the museum this kind of object is a very rare one and it is a good example of an ethnographic specimen that is still involved with the history of this family. It is also very interesting that his father, who was a very senior pastor in the United Church, kept this object during his years of preaching for the Church and practising his very strong Christian faith. It shows that even though people are Christians they can still have strong traditional beliefs in connection with certain objects, despite the fact than most examples and material evidence of such objects have been almost completely lost through acculturation and modernization.

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Museum Objects and Disputes over Land People are now approaching the museum in connection with a growing number of land disputes being brought to the district and national courts. Mostly people want to locate certain ancestral boards or other objects sold some years ago to a collector. They want to use such objects as evidence in their court cases. This is a very new situation that none of us at the museum have experienced before. We have had to proceed very carefully, so that we don’t get bogged down in endless requests associated with court cases, land disputes, and other local disputes. But these cases illustrate the new ways in which people in the villages view objects and the museum’s ethnographic collections. I want to discuss an important case associated with a resource project area in the Gulf Province. The case involved a group from the Upper Vailala area who wanted to know if their hohao (ancestral board) was in the museum’s collection. They believed that this particular board could be used in resolving an ongoing land dispute with neighbouring villages along the Vailala river. Partly because they were unable to describe this particular board in any detail, and partly because it was probably taken out of Papua New Guinea by a collector, we were unable to identify their hohao board. This dispute concerned two sub-clans of the same land, and they claimed that the ownership of this board would have demonstrated whose ancestors had arrived first. If we had found their board, they would have used this hohao to prove their rights to this land. The board represented the image of the female ancestor who had created the Vailala river and had been the first person to go down the river. This one particular board would have proved their ownership of the disputed land as something that had descended from this ancestor. I suspect that had we found the board, both sub-clans would have claimed this particular board as their own and the dispute would not have been resolved. Nevertheless, this case illustrates how traditional objects have very important meanings for life today. These objects continue to have significance even when they are no longer in the villages.

Changing Aspects of Papuan Gulf Objects: Secrecy During the course of my career at the National Museum, I have often wondered about the question of secrecy associated with Papuan Gulf objects. Being an officer responsible for the enforcement of National Cultural Property (Preservation) Legislation, dealing with secrecy is a very important issue for me, because in this capacity I need to understand which objects are of cultural importance to a community, such that they should not leave the country. These efforts have put me in a position to understand the cultural heritage of nearly all provinces in Papua New Guinea and to know which categories of objects need to be protected.

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My personal experience with such issues suggests that throughout the Gulf most secret objects are not owned individually, but communally, often by a clan or family. Very few objects in the Gulf are now considered secret, in the strictest sense of this term, although many of the most powerful objects have secret personal names. Secrecy in such cases allows the power of an object to be harnessed for good or evil purposes. Most objects that are considered secret are those specifically made for a particular ceremony. These objects are handled only by the leaders of a clan and are kept in a place separate from other objects. Such objects today are still respected and hidden from the eyes of women, children, and uninitiated men, but often they are hidden from the eyes of initiated men in other families, because secrecy is so closely associated with power. In former times there were some objects that were kept secret from the women and children. These objects were brought out during the initiation of young boys to impress them with the power contained in these objects. For example, in my home area of Orokolo hohao boards were thought to contain the power that had descended from the ancestors or mythical heros of particular clans. They were very powerful and the most powerful were kept only in the men’s longhouse (elavo). Similarly, some of the large hevehe masks were imitations of spirits. Contact with these objects was restricted to initiated males and were typically seen by women and children only during ceremonial performances. But even in traditional times, it was the power of these objects that initiated men sought to control. They were protecting their women and children.

The Knowledge Associated with Certain Objects In 1996, an old man from Hopaiku village in the Orokolo area approached the museum to sell some objects. He met with Director Soroi Eoe, who asked me to be present, partly because I worked in the Anthropology Department of the museum, but also because the old man and I were from the same clan and the Director was only distantly related to him. We met in the conference room for almost an hour. During this meeting, the old man said that he had two bullroarers, which he called horu (literally, ‘a sorcerer’s stick’) and two charms, which he alternately referred to as marupai (‘charm’) and meu haela (literally, ‘messengers’ to the sticks). He wanted to sell these objects to the museum because they were powerful magical objects and ever since he had acquired them sorcerers had pursued him trying to get these objects, and he feared they might kill him in order to steal them together with the power they contained. The magical powers contained in these objects were thought to be superior to that in other magical objects. He had acquired them from another Orokolo sorcerer in Kavava village, who had been renowned as a great magician and a sorcerer in his time. Because of his fears, the old man had moved from Hopaiku to Meii village near Kerema town. He told us that he did not stay very long in Meii because certain sorcerers from Orokolo were still following him, so he had to come to Port

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Moresby. In Moresby he spent time with his daughter, who lives and works there. Then he visited his eldest son in Lae before returning to Moresby. He returned to Meii for a few weeks, but felt it safest to go back to Moresby and Lae. His constant moving from place to place in fear of his life was a great hardship for him. He thought that if he could give these objects a new home in the museum the sorcerers who had been trailing him might stop trying to kill him through sorcery. The Director and I were happy to see such objects still present and being used in the villages and we wanted the museum to acquire them. But at the same time we were a bit cautious about acquiring the knowledge that went with them, as such knowledge could be dangerous both for us and for the museum. He left and returned two days latter with the bullroars and marupai charms. Marupais are deformed coconut shells carved with decorative faces that are used as a magical charms. I met with the man to register and document the objects for the museum’s records. These objects were magical objects that could be used to make sorcery to kill a person but they could also be used to cure someone who had been attacked by sorcery. Each bullroarer was paired with one of the marupai charms. He told me that one of the bullroars (together with its marupai) was considered to have lesser power because its magic had grown cold. It had belonged to a man from Harevavo village, who had tried using them when he saw how powerful the objects were. He got frightened and jumped into the river, causing the power in the objects to become cold and weak once they touched the water. The other pair belonged to him and he had used them several times to kill people. He told me that these objects contain spirits and that he can communicate with them. They can protect him and make him invincible. With them he can travel through water by transforming himself into a fish or travel under the ground, or fly whenever there is some danger. He explained to me some of the details about how he used his magic but this is information that I cannot share here. The man had purchased these objects sometime in the 1970s from a renowned sorcery magician for the sum of K800.00 in cash, a very big pig, and some traditional shell money. He also told me that if somebody wanted to kill another person, he would have to pay the old man a total of Kl,000.00 in cash as well as some traditional shell money. Usually, they pay half of the price as a downpayment and the balance after the victim dies. These objects illustrate several important points about how village people understand ownership of such objects differently from those of us who work in the museum. For us, once we buy an object, it belongs to the museum and we, as museum staff members, have no personal claim to the object. But village people often feel that if the museum acquires an object, it now belongs to the Director, because he is head of the museum. We heard stories that the Director was being threatened with magic and sorcery because he now owned these objects. The old man had given me some information but no information whatsoever about the magical power in these objects. I had only recorded general information about how these objects were used and how the

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old man had acquired them. The old man, in fact, would not let me write down some of the details about them as this knowledge was very dangerous. The important point here is that for the people in the Papuan Gulf the Director, being head of the Museum, is seen as the same as the ultimate owner of the objects, even though, as in this case, he personally would have no traditional right to the powerful knowledge that might go along with the objects at the museum. Nevertheless, the interpretation was that these four objects and their powers had been acquired by the Director. Unfortunately for the old man, the story did not stop there. Early in 2002, the old man’s daughter called me and asked me to come and see the old man. She said that the objects were still a problem for him, because they were still communicating with him and frequently disturbed him. Although he had given the objects to the museum, he still has the power and knowledge that goes with them, and he still has not been able to settle down in his home village.

The Director’s Involvement in Preserving and Reviving Papuan Gulf Art Soroi Marepo Eoe was Director of the National Museum from 1977 until 2005, when he stepped down from this role. He comes from Harevavo village in the Orokolo area (now in Ihu District). Before becoming Director, Eoe had served as Assistant Curator of Anthropology under Barry Craig and he was promoted to Curator of Anthropology after Craig left the museum. Because he is from the Gulf Province, Eoe has long taken a special interest in the region and is the first Papua New Guinean specialist on art and culture in the Papuan Gulf. In his role as Director he has also travelled to most museums with significant Melanesian collections both as an ambassador for the museum and as a colleague to anthropologists, art historians and other international scholars (see, e.g., Quinnell 2000). He has visited and examined most of the major collections of Papuan Gulf art. For more than a decade he has played an active role in PIMA (Pacific Islands Museum Association), both as one of the founders and as director of the largest member museum. Another role he has filled is as president of the Pacific Arts Association from 1993 to 2001. In both of these associations he has promoted studies of Melanesian and Pacific art and material culture. He has given presentations about Papuan Gulf art at conferences and supported younger scholars interested in conducting research in the region. Most recently he gave a presentation on Marupai at the 2001 meeting of the Pacific Arts Association in Lifou, New Caledonia. Eoe has also used his position as Director to encourage villages in the Gulf to revive their culture and their art. Because of his efforts, some groups in the Orokolo area have formed cultural groups to revive their traditional dances, with traditional costumes and some traditional-style masks. Because of these activities, a growing number of young people are learning their traditional songs and dances,

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costume making, and the reproduction of other cultural objects, especially hohao boards. In 2001, the Director organized an extremely successful cultural festival in his home village of Harevavo. He personally opened his own family’s small men’s house; later he opened a new house built by his cousin. People came from as far away as Aivau village in Vailala East Census Division and inland from as far away as Muro and Paivera. The mood of the festival was lively and it seemed as if the whole of Ihu had come together for the celebration. The festival also encouraged a number of young men to carve traditional cultural objects, such as hohao boards, many copied from designs in Beier and Kiki’s (1970) book. The Director acquired a number of these boards for sale in the museum’s bookshop. His goal was twofold: to make these objects available for sale to the public and to encourage young men to carve more of these traditional art forms. For several years he has been involved in a field survey in a project area up the Vailala river where extensive logging is underway. After one of his visits in 2001 he sent Alois Kuaso, one of the museum’s archaeologists, to carry out a more complete investigation of cultural sites in the area, some of which had been destroyed by logging activities. No impact study had been done in this area until the Director organized this research. In 2001 the Director also made a brief visit to Baimuru and Orokolo with Senea Greh, the Curator of Aviation in the museum’s Modern History Department. The goal of this visit was to identify wrecked war planes thought to have crashed in the region for possible retrieval as war relics. In many respects village people from the Gulf Province do not see Eoe as the Director of the museum, but as the embodiment of the museum. I myself have heard Orokolo people speak of him as the museum. Such examples suggest that from the village people’s perspective he knows more than them about the beliefs and customs of Papua New Guinea and has knowledge of many powerful customary practices. This role has encouraged people in many places to view the museum as a ceremonial house. People now see the museum as a place where their objects and their histories can be protected and preserved better than any other place. As you can see, the National Museum and its collections are the subject of rather different expectations among village people, and they have a very different relationship for the people than any museum in America or Australia.

References Beier, U. and A. Maori Kiki. 1970. Hohao: The Uneasy Survival of and Art Form in the Papuan Gulf. Melbourne: Thomas Nelson. Bell, J.A. 2005.’Intersecting Histories: Materiality and Transformation in the Purari Delta of Papua New Guinea’. Doctoral thesis, University of Oxford. Craig, B. and S.M. Eoe. (eds.). In press: Catalogue of the Papua New Guinea National Museum. Hindmarsh, SA: Crawford House Press. Eoe, S.M. 1991. ‘The Papua New Guinea National Museum’, in S.M. Eoe and P. Swadling. (eds.). Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific. Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum, 19–29.

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Eoe, S.M. and P. Swadling. (eds.) 1991. Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific. Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum. Kiki, A.M. 1968. Ten Thousand Years in a Lifetime. New York: Frederick A. Praeger. Maher, R.F. 1958. ‘Tommy Kabu Movement of the Purari Delta’, Oceania 29: 75–90. ——— 1961. New Men of Papua: A Study of Culture Change. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Quinnell, M. 2000. ‘“Before it Has Become Too Late”: The Making and Repatriation of Sir William MacGregor’s Official Collection from British New Guinea’, in M. O’Hanlon and R.L. Welsch. (eds.). Hunting the Gatherers: Ethnographic Collectors, Agents and Agency in Melanesia, 1870s–1930s, 81–102. Oxford: Berghahn Books. Williams, F.E. 1977.“The Vailala Madness” and Other Essays. Honolulu: University Press of Hawai’i.

9 Moving the Centre: Christianity, the Longhouse and the Gogodala Cultural Centre. Alison Dundon Introduction In the middle of 1995, after a stay of several months in Tai village amongst Gogodala speakers in the Western Province of Papua New Guinea (PNG), my partner Charles and I set out to visit a longhouse in the village of Kini, some distance south of Tai. From the time that Charles and I had arrived in the central town of Balimo in February 1995, we had been aware of the presence of the Kini Cultural Centre, yet those in Tai and surrounding villages evinced little interest in it and most had not seen it for themselves. It was not until we met and began a friendship with a man closely allied with the landowners of the longhouse at Kini that we finally made the journey to see it. At that time, the roof of the Centre was under repair, and the longhouse little resembled the dark and majestic spaces I had imagined (figure 9.1). People were working on the house, women sitting under the central hall sewing together the sago leaves for the roof, while men clambered gracefully around the walls and poles of the longhouse, many metres above the ground, attaching vital supports and struts to the central structure. Yet, its sheer dimensions and the community effort embodied in its construction were impressive, as were the carvings carefully laid out inside the longhouse for us. At the time, I was struck by the tenacity of the Kini villagers in the face of a general lack of both local and outside interest or support in either the Centre or the beautifully carved objects that were drawn out of houses just moments before our canoe landed, and it made me aware of the continuing significance of a ‘cultural revival’ that occurred in the 1970s and the renewal of certain carving and painting practices. In 1972, Anthony Crawford, an expatriate working for the Australian Art Advisory Board, arrived in Western Province, Papua New Guinea, charged with

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9.1. Iniwa Sakema, the Kini Cultural Centre under construction in 1995. (Photo: the author.)

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the collection of Gogodala cultural artefacts for the National Art Collection of Australia. These artworks, described in some detail in early administrative and mission accounts of patrols into the area, were considered ‘highly self consistent’ and distinct from those of neighbouring groups (MacKenzie 1985: 55). A.P. Lyons (1914: 9), Resident Magistrate of the Western Division, for example, wrote in 1914 that, whilst travelling in the Gogodala area, he saw ‘the carving of a huge iguana … of an alligator hollowed out as a canoe, and of an alligator swallowing a man … Everything was pigmented. Indeed it was the most wonderful piece of carving I have seen anywhere’. Other commentators, like Beaver (1914: 412), who noted in one of his articles that the Gogodala were ‘decidly artistic, perhaps almost more artistic than that of any other people I have met with in New Guinea’, were equally enthusiastic about the canoes, shields, house posts and drums produced by Gogodala iniwa sakema, literally ‘ancestral skills or knowledge‘ or carvers. Yet, when Crawford (1981: 163) enquired after these ‘beautiful’ artefacts in 1972, he found few and his questions provoked tears and regret from those he talked to in Balimo. At Ali village, on the western boundary of the Gogodala community, he came across several objects that were elaborately carved and painted but found that little was produced in the villages centred around the mission stations of Balimo, Awaba on the Aramia River, and Wasuwa to the south.1 At Kala village, he found a single diwaka or metre-long drum used in secret male initiatory ceremonies referred to as Aida Gi. There were, then, a group of men skilled in carving, particularly those who still made the enormous racing canoes for which the Gogodala were famous in the first half of the twentieth century, and the anthropomorphic figures, kuku, which were constructed by men skilled not only in carving but in magata gilala, magic words that filled such objects with ugu, force or power. Canoe races between villages and clans were held prior to Crawford’s arrival and had been held intermittently before and throughout the colonial period.2 There were also those who made plain carvings, bowls and small figures depicting crocodiles, snakes or birds, some of whom were pastors and deacons in the Evangelical Church of Papua New Guinea (ECPNG). These men had been inspired by an expatriate teacher at the Balimo Vocational Centre, who had brought with him a Girl Guides book outlining the methods associated with carving plain figurines and bowls and taught these techniques to local men. These carvings were then sold to missionaries at Balimo, Tari, Kiunga and Tabubil. Crawford, however, was not interested in this style of carving; he was explicit in his preoccupation with the elaborately designed and carved artworks depicted in more than one hundred photographs that he brought with him, images of Gogodala objects captured by adventurers and administrators some fifty or sixty years before (Crawford 1976: 4–5). Armed with these historical images, he showed them to people from Balimo and surrounding villages. Many professed to being fascinated by the carvings depicted in the photographs and there was much speculation about the usage and whereabouts of such artefacts. Most, writes Crawford (1976: 5), could be identified by those gathered; and some suggested at

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that time that the knowledge of such objects still existed but fear of church and mission disapproval stayed the hands of iniwa sakema. Convinced that all Gogodala artists needed was ‘confident reassurance’ that their Christian present could be allied with their past, Crawford (1981: 163) set about convincing them that carvings could be incorporated into a Christian life. After many weeks, he writes, during which time he listened carefully to the old men and iniwa sakema, ‘I endeavoured to explain the value of one’s culture and the meaning of history, and pointed out the already visible signs of a culturally sterile people’ (ibid.). In the intervening months, ‘the history theme’ took hold of people’s imaginations and, he writes, Gogodala began to understand that ‘one does not have to abandon Christianity to retain a living record of bygone days’ (ibid.). Young men became increasingly interested in the activities and ancestral stories related by their elders, and, under the careful tutelage of the former, began to produce some ‘pieces of high quality’. After some eighteen months, ‘I brought the Gogodala to recognise that their art tradition was being revived and that the movement had to be sustained’ (ibid: 164). A growing level of local interest in the revival of these carving techniques and dance styles thus developed into an impetus for the construction of a longhouse, utilizing traditional materials and methods of construction, to stand as a Cultural Centre. After a year of construction, the Centre was opened in 1974 by then Chief Minister Michael Somare, a political leader who recognized the significance of indigenous museums and cultural centres for the implementation of cultural policy, through the unification of diverse cultural groups and the creation of a national identity (Kaeppler 1994: 35). Much was made of the Gogodala Cultural Centre and the revival of carving techniques and traditional dancing styles that preceded it, both nationally and internationally (see for example Crawford 1975, 1976, 1976a, 1979; Beier 1975; Mosuwadoga 1976; A. Strathern 1981; Babadzan 1988; Jolly 1992). It was described variously as ‘cultural folklorization’, a prime example of ‘cultural development’, and an inspiration for the development of indigenous culture in PNG; it provoked much debate about the reconstruction of ‘traditional’ ceremonies and objects and identities in postcolonial Melanesia (see A.Strathern 1981: 13; Mosuwadoga 1976: 4; Babadzan 1988: 217). What these accounts of the revival failed to explore were the implications of the building of the Cultural Centre, as an indigenous museum (see Stanley this volume), and the display of carved objects in local terms, as well as the extent to which these issues continue into the present (Dundon 2004). This paper analyses the construction of the longhouse in Balimo in the mid-1970s, and its inauguration as the Gogodala Cultural Centre. It traces its subsequent disintegration and disbanding of iniwa sakema and other participants, as well as the establishment of a new cultural centre at a nearby village. It also foregrounds the complex interplay of evangelical Christianity, customary ways and development in this area of Papua New Guinea and examines the way in which this continues to frame the terms of the display and sale of cultural artefacts for the Gogodala.

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The Gogodala Cultural Centre Crawford (1981: 164) writes that, eighteen months after he first came to the area and initiated interest in the revival of carving techniques and traditional dance styles, local artists and village leaders came to the conclusion that a space for storage and display was needed. A traditionally styled longhouse, or saida genama, was envisaged after Crawford (1976:5–6) showed photographs of the Angoram haus tamboran to those assembled. [3] Plans were organized and land provided by the Local Government Council and the collection of bush materials began. For five months, men and women collected the requisite materials from the bush, and then, once assembled, began the construction of the Centre based on funds allocated from the newly established National Cultural Council (NCC). By Christmas 1973, the basic structure was built, and the walls and roofing completed by June 1974 (Crawford 1981: 164). The Gogodala Cultural Centre was fashioned as a saida genama or longhouse – literally ‘Saida’s House’. Saida was a prominent ancestor or iniwa lumagi, an integral figure in the settlement of the original Gogodala inhabitants in village-capacity longhouses. These enormous longhouses were the primary building of the village, and stretched along the central spine of the osama or ‘island’ upon which villages were constructed. On either side of the longhouse, at some distance, small houses reserved for the women called gwaei saba (literally, ‘hill place’) were built on the ridges that reached down to the lagoons, and were used primarily during times of menstruation and childbirth. The longhouses were impressive in size and construction: in general they were up to 146 metres in length (490 feet), 25 metres wide, 5–6 metres above the ground and reaching up to 12 metres from the floor of the house.4 The Gogodala Cultural Centre was constructed like longhouses of the past, although on a slightly smaller scale.5 Nonetheless, it was an impressive structure: built using bush materials, from the black palm floors and partitions to the sago thatch roof and cane ties: the timi or house posts were carved and painted, as were the floor joists or musili running under the length of the longhouse. Crawford (1976: 8) wrote that the centre row of joists ‘are fully painted and carved to represent the various totems and clan fathers. Only the central end posts are also carved and painted, to resemble a standing figure’. The high, arched sago-thatch roof covered the structure of the house and reached to the ground on either side, and the interior was divided into the gendered spaces of the older-style longhouses. The komo or central hall, which in the past was occupied by the men and older boys of the village, stretched down the centre of the building, pitted by fireplaces every few paces around which men and boys sat at night and cooked meat and fish. The sleeping platforms or gawaga were set near the top of this central space, a safe place for men to sleep away from incessant mosquitos. Along the sides of the komo, and set off by black palm walls, cubicles and sleeping platforms or rooms were built – the traditional domain of the women and young children. Women, who rarely entered the komo in the past, accessed their own quarters through ladders built into the overhanging sago-thatch roof.

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In the Cultural Centre, the male space of the komo became the site of the display and storage of carvings produced by the artists of Balimo and neighbouring villages. Crawford (1976: 9) wrote in 1976: Today the central hall is one of many things besides having its traditional use. The side walls resemble those of an art gallery giving a display of over 1,000 colourful dance masks (ikewa and liga:le) ranging from 6 inches to well over 6 feet and each bearing the artist’s insignia or clan pattern. Suspended from the roof structure are many of the Gi and Aida lopala, carved replicas of crocodiles, snakes, iguana etc., with heads of either the clan father or of another totem protruding from the jaws.

For Crawford, the Cultural Centre embodied the past; ‘[t]he Centre is more than just a museum; it is alive and functioning as an expression of the past’ (Crawford 1981: 163). The longhouse represented the ‘determination to regain what was nearly lost’; and the komo, he wrote, had become both a ‘showcase’ and a stage for the performance of Aida Maiyata, dances associated with the ‘previously forbidden’ Aida Gi or male initiatory rites (ibid:164). He envisaged the komo as an ‘environment of the past’ in which old men sat and discussed ancestral and past practices and deeds (Crawford 1976: 10). The side cubicles, once the living spaces of women and children, were used as storage space for saleable carvings and costumes for dancing, as well as living areas for men visiting from other villages. The walls were lined with carvings of all shapes and sizes, from enormous tonaga or hooks, and gawa or canoes, to small head plaques (ikewa) and hand-held drums. In the 1977 film Gogodala – A Cultural Revival? the komo was animated by the movement of numerous colourful and decorated objects hanging from the lofts and walls, and the voices of old men and women narrating iniwa olagi, ancestral stories that relate the migration of the original ancestors to the area from somewhere south of the Torres Strait. Schoolchildren came once a week to the Centre and were taught by men and women of surrounding villages.6 The building of the Cultural Centre in the form of a saida genama or longhouse played a pivotal role in the ensuing, sometimes vitriolic, debate that arose out of the revival. These longhouses, once the dominating structure of the village, had fallen into disrepair and disrepute as early as the 1950s, as villagers came under increasing pressure to build smaller family-based dwellings as confirmation of their Christianity. The saida genama had become an arena for the transformation of Gogodala beliefs and practices in the middle of the century; expatriate missionaries and early Gogodala Christians utilizing the communal spaces of the longhouse, particularly the central traditionally male space of the komo, as the site of village services, Bible studies and Christian conferences. Increasingly, the communal effort required for the construction of the longhouses, the movement of young and able-bodied men out of villages for long periods of time working on plantations and businesses throughout PNG, and the belief that such housing contravened certain Christian practices through a lived adherence to the veracity of ancestral and ceremonial pasts, culminated in the gradual decline of the village longhouse.

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The reconstruction of the longhouse as the embodiment of a ‘revived’ Gogodala culture, as proclaimed by Crawford in various publications, therefore, became a focus of much of the debate over the revival of carving techniques and dancing styles. Crawford tells of how the building of the Cultural Centre was hampered by continuing land disputes about ownership of the land upon which materials were collected for the longhouse and where it was to be built. Crawford claimed that he was puzzled at first by the multitude of these claims until he realiszed that these young men were local pastors and deacons who hoped to delay or stop the construction of the Cultural Centre.7 Once built, the longhouse was also the subject of threats to burn it down. At the same time, 3,000 Gogodala signed a petition to send the resident missionaries home to Australia, for which Crawford and the revivalists were held accountable. The Centre thus provoked much debate about the nature and extent of Gogodala Christianity, as much as it did about ‘customary ways’ associated with the ancestral and more recent past. For it embodied the gendered and ancestral spaces of past practices, many of which had been, until that point, subject to a process of communal forgetting. Yet, the longhouse actually represented the transformation of past practices and experiences, with previously restricted and gendered spaces becoming communal, and sacred spaces quotidian. Instead of concealing male lopala, the komo became the space of display, performance and revelation of ancestral knowledge.

Carvings and Canoe Designs When Crawford came to the Gogodala in the early 1970s, he was clear about the kinds of art works he wanted to purchase for the Australian art collection, his original commission. These were carved and painted objects, canoes, drums, anthropomorphic or other figures, masks and the like, all of which were designed around the central clan insignia or gawa tao – literally ‘canoe eye’ or, in English, ‘canoe design’ (figure 9.2). All Gogodala are divided into two moieties – the red (Segela) or the white people (Paiya) – and belong to certain clans or udaga within these moiety classifications. There are four udaga within each moiety. In each clan, there are several udaga gawa or clan canoes in which people are said to stand, much as they do in the dugout canoes in which they travel from village to garden or the bush. Each clan canoe has an ‘eye’ or canoe design, the name of which is the name of the canoe and constitutes the most intimate relationship between person and clan. These designs came into being during the turbulent times of the ancestral period, related in the narratives referred to as iniwa olagi. At this time, the original ancestors travelled around the Gogodala landscape, creating, mapping and naming it. At the same time, the gawa tao came into being through the interplay and transformation of bodies, or parts thereof, trees, coconuts and nonhuman agents into canoes. The designs of these canoes reflect their genesis, combining elements of these beginnings and transformations in pictorially constituted forms and colours (see Dundon: 1998) (figure 9.3).

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In the past, gawa tao were painted on many different objects, from personal and racing canoes, to drums, paddles, figures, house posts and masks. They were the basis of the swirling and brilliant red, yellow, black and white patterns that caught the imagination of the early colonial visitors to the area. They were also painted onto male bodies during Aida Gi and other ceremonies. In the days before the missionaries arrived in the area and established three mission stations, a Bible college and a health centre and school of nursing, canoe designs were the centre of a force called ugu. This capacity or force was inherent in the local landscape, animating the environment in which these communities lived (Dundon 2002a). But its focus or power could be drawn into the eye of the canoe – the canoe design – through the care and skills of a knowledgeable carver, iniwa sakema. Once achieved, the object became animated by ugu: it could move by itself, as in the case of racing canoes, it could see and lead others, it could change its colour or form or talk or weep or sing. Such objects were powerful and wonderful in many ways, at least in as many ways as they were fearful and, often, uncontrollable. They underscored the lives, health and strength of Gogodala communities, keeping

9.2. Two ligael – dance plaques – organized around the central canoe design or gawa tao. (Photo: the author)

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village longhouses safe from epidemic or attack, assuring the transition of boys into men, the fertility of married couples, or that of the sago or coconut palms and gardens, but were only contained through the knowledge and courage of elderly men and women, those skilled or sakemana in ancestral powers. When the UFM missionaries arrived in the 1930s, they brought with them certain assumptions about the carved objects and ceremonial practices that lay at the basis of Gogodala village life. By and large, they were convinced that such objects and practices hindered the processes of conversion. Thomas (1991: 153) has noted that the repudiation of certain central activities and artefacts was tantamount to conversion throughout the Pacific, particularly for evangelical missionaries. As a local form of evangelical Christianity developed over the intervening years, certain elements of ancestral practices and powers were reified and labelled ‘heathen’ – particularly those concerned with the carving and use of objects that embodied ugu or ‘spirits’, those that bore the clan design and its associated patterns. Increasingly, converts to Christianity disassociated themselves from these types of activities and objects, and the veracity of ugu and objects painted with gawa tao was challenged. There were public revelations, to the uninitiated, of previously hidden Aida and other ancestral objects, and many burnings of such artefacts (Lea: 1940; Weymouth: 1978). Such public destruction was undertaken or initiated by expatriate missionaries, Gogodala Christians and young village men who were increasingly convinced by the words and capacities of Christian Europeans. This was the time that the ‘spirits were sent away’.

9.3. Three examples of gawa tao, canoe designs, with symmetrical, concentric lines and colours radiating outwards from the central eye or tao. (Photo: the author.)

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When Crawford came to the area in the early 1970s, then, his search for these cultural artefacts was in vain. There was, as he noted, however, a great deal of knowledge about both the objects and the ways in which they could be created. In the 1970s, all Gogodala knew the canoe design of their clan canoe, many still carved the name of it on the prow of their dugout canoe or raced in the canoe decorated with it (figure 9.4). There had been little lost in terms of ancestral knowledge, either of the vital iniwa olagi, ancestral narratives, that remain highly consistent since the early 1900s, or the stories that related to the canoe designs, their creation and ancestral significance. There was, however, very little in terms of the production or performance of these objects, particularly those associated with Aida ceremonies. Within eighteen months of his presence in the area, however, and for the first time in almost forty years, several styles of carving were produced by young men working under the leadership of those more elderly and knowledgeable in the genesis and significance of these objects. What sorts of carved objects were revived and reconstituted in this context? There is not a Gogodala term for carved and painted objects, as, in the past, these lopala or things were classified by the canoe design; this defined the object and the reason that it was produced, whether it be for a canoe race, Aida ceremony or a feast. Individual men carved their own dance items, including hand-held drums, dance masks, and plaques that sat on their heads. Iniwa sakema – those skilled in the knowledge of the ancestors – were entrusted with those objects that required great care and delicate handling, both of the object and the ugu that would come

9.4. The prow of a contemporary racing canoe with the central canoe eye and clan animal and ancestral figures. (Photo: the author.)

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to animate and empower it. These carved and painted objects were also classified by those who created them, as the skill of the iniwa sakema was integral to an object’s constitution as he imbued his creation with life through his knowledge and manipulation of ugu. In the pre-colonial period, then, iniwa sakema were older men, those rich in knowledge and experience and charged with the health and safety of their communities. In the course of the revival and the establishment of the Cultural Centre, the nature and form of carved objects, as well as those who created them, were transformed. None of the carved objects produced for display and sale during and since the revival have ugu, as most contemporary artists, though acknowledged as iniwa sakema, are Christians and do not have the knowledge or desire to call ugu into their creations. The singular exception to this rule are the enormous and aweinspiring racing canoes, which are still imbued with ugu at the moment of their production by their maker, always an elderly man most knowledgeable in ancestral wisdom. The majority of carvers now, however, are younger men, some not even married, who create a new category of objects referred to as ‘carvings’ in English, which are produced for sale to tourists and other art purveyors in Port Moresby or further afield (figure 9.5). Despite a different motivation for the production of this new category of cultural objects, during and since the revival, the quality and style of carvings has remained remarkably consistent. Canoe designs remain the primary design around which the object takes shape and colour. Gawa tao are fixed patterns, with

9.5. Gogodala artefacts brought to the Kini village longhouse for sale in 1999. (Photo: the author.)

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little room for improvisation or artistic licence, for they were created during the time of the original ancestors and tell the story of their own creation through the lines and swirls and patterns of colour. It has been suggested that the Gogodala, though the authors of magnificent carved objects, were and continue to be primarily painters (Crawford 1981: 188; MacKenzie 1985: 61). Gawa tao are highly abstract, concentric designs that embody the forces that brought them into being in the ancestral past. They are generally presented on a flat surface and painted in four colours – red, black, white and yellow – and revolve around a central point or tao (eye). From the eye of the design, circular patterns emerge and converge in rhythmic symmetry. Figures, whether animal or human, that accompany the canoe design on carved and painted objects, illustrate the veracity and purpose of the artefact, whether a racing canoe with its crocodile spines and fast aquatic creatures on its sleek sides or a drum with its clan animals as a handle. Since the 1970s, certain artefacts depicted in the images that Crawford brought with him and those that he subsequently traced in international museums, were never reconstituted. The primary group of those were the complex collection of Aida lopala, many of which were never attempted and which had little significance to either the elderly men in the 1970s or their younger counterparts. Aida keyali, for example, paddles made exclusively for Aida ceremonies, have not been reproduced in their intricate three-dimensional complexity. Other ceremonial objects, like many of the gi gawa – ceremonial, metre-long canoes – suffered a similar fate. Objects like these were often stored in the lofts above the komo before and after the appearance and performance of Aida; they belonged to clans rather than individuals and were made by iniwa sakema. These objects were neither ephemeral or alienable. [8] Masks, headdresses, hand-held drums, and other objects worn on the body, however, were made by those men who wore them in these ceremonial contexts. These objects were owned by the man who made and wore or used them – they were, thus, more alienable and temporary that the former group of artefacts. And it is this latter group of carvings that have been produced in greater numbers since the days of the revival and into the present. This may be due in part to the fact that many men in the 1970s still had the requisite knowledge and experience in carving such objects, even if they had been, up to this point, unpigmented. At the height of the revival, however, when the frenzy of the ‘selling days’ took hold and Gogodala carvings were held as cultural artefacts of some monetary value, some of the more complex and intricate carvings were produced and sold. Others were the centrepieces of dances that were performed as far afield as Port Moresby and Townsville in Australia. In September 1974, for example, forty men flew to Moresby, performing Gogodala dances to the assembled audience of the Fourth Niugini Arts Festival. In an article in Pacific Islands Monthly, Kirsty Powell (1974) wrote: [a]nd the crowd was rapt. The Gogodala dancers have never before been seen outside Western District. In their grass and leaf skirts, with their highly elaborate painted and feathered masks, and their bobbing tail pieces they danced to the compelling rhythm

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of kundu drums, gourd rattles, percussive ‘walking sticks’ of split bamboo, conch shells, and haunting song. They moved on stage like seasoned performers, following patterns evolved for performing in their great longhouses. The performance is splendid in itself. But it is also the expression of a remarkable cultural revival.

Moving the Centre Opportunities for monetary reward for the production and performance of Gogodala carvings have waned considerably since the late 1970s. Even by the early 1980s, both local and international interest in these objects and dances fluctuated and the disrepair of the Gogodala Cultural Centre in 1982 led to its destruction in the same year, when the new Gogodala Director, a young artist by the name of Bege Mula, found himself unable to persuade local people to collect the bush material necessary for its repair, despite the injection of the not inconsiderable sum of K4,000 from the Rural Improvement Fund. Bege Mula first met Tony Crawford when, as a young man, he brought an elaborately fashioned canoe prow to Crawford’s door, whilst the latter was living in Balimo. Crawford (1981: 166) recalls that he was impressed by what he saw and immediately bought the prow, asking Bege if he could make more, larger versions of this carving. Bege did so, and the relationship between the two began. Bege became a prominent iniwa sakema over the years of the revival, and went on to display his work in Australia and Germany in the 1970s and 1980s. He has grown in stature in the succeeding years, and is currently President of the Gogodala Local-level Government Council. When Bege was appointed the Director of the Gogodala Cultural Centre in 1982, he found himself in a difficult situation, faced with increasing distrust from village carvers who were dissatisfied with the Centre’s perceived inability to purchase their carvings and find buyers for them in Port Moresby or elsewhere with any speed. Unable to persuade women from neighbouring villages to collect the sago palm leaves to fix the roof of the Centre, even when offered payment, Bege closed the Centre in 1982. The revival seemed to be over.9 At that time, a group of people from Kini village, a community close to Balimo, became increasingly interested in the construction of their own Cultural Centre. When the Gogodala Cultural Centre closed in Balimo in 1982, these villagers, led by the previous Director of the Gogodala Cultural Centre, petitioned the Provincial Government for funds to construct a longhouse in their own village. This new centre was built and opened in June 1983 by a Member of Parliament, and called Iniwa Sakema – ‘Skills of the Ancestors’. Although throughout the 1980s tourists only came at best once a year, the Kini carvers continued to produce quality carvings for the local missionaries, hospital staff and other visitors, and the Centre was maintained by the villagers. A road was built connecting Balimo and Kini so that tourists could travel between these two

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villages more easily. However, by 1995, the road had become impassable even by foot and there were no funds left to clear it. In 1989, the Centre fell into disrepair as the roof had deteriorated and the carvers took their carvings, previously on display in the longhouse, to their homes. The future of the longhouse became increasingly contested: the Centre became run down and few carvings were made for or by the Centre as, although often the Centre had the opportunity to purchase artefacts, it was not financially able to do so (Mula 1991: 73). This mirrored the situation of many cultural centres in the Pacific, which were – and continue to be – limited by budgetary constraints, ‘generally because governments give culture a low priority’, and international funding bodies set their own priorities (Cochrane 1999: 259). Between 1990 and 1992 Ken Abilo, the former Director of the Gogodala Cultural Centre, was forced out of the operation of the Kini Centre by the landowners, who installed a member of their own family, a man recently returned from Port Moresby named Kamo Bagali, as administrator. More conflict resulted in the latter’s departure from that position within two years, and by May 1996, despite three more grants from various national and provincial agencies, the longhouse had a roof but no walls or inside partitions. The young men continued to carve from their own houses, bringing them to the Centre only on the occasions when tourists, missionaries or anthropologists came to the village expressly for that purpose. In 1995 and 1996, the longhouse doubled as the village church, while a new church was being constructed nearby. Between 1998 and 2000, the Centre at Kini was completed but, due to a dearth of tourists and

9.6. Iniwa Sakema, the Kini Cultural Centre, in 2000. (Photo: the author.)

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interested outsiders, became a living space for a group of young, unmarried men and several elderly men and was deteriorating rapidly (figure 9.6).

Coming back to the Centre I have argued elsewhere that the cultural revival of the 1970s polarized the Gogodala community along village lines, between those who supported the activities of Crawford and the establishment of the Cultural Centre in Balimo, and villages who argued that it contravened the tenets of their local evangelical Christianity (Dundon 2004). In the villages that cluster around Balimo town, including Balimo village, Saweta, Kimama and Kini, support for and interest in Crawford was high, as was participation in the revival and the activities of the Centre. At Aketa, Tai and Dogono villages, and many others on the Aramia River, who were further distanced from the events of the revival and Centre, opposition was equally passionate. In this community-wide debate, the discourse was framed in terms of iniwa ela gi, glossed in English as ‘customary ways’, and Christianity. I have suggested, though, that such terms were not necessarily held to be oppositional categories of past and present. The renewal of carving techniques and the painting of canoe designs on objects, raised the painful issue of the compatibility of what was at the time a contemporary ‘way of life’ or ela gi – derived from ancestral canoes, clans and places – and the local form of Christianity in a very public context. It was not that gawa tao were not used or displayed before this time; rather, it was that canoe designs became the symbol of a cultural revival based on Aida dances and carvings, and were thus reconstituted as incompatible with Christianity. It also raised concerns about ugu and dangers that people in the 1970s knew little about. Local people were frightened not so much of the prospect of carving or dancing, then, but rather by the implications of these activities, including significant reconceptualizations of both Christianity and the ‘traditional’ past. For Crawford, the revival and the establishment of the Cultural Centre was an exercise in history and culture: the reconstructed longhouse became a ‘living’ testament to – or, as he put it – an expression of the ‘past’. He sought to bring the past back into the present, to reanimate the ‘cultural’ aspects of their communities and thus balance the influence of Christianity. But for the Gogodala, the past is already present; it inheres in the places and spaces, the objects and canoe designs that embody the activities, essence and substance of the ancestral beings and those that came after them (Dundon 1998; 2002). The revived carvings do not have ugu, but they are canoe designs and thereby connections to the original ancestral beings, who, through their actions, bodily excrements or losses of limbs, intestines and heads, created and became the canoe designs in ancestral times. And although these carvings are created primarily for sale to outside markets or occasional tourists, these objects are ‘their own [Gogodala] things’, in the words of one Gogodala man, that have increasingly become an integral part of the contemporary

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understanding of ‘customary ways’. The objects displayed in both Centres thus embody the carver and the clan and, ultimately, the Gogodala community. A primary dialogue to come out of the revival and the building of the Centre was one of ‘development’, which grew out of the experience of the revival and the possibilities the Gogodala saw in the marriage of customary ways and Christianity, exemplified in the Cultural Centres and the sale of painted carvings to tourists and interested outsiders. For many Gogodala, Crawford’s significance lay in his ascription of value to Gogodala artefacts, particularly those painted with gawa tao, as ‘art works’ and thus both aesthetically pleasing and culturally constructive (see Bolton 2003). This is a theme being pursued by Kamo Bagali, the current coordinator of the newly reconstituted Gogodala Cultural Centre, who has lived in Balimo since his departure from Kini village and the Directorship of Iniwa Sakema. Kamo, in partnership with his cousin Bege Mula, has sought funds from the National Museum and various provincial and locallevel government sources since this time in his bid to resurrect what he sees as an important potential source of communal development and pride. In Kamo’s plans, the new Gogodala Cultural Centre will be characterized by a focus on community education as well as the display and sale of both ‘traditional’ carvings and contemporary ‘arts’. The main staff at the Centre as envisaged by Kamo will be up to forty elderly and knowledgeable instructors, whose main function will be to teach regular cultural classes at twenty local community schools around the Balimo District.10 The cultural knowledge that such cultural experts would impart would concentrate on the gendered activities and expectations that face young children, including the making of canoes, gardens and hunting and racing canoes for boys, and methods of making sago, fishing, gardening and grass skirts for girls, as well as learning the basics of clan and marriage practices. The objectives of this Centre include the promotion of Gogodala cultural heritage and the protection and preservation of Gogodala ‘beliefs, customs, sacred items, stories and other related customary activities’. The Centre also seeks to ‘legislate customary laws and regulations for the whole of Gogodala tribe’ and to create employment opportunities for the youth of Balimo. As such, then, this new Gogodala Cultural Centre presages a wide-ranging perspective on culture, art and artefacts, and development. It is based on what Stanley (this volume) refers to as the ‘future-orientation’ of local cultural centres, an important characteristic of local centres throughout the Pacific (see also Bolton 2001). For Kamo, who has been moved by what he and many see as the plight of the Gogodala in terms of the lack of development in the area (see for example Dundon 2002a; 2002b), the increasingly stable union of custom and Christianity provides a promising potential for development that neither would have if they were to stand alone; in Kamo’s vision, carvings and canoe designs are central arbiters of this communal development.

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Notes 1.

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3. 4.

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6.

7.

8.

9.

Crawford (personal communication) found that a number of carvings were still made on a regular basis in outlying villages like Ali and Kenewa, the furthest Gogodala villages to the west and east respectively. These included gi lopala – ceremonial objects and ornaments – drums and paddles, all of which were pigmented and decorated with abrus seeds and heron or cassowary feathers. He also recorded songs associated with the Aida ceremonies at Kenewa village, which he later played to old men gathered at Balimo village These canoe races seem to be a direct descendant of Gawa Maiyata, canoe ceremonies that may have been connected also to headhunting and war raids during the early colonial period. Crawford (personal communication) is unclear as to whether these canoe races were as prominent before his arrival but suggested that many of the racing canoes were only decorated with the name of the canoe design rather than the actual design. Crawford (1977) went on to publish a book on the National Cultural Council, which outlines the guidelines for the establishment of cultural centres throughout PNG. Bernard Lea (1940: 5) noted in 1940 that strangers were particularly fascinated by these enormous structures. He wrote: ‘[s]cores of twelve-foot poles, a foot in diameter, are used for foundations. They are dropped into the earth six feet, the similar length above ground taking the horizontal beams on to which split palm is secured in place of flooring. The skeleton and framework rapidly ascends, varying sized trees and saplings from the nearby jungle being freely lashed into the superstructure with thousands of yards of pliable cane. The thatching is then neatly secured over this framework’. A.P. Lyons (1926: 334), Resident Magistrate of Western Division, described the construction of a Gogodala longhouse in the early twentieth century. Once the chosen site was cleared, older men pegged out the design of longhouse. Younger men then cut and carried in logs from the bush, while skilled carvers prepared the centre joists and stumps upon which they would rest, as well as the timi – the carved and painted head post of the longhouse. Once the timi was set in the ground, the joists were placed on top of the cradle of the timi and the longhouse was named, a process celebrated by a collective feast. The saida genama took many months to construct, depending on the size of the village population and the distance between village site and bush or forest from which the construction materials were derived. As such, the Gogodala Cultural Centre fulfilled the principle for cultural centres set out by Paulius in 1991, including the preservation, recording and publication of local songs, music, crafts and dances, as well as the education of local communities and others about the techniques and significance of these objects and activites (see Cochrane 1999: 258). Murray Marx, the head of the APCM (formerly the UFM) Mission in Balimo in the early 1970s, stated that the Christian and ‘traditional’ sides of Gogodala life were incompatible, and local Christians were strongly discouraged from participation in revival activities (Owens 1977). Kuchler (1997: 40) suggests that ephemeral objects were produced throughout Oceania – artefacts that were made to be destroyed or rendered absent in some way. Although Aida objects could be remade if necessary, they were not ephemeral. Lyons (1926: 355) notes that during one of his visits to the Gogodala area in the 1920s, he tried to purchase some of these Aida objects but was consistently rebuffed. As Bolton (2001: 229) suggests, there have been several attempts in Melanesia to develop community museums and cultural centres in rural contexts, often designed exclusively to attract tourists; these are particularly susceptible as ‘tourist numbers are rarely sufficient to sustain them’.

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10. Akin (1994: 162) notes that the Kwaio Cultural Centre was primarily established to provide an avenue for the education of young people; it was thus primarily an educational institution, although it was also designed to ‘bring money into the area through nondisruptive and Kwaio-controlled development’.

References Akin, D. 1994. ‘Cultural Education at the Kwaio Cultural Centre’ in Culture-KastomTradition: Developing Cultural Policy in Melanesia, L. Lindstrom and G.M. White. (eds.). Suva: University of the South Pacific, Institute of Pacific Studies, 161–72. Babadzan, A. 1988. ‘Kastom and Nation Building in the South Pacific’, in Ethnicites and Nations: Processes of Interethnic Relations in Latin America, Southeast Asia, and the Pacific, R. Guidieri, F. Pellizzi and S.J. Tambiah. (eds.). Houston, Texas: Rothko Chapel, 199–228. Beaver, W.N. 1914. ‘A description of the Girara District, Western Papua’, Royal Geographical Journal, 43, 407–13. Beier, U. 1975. ‘Foreward’, in Sakema, Gogodala Wood Carvers, A. Crawford (ed.). Port Moresby: The National Cultural Council. Bolton, L. 2001. ‘The Object in View: Aborigines, Melanesians, and Museums’ in Emplaced Myth: Space, Narrative, and Knowledge in Aboriginal Australia and Papua New Guinea, A. Rumsey and J. Weiner. (eds.). Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 215–35. ——— 2003. Unfolding the Moon: Enacting Women’s Kastom in Vanuatu. Honolulu:. University of Hawai‘i Press. Cochrane, S. 1999. ‘Out of the Doldrums: Museums and Cultural Centres in Pacific Island Countries in the 1990’s’, in Art, Performance and Society, B. Craig., B. Kernot and Christopher Anderson (eds.). Bathurst: Crawford House Publishing, 256–65. Crawford, A.L. 1975. Sakema: Gogodala Wood Carvers, Port Moresby: The National Cultural Council. ——— 1976, ‘Artistic Revival among the Gogodala’, Discussion Paper 14, Port Moresby: The Institute of Papua New Guinea Studies. ——— 1976 ‘Gogodala Cultural Centre Annual Report 1974/5’, Boroko: The National Cultural Council. ——— 1977. The National Cultural Council, Port Moresby: The National Cultural Council. ——— 1979. The Gogodala, People of Papua New Guinea Series, Port Moresby: National Cultural Council. ——— 1981. Aida, Life and Ceremony of the Gogodala, Bathurst: The National Cultural Council of Papua New Guinea in association with Robert Brown and Associates. Dundon, A. 1998. ‘Sitting in Canoes: Knowing Places and Imagining Spaces among the Gogodala of Papua New Guinea’, Ph.D. Thesis. The Australian National University. ——— 2002. ‘Mines and Monsters: A Dialogue on Development in Western Province, Papua New Guinea’. The Australian Journal of Anthropology. 13(2), 139–54. ——— 2002. ‘Dancing around Development: Crisis in Christian Country in Western Province, Papua New Guinea’. Oceania. 72(3), 215–29. ——— 2004. ‘A Cultural Revival! Development and the Custom of Christianity in Western Province, PNG’. Paper presented at Cultures, Nations, Identities and Migrations, Humanities Research Centre, Canberra.

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Jolly, M. 1992. ‘Specters of Inauthenticity’ The Contemporary Pacific, 4(1), 49–67. Kaeppler, A.L. 1994. ‘Paradise Regained: The Role of Pacific Museums in Forging National Identity’, in Museums and the Making of ‘Ourselves’: The Role of Objects in National Identity, F. Kaplan (ed.). London: Leicester University Press, 19–44. Kuchler, S. 1997. ‘Sacrificial Economy and its Objects: Rethinking Colonial Collecting in Oceania’, Journal of Material Culture, 2(1), 39–60. Lea, B. 1940. Papua Calling, Melbourne: S. John Bacon in association with the Unevangelised Fields Mission. Lyons, A.P. 1914. ‘XI: Western Division’, Papua Annual Report for year 1913–14. ——— 1926. ‘Notes on the Gogodala Tribe of Western Papua’, The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 56, 329–59. MacKenzie, M. (1985) ‘A Formal Analysis of Gogodala Gawatao’, Bikmaus, vol. 6, no. 1, 51–88. Mosuwadoga, G. 1976. ‘Foreword’, in A.L. Crawford, ‘Gogodala Cultural Centre Annual Report 1974/5’, Boroko: The National Cultural Council. Mula, B. 1991. ‘The Gogodala Cultural Centre, Western Province, Papua New Guinea’, in Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific, S.M. Eoe and P. Swadling. (eds.) Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum, 71–73. Owens, C. 1977. Gogodala – A Cultural Revival? Port Moresby: Institute of Papua New Guinea Studies. Powell, K. 1974. ‘Dazzling Diversity of PNG Tradition’, Pacific Islands Monthly, November. Strathern, A. 1981. ‘Introduction’, in Aida, Life and Ceremony of the Gogodala, A.L Crawford (ed.). Bathurst: The National Cultural Council of Papua New Guinea in association with Robert Brown and Associates, 11–13. Thomas, N. 1991. Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Culture, and Colonialism in the Pacific, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Weymouth, R. 1978. ‘The Gogodala Society in Papua and the Unevangelized Fields Mission 1890–1977’, Ph.D. thesis, University of South Australia.

10 Indigenous Responses to Political and Economic Challenges: the Babek Bema Yoma at Teptep, Papua New Guinea Christin Kocher Schmid Introduction This article traces the history of a cultural centre and museum, the motives for setting it up, its role in local and national politics, as well as its significance for the different stakeholders involved in the process. The institution discussed here is part of a set of interlinked strategies applied not only by rural people to gain access to the cash economy and to exert political influence but also by members of the elite to access the network of decision makers and thus to participate in the distribution of funds and power on the provincial and national levels. The cultural centre and museum Babek Bema Yoma (literally ‘ancestors’ ceremonial compound ‘homestead’, BBY hereafter) is situated at Teptep, a remote and rugged high- altitude location which is accessible only by air or by a tedious two days’ walk from the coast. It constitutes the centre of a larger area which includes the Nankina, Yupna, Som and Uruwa valleys in the Finisterre mountains of the Huon peninsula as well as the adjacent slopes towards the north coast, the Domong area. This larger area is locally subsumed under the term Nayudos, which refers to a purpose-built unity and means Na-nkina, Yu-pna, Do-mong, S-om and Uruwa. This unified area straddles the border between Madang and Morobe provinces: the Nankina valley belongs to Madang, the Som-and Uruwa valleys to Morobe, while the provincial border cuts in quite arbitrary fashion across the territories of the Yopno1 eserong people of the upper Yupna valley and the Yopno tale of the Domong area and the lower Yupna valley. In 1987 Yopno people claimed that since Papua New Guinea became independent in 1975, their division between two provinces had it made impossible for them to fully participate in provincial or even national elections.2 For several years the border was disputed and for many people it was not clear to which province they belonged.

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Papua New Guinea Politics The vast majority of people in Papua New Guinea are ‘grassroots’ villagers, who control the ambitions of their elites by voting or not voting them into their positions. As a number of candidates usually contests any one seat there is considerable competition and frequent change. On the one hand, rural ‘grassroots’ vote into office those parliamentarians from whom they expect the maximum possible share of government resources. On the other hand, they prefer candidates of their own cultural group. Thus, the success of a parliamentarian depends considerably on the cultural make-up of his electorate and the distribution of the competing candidates over these groups. To remain in office a parliamentarian has then to deliver projects to his electorate. The BBY cultural centre was initiated by a young man from the upper Yupna valley, a Yopno eserong, who aimed at being voted into national parliament. His success in securing his seat for two successive elections is in part due to the fact that most other candidates originated from other areas within the electorate, while he was the only ‘appropriate’ cultural representative for a considerable proportion of voters. While party affiliation is irrelevant, with parties being no more than parliamentary factions with no discernable policy platforms, church affiliation is important (Filer 1998: 67). In Morobe province and parts of Madang province the structures of the nationalised Lutheran church play a paramount role. As a contributor to the official journal of the Nayudos explains: ‘Our country is organised by two systems. These two are the National Government and the Church. Subordinate to these two are the Provincial Governments. Subordinate to the Provincial Government are the councils and the community governments’ (Singaut NAU 1993: 10). Thus, a successful candidate has to be firmly embedded into church structures. The MP, being the son of one of the evangelists who converted the Yopno eserong to the Lutheran faith, fulfilled this criterion. Once elected, he had then to deliver funds and services to the people of his electorate and to initiate ‘development’. The BBY cultural centre was designed not only to be a paramount symbol for the unity of the Nayudos and thus to establish a firm voters’ base for the MP but also to act as a vehicle to fulfil the economic expectations of these voters.

The Nayudos Amun (People’s) Union (NAU) This union has grown out of a students’ union that was established in the late 1970s at Karkar high school by the MP who was after 1989 to initiate the BBY cultural centre. In 1982 the original name Nayudos Students’ Union was changed to Nayudos Amun Union with the acronym NAU; amun or amen means people in the Yopno (and Nankina) vernacular. The Nayudos people’s union was created across two provinces and two electorates: Kabwum Open in Morobe, and Rai Kos Open in Madang province. The NAU has the MP as president, a vice-president,

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a secretary and a treasurer. There are also representatives of the different parishes: two from the Nankina valley in Madang province, four from the upper Yupna valley (Morobe province), three from the Domong/Lower Yupna area (Madang and Morobe provinces), three from the Som/Uruwa valleys (Morobe province). The Madang provincial officers based at Teptep as well as the church officials are ex officio members and advisers. The NAU was also established to form the nucleus for local government extending across the provincial and electoral border. This ambitious goal was not achieved. Some time before 1998 the Yus local government was established (Yupno, S-om) in Morobe province, and in 2002 the Nayudo (Na-nkina, Yu-pno, Do-mong) in Madang province. However, it proved impossible to form an administration across the provincial and electoral borders, and the population of the Yupna valley remains split between two provinces.3 In 1992 a flag was designed by a Yopno art student. It features bold black, red and white concentric rings, the design of one of the most cherished traditional items of Yopno and Nankina people, a feather-wheel carried by dancers during night-time ceremonies which are pivotal to the traditional culture of both valleys (figure 10.1). The Nayudos was also given a motto: ‘perseverance’, expressed in Tok Pisin as ‘wok hat yet’ (‘there is still hard work[to do]’) (Singaut NAU 1993). Further, since 1992 the NAU has produced an annual journal, the Singaut NAU (literally ‘shout out/call out NAU’).

10.1. The flag of the Nayudos People’s Union. (Photo: the author.)

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The History and the Elements of the Babek Bema Yoma Like the Nayudos, the BBY cultural centre can only be seen in conjunction with the political career of the young Yopno eserong man who in 1992 and 1997 was voted for two consecutive periods into the national parliament. In 1987 the future MP was elected to the Morobe provincial assembly, the Tutumang. In 1989 when the Tutumang was suspended and the MPA (member of the provincial assembly) was able to stay in his home area for a prolonged period, the planning of the BBY cultural centre began. The layout followed a traditional fenced ceremonial compound, bema, hosting several houses built in traditional style (guesthouse, house for assemblies, manager’s house, as well as a house to display traditional items that also operated as a sale outlet to tourists). In former times such a compound was shared by several lineages and thus constituted its political and religious focus. The new compound was meant to serve lineages of all settlement units of the Nayudos area as a new cultural and political centre. This layout was decided by an assembly of lineage elders and the member of the provinvial assembly. The MPA then recruited as much help as he could: the local expatriate missionary and agricultural expert was responsible for the technical planning, and for the initial build-up period the ‘local anthropologist’ (that is myself), was asked to assist (Kocher Schmid 1993). Teptep station is more than 2,000m above sea level and was chosen for the site of the BBY cultural centre because of its large airstrip which provides the most easily accessible point of entry into the Nayudos. This location, however, has also given rise to disputes. The airstrip and station were built only in 1972 (Swaine 1971/72), in a side valley of the Yupna river where a large alluvial plain made construction possible. Previously, this region was one of the remotest parts of the present Nayudos. It had less exposure to foreign influences than other areas. In the 1980s and 1990s local people ran the trade stores and held the few salaried positions available at the station and were keener supporters of the NAU than the people living close to the station. These were still struggling to respond to the results that recent contact had had on their traditional social and economic structures. However, as customary landowners, the people of the settlement units around the station exerted considerable influence on the implementation of any development plans. For the BBY cultural centre they sold a large tract of prime arable land (about 3 acres) to the MPA, who originated from a more distant settlement unit and had thus no land rights near the station. The sheer size of this area made it clear that ambitious goals were being pursued, while the sellers had high hopes ofimproving their economic situation. The BBY cultural centre in its traditional style was designed to be the visual manifestation of the NAU.4 The plans for the design of the cultural centre originally included an artificial pond created by damming a small creek which flows through the tract of land. Work on this pond was started but was then stopped. The original landowners predicted disaster for the centre as well as for themselves because the small creek was perceived to be the urine of an awesome primordial snake creature that at the beginning of time had created the valleys.

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By late 1991 the guesthouse was almost finished and preparations for a first cultural show to be held in conjunction with the BBY were well under way. However, this cultural show was linked to the annual sports contest which had been staged at Teptep station since 1981. An activities programme for the BBY cultural centre, and a local history project, were also endorsed by an assembly of lineage elders chaired by the member of the provincial assembly. This resulted in a list of thirteen topics which the elders considered important for the identity of the individual settlement units as well as for the area in general (Kocher Schmid 1993: 793–98). It was also envisaged that older men would deliver courses in ‘local culture’ at Teptep community school. However, only the first of these courses was held – on the male craft of plaiting bracelets. The distrust about handing over lineage-owned cultural knowledge to the descendants of other lineages or even to outsiders, was too high for the successful implementation of a generic programme. The first cultural show was staged in January 1992 and several guests were flown in for the day, amongst them the vice-chancellor of the University of Technology, who officially opened the building grounds for the BBY. About 4,000 people from the different regions of the Nayudos attended the show. There was a proud display of a range of dances characteristic of the different mountain areas, with each group stressing its cultural characteristics. The majority of the audience came from within the Nayudos, so the groups performed their dances for each other rather than for visitors. The opening of the cultural centre culminated in a show piece representing ancestor spirits from former times. It was traditionally constructed once a year and called kong bayem (‘ancestors’ spirits representation’) in the vernacular. This ephemeral show piece had been constructed following the initiative of one of the most important Yopno eserong elders, and most people attending the show saw this crucial traditional item for the first time in their lives when the vice-chancellor ceremonially tore apart the leaf curtain hiding it. Another crucial traditional item was also on display: a bullroarer representing the ancestors of the oldest lineage of the Yopno eserong and a symbol of the traditional law. This item used to be kept in the subdistrict office and invested the officer in charge with traditional legal authority. The respective lineage elders now decided to integrate this crucial item into the BBY cultural centre (Kocher Schmid 1993: 791–92). In February 1992 the guesthouse and the manager’s house were finished and the first paying guests were accommodated. The guesthouse manager was a young, recently married man selected by the member of the provincial assembly from his lineage. The Morobe department of culture, sports and liquor had supported the undertaking and had trained the guesthouse staff. Later the same year the same department organized a course on ‘cultural awareness’ held at Teptep, which was attended by seventy-six young people from the Nayudos (Singaut NAU 1993). In the 1992 national elections the member of the provincial assembly was elected to the national parliament as the member for Kabwum Open (Morobe

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province). In August 1992 the large house for assemblies was finished. Later that year the cultural centre was the stage of some networking on a national level, with frequent visits by helicopter of the new MP accompanied by various government officials and parliamentarians including the prime minister, as well as an array of ambassadors and high commissioners. The MP initiated a range of development projects and improvements. In 1993 a water supply system for one of the remoter Yopno settlement units was installed; classrooms and airstrips were built; and the University of Technology established a hydropower plant at Teptep (Singaut NAU 1994). In January 1994, when the second annual cultural show was staged, the BBY cultural centre (figure 10.2) was officially opened by the then newly appointed Australian High Commissioner. For him and his wife the trip to Teptep was their first visit to a rural area and they were both duly impressed by the traditional performances, the crisp mountain air and the scenic views. However, for local people the significance of opening the BBY cultural centre was perhaps surpassed by another ceremony staged by the MP in which the High Commissioner had to play an important role. All the ‘luluai’ and ‘tultul’5 from the Nayudos area, that is the local officials of the former colonial system – a total of thirty-nine men in full regalia or their descendants – lined up on the sport field. One after the other approached the High Commissioner and handed him back the mark of his colonial office, the ‘luluai’ hat. They shook hands and were then presented with an envelope containing money from the MP’s development funds (figure 10.3).6 This act was appreciated as a most powerful symbol of the new rule to come: the colonial times were finally abolished by handing back the colonial insignia of office to a representative of the state which had imposed them. The subsequent

10.2. The babek bema yoma, 1994. Larger beehive-type house: house for assemblies; smaller beehive-type house: house for display of items and sales outlet; square house to the right: guesthouse; square house partially hidden: manager's house. (Photo: the author.)

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distribution of cash also held considerable significance for the Nayudos people: it was palpable evidence that there was now a ‘rod bilong moni’,7 a channel through which money from the national level would flow into the local economy. The High Commissioner was rewarded for his efforts by having the sports field named after him. Before these ceremonies, I was asked to photograph each participating ‘luluai’ or ‘tultul’. I was also asked to make photos of all the teams participating in the sport contest. These photos were later stored in the the BBY.

10.3. Mr Otali Amot receives money from the Australian High Commissioner for handing in his luluai’s hat, 1994. (Photo: the author.)

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People from the various corners of the Nayudos again made a proud display of their dazzling traditional dances, as in 1992, with about the same number of performing groups. A range of groups who had not been present in 1992 now performed dances. Some performances were the same as before, notably the kong kaap, which is common to the people of the Yupna and the Nankina valleys and the puak which in former times formed a bond between the lower Yupna valley and the Domong area. The dancers of the kong kaap (literally ancestor spirits’ dance) carry feather-wheels as headdresses (figure 10.4). The puak demonstrates not only the

10.4. Dancing the kong kaap in the grounds of the babek bema yoma, 1994. (Photo: the author.)

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cultural unity of the people of the lower Yupna valley and the adjacent Domong area but also includes spectacular jumps by the dancers and was in 1992 commonly judged to be one of the best performances (Kocher Schmid 1993: 791). In 1992 a film team from the national film school was present at the event. The groups danced in two locations: first for the general public on the sports field, and then at the cultural centre, where they were filmed. An important man from the Nankina valley decided that in such a film document the manufacture of a feather-

10.5. Demonstrating the assembling of a feather-wheel for documentation on film, 1994. (Photo: the author.)

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wheel as carried for headdresses by dancers performing the kong kaap had to be included. The same man had before donated to the BBY a wooden bowl which he considered to be an important traditional item of the Nankina valley. Yopno, Nankina, and to a lesser degree Som and Uruwa people, regard the feather-wheel as constituting a unifying symbol, as it is one of their most important traditional items. It fulfils the role Dark (1999: 274; Kocher Schmid 1993: 787) had in mind when he wrote about the Maori tiki: ‘The prominence of certain forms in cultures can lead to their adaptation as national emblems with little alteration to the model from which they are derived.’ However, nobody considered that a feather-wheel should be put on permanent display in the centre. The components of such a dance ornament are not only extremely valuable but are also stored separately. A feather-wheel is only composed immediately before its use and is afterwards dismantled again. The filming of its composition seems to have been considered the only adequate way to document it in a more permanent form (figure 10.5). The film crew also duly obliged the MP: three young men from the Nayudos area had graduated from university, one in chemistry, one in public administration and international relations, and one in education studies. The NAU had contributed money to buy them gowns for their graduation ceremony. It was documented on film when two of these graduates ceremonially handed back their gowns to a representative of the NAU. Thus, the focus of the BBY cultural centre was clearly on activities and not on artefacts, as Westerners would expect in a museum. However, as well as the wooden bowl donated by an important Nankina man, and the bullroarer representing the traditional law in the upper Yupna valley, in 1992 an ephemeral showpiece, the kong bayem (a representation of ancestor spirits) was reintroduced to an amazed local audience. In 1994 a range of settlement units of the Yupna valley also reconstructed their kong bayem and brought them to the BBY. They were hung from the rafters in the house for assemblies. There are two types of kong bayem: one type consists of four specially blackened and painted bamboo tubes lined in a row and framed by four or six decorated shells of brush turkey eggs. These items are attached between two bales of moss. The other type contains only decorated brush turkey eggs fixed into the openings of a carved and painted board. This board is fixed between two traditional elongated wooden bowls. Both types are further decorated with plant materials. In former times such an ephemeral showpiece was constructed annually at the yam harvest ceremonies and hung near the inner entrance to the enclosure of the bema, the ceremonial compound. It was left there during the whole year and could be glimpsed from the outside (Kocher Schmid 1991: 81–82, 133, 283–86). The manufacture of a kong bayem is a secret affair and restricted to lineage elders. The people of the settlement unit who had brought the first and only kong bayem to the first cultural show, this time not only brought both types but also had me for the first time document the manufacture by photographs, whilst they related mythical topics linked to the kong bayem. In short, they took measures to document the primacy of their claim over the reconstruction of this crucial artefact.

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In 1997, when I returned briefly to the area, three elements had been added to the BBY cultural centre. Adjacent to the guesthouse a small traditional house had been built to accommodate the MP when visiting his electorate. On the lower, farther part of the tract two more houses had been built. These now accommodated Morobean officers and their families. The border between the two provinces runs near where the houses now stand, and with good will, they could be considered to have been built in Morobe and not in Madang province. In 1994 a conservation project, loosely linked to the BBY cultural centre, focused on a rare and endemic tree kangaroo which was still regularly being hunted. A man from the lineage of the MP was cooperating with American scientists and this lineage set apart 50,000 hectares of their land at the headwaters of the Yupna river. In 2003 the Yopno man, and with him the MP’s lineage, received a conservation award from the Woodland Park Zoo. This award not only consisted of a plaque but also of 20,000 PNG Kina (circa €5,500) (Papua New Guinea Post-Courier, 15 April 2003) a very large sum of money for a subsistence farmer in a remote area of Papua New Guinea. The cultural centre is the focus of several interlinked activities: cultural shows, an awareness programme, sports contests, village-based tourism, and finally a conservation programme. These activities can be seen as measures to solve the Papua New Guinea issues of resource management and ‘development’ that is, rural villagers’ access to the cash economy.

Cultural Shows and Sports Contests Cultural shows, which often include fairs and/or sports contests, are a colonial heritage. They were initiated by Australian administration personnel, who organized and funded them to bring together the different people of the various subdivisions in the district. Such events were combined both local and Western elements. The local people staged their traditional dances while the expatriate officers organized quintessentially rural English amusements, such as a ‘greasy pole’ or ‘pillow fighting’. The sports contests were ‘intended mainly for the benefit of police and labourers but a number of village natives also attended’ (Report from DO Aitape to HQ Lae, 4 January1946). The larger, more established cultural shows held in the provincial centres have attracted considerable numbers of visitors from within Papua New Guinea but also tourists from abroad. The most successful have been the Goroka show, which has been held since 1957 and in 2003 attracted 30,000 visitors. Similarly, the Morobe show, which has been staged since 1960 and in 2003 was visited by 90,000 people (Papua New Guinea Post-Courier 17 October 2003). Almost all provincial centres, and also smaller regions, organize their own cultural shows. These shows are not only seen to create emerging regional identities but are also regarded beneficial for the economic development of the area. Their organizers are seen to prove their leadership qualities by making such an event possible. An

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enterprising councillor on Misima Island (Milne Bay province) who staged an agricultural/cultural show on national day was commended in a letter to the editor of one of the national newspapers. The councillor was praised thus: ‘it was through his own initiative and dream to bring the culture show to the village level’. The letter writer commented: ‘Congratulations to this true leader’ (Papua New Guinea Post-Courier, 22 September 2003). Thus, by organizing the Nayudos cultural show, the MP delivered further evidence of his leadership qualities. Cultural shows or festivals play a role not only in post-colonial Papua New Guinea but also elsewhere in the Pacific: ‘The notion of festival in the Pacific has gained in importance over the past thirty years as colonial domination (in the political sphere) has lessened. The result is the use of festivals in the creation of political and cultural identities’ (Stevensen: 1999 :30–31). This certainly applies also to the Nayudos, where the cultural shows and the annual sports contests play an important role in creating a new regional identity. For the NAU, annual sports contests have provided the nucleus for its emerging unity. Therefore the photos of the sports teams kept in the BBY are important because sport activities are an integrating factor fostering inter-lineage co-operation amongst the younger people (see Kocher Schmid 1993: 798).

Guesthouses In Papua New Guinea village guesthouses abound. They are established on local initiative, by individuals or descent groups (clans), or in cooperation and following suggestions of international nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). There are no national figures on guesthouses available, but their number must be considerable: twenty-three in Madang province alone are included in a recent ‘Madang Nature and Community Tourism initiative’ (Papua New Guinea PostCourier, 24 October 2003) and in 1998 Milne Bay provincial administration listed seventeen village guesthouses (of these five were not operating). Tourism experts remind us that spectacular scenery and friendly villagers can be effectively sold to tourists but that a lodge or village guesthouse has to be within easy reach of an urban centre, not much more than 30 minutes’ travel by car or aircraft (Mike Kanin 1998, personal communication). Teptep guesthouse certainly fulfilled the first criterion: the scenery is undoubtedly spectacular, the air crisp and clear, and local people are friendly. The second criterion also applies: it takes about an hour (including stops at other airstrips) to travel by small aircraft either from Lae or Madang to Teptep, while the flight itself is a unique experience for those not used to ‘bush aviation’. However, flying into the mountains is hazardous most of the year when there are thick clouds. Therefore flight schedules cannot be always adhered to, and cancellations are frequent. In 1992 the first party of a new target group of visitors to the Teptep guesthouse – expatriate personnel of the University of Technology at Lae on a weekend trip – faced difficulties when trying to get back into work on a Monday morning. Upon the

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arrival of the aircraft they were told by the pilot that he would not return after the flight to Madang to pick them up for the scheduled trip to Lae as the clouds were closing in rapidly. This meant the weekenders were facing a long, tedious and also dangerous journey by road from Madang to Lae. Their mood did not improve when after the first stopover in a neighbouring valley, the stall-alarm went off during take-off and kept on cheerily ringing until landing on the coast. They did not return to Teptep, nor did any of their colleagues. The guesthouse was also included in a trekking guide (Barensteiner and Leitzinger 1996), where visitors were recommended to fly into Teptep and then walk accompanied by local guides down to the coast. In 2003, two young tourists attempted to follow this suggestion. However, as most flights to Teptep had been suspended and their schedule was tight, they took the reverse route and almost got lost. When finally arriving at Teptep they were so relieved that they took the next available flight out the next morning and so did not contribute much to the ‘tourist business’ in which local people had placed so much hope (Karin Etter 2003, personal communication). With few tourists visiting, the manager of the guesthouse had to take on additional work in order to make a living. Accordingly, he had less time to spare to cater for the few tourists who visited, and services deteriorated. The guesthouse was not a success and certainly not a valid way of accessing the cash economy.

Local Museums and Cultural Centres Cultural centres are almost as popular as village guesthouses. Most provincial capitals boast a cultural centre but some of them are quite drab and uninspiring while others are linked to cultural shows or encourage young people to produce art and handicraft for the tourist market. Other cultural centres have been established on the initiative of individuals and their displays are restricted to the lore of single descent groups, or clans. The concept of the museum is a foreign concept to most Papua New Guinea villagers. This certainly applies to the people of the Nayudos. However, the symbolic value attached to the layout of the BBY, as well as the activities linked to it, seem to be of paramount importance not only to local people but also to their MP. The items stored in it, photos of former leaders, of sports teams, as well as the few traditional artefacts (kong bayem, bullroarer, wooden bowl) are not documents of a former lifestyle but are symbols and tokens for the unity of the Nayudos, for the traditional laws, and also for people’s endeavours to participate in the modern state of Papua New Guinea and to gain access to the cash economy. The artefacts presented in the BBY cultural centre are clearly meaningful for the people of the Nayudos. But they present them to sell to outsiders, that is Westerners. Local people regard other items more favourably: net bags, string skirts and particularly sets of bows and arrows. Net bags and string skirts are made by women. Net bags are the most favoured purchases amongst tourists. A set of

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bows and arrows, especially if it includes a smooth but sharp-tipped arrow traditionally used in warfare, belongs to the category of artefacts with a whiff of savagery. This martial tinge is exactly what makes these artefacts attractive to Western buyers (see Kocher Schmid n.d.). The photographic record of the former ‘tultul’ (assistant chief ) and ‘luluai’ (village chief ) almost certainly contributes to the legitimation of the meetings taking place in the house for assemblies. By 1991 the local history project included as one of its topics the ‘temporal sequence of types of leadership: traditional leaders, “luluai”, members of parliament, possibly including a list of names of all remembered leaders.’ Traditionally, the lineage elders held political power and authority. The colonial administration made those same men luluai (“village chiefs”). The Lutheran Church selected the same men again for the positions of “hetmen” (church leaders)’ (Kocher Schmid 1993: 797). On the local level, the designations and functions of leaders may have changed but the traditional system and distribution of power and authority remains the same. Consequently the man who intended to become a national parliamentarian fitted himself into this sequence in order to claim traditional authority. During the first cultural show he made this point by wearing a ‘luluai’ hat during the official ceremony. At the second cultural show he paid the former ‘luluai’ and ‘tultul’ for handing in their insignia of authority. The artefacts kept in the BBY cultural centre or documented in conjunction with its activities have further, additional significance. The bullroarer which was transferred from the subdistrict’s office to the centre, makes sure that the traditional laws are kept when dealing with new concepts and activities. It also invests the modern MP with considerable law-enforcing power. The symbolic power of the traditional wooden bowl presented by the important man from the Nankina valley has – at first glance – not made a big impact. However, wooden bowls are seen as tokens of the perseverance of the forefathers, who knew how to create objects from the materials available to them. Further, such bowls are part of one of the two types of kong kaap (ancestor spirits’ dance). The kong bayem is the most important and central of the artefacts added to the BBY. Therefore its significance and the history of its reconstruction is considered beneath. In early 1987 a kong bayem was reconstructed for the inauguration of my newly built house at a village about two hours’ walking distance from Teptep. The elders of the two most important lineages of this settlement unit were very proud of this house: I had bought windows with louvres, corrugated iron for the roof, and the foreign missionary had given advice on how to build a stove from a 44-gallon drum and had helped to procure the necessary materials. The local people had built the house from their usual range of local materials (bamboo, palmwood and timber), taking great care to make it durable.8 They called this new type of house ‘hapkas haus’ (Tok Pisin, literally: mixed-race house) and their pride stemmed from their achievement to have been able to build a modern, Western house using their usual building materials. At the inauguration the kong bayem was presented as a surprise to me as well as the people of the village. It found its place in the

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house and was the focus of admiration by local as well as expatriate visitors.9 However, its manufacture was kept secret. With the same secrecy the same elders in 1992 made another kong bayem for display at the first cultural show and to render traditional support to the opening of the grounds for the BBY.10 The kong bayem was hung near the entrance within the BBY grounds, half-hidden by shrubs and grasses, in much the same mysterious way as in former times, when it would have been seen when hung near the inner entrance to the ceremonial compound. A leaf curtain was built in front of it which the vice-chancellor of the university had to tear apart when declaring the building grounds open. The law-enforcing bullroarer was also integrated into the display (figure 10.6). The kong bayem was obviously considered a very powerful symbol for the traditional culture of at least the Yupna valley part of the Nayudos, and was a focus of local attention because many people had heard of this artefact but had never seen it. In 1994 a range of settlement units decided to reconstruct their own kong bayem and to integrate them into the cultural centre. At this challenge, the elders of the settlement unit who had made the first reconstruction decided to have their secrets in making the kong bayem documented and to underpin their primacy by rendering this artefact’s mythological origins.

10.6. The first reconstructed kong bayem hung near the entrance to the babek bema yoma, 1992. In front of it, to the right, hangs the law-enforcing bullroarer representing the ancestors of the oldest lineage of the Yopno eserong. (Photo: the author.)

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Dazzling Strategies The kong bayem’s mythological origins link it to the feather-wheel carried by the kong kaap dancers of the Yupna and the Nankina valleys, as well as to the painted bark cloth adorning these and other dancers. In this context, the wish of the Nankina elders to document the assembling of a feather-wheel on film takes on additional significance. The location where the mythical events took place is crucial: it is at the head of four rivers which discharge their waters into either the Yupna river, the Nankina river, or the Yaut river of the Domong area. Here the primordial snake creature who created the valleys at the beginning of time, and whose urine was conceived to impede the success of the BBY cultural centre, is thought to rest. This central location and the events which took place there constitute not only a common link but also a mythological focus for several lineages of the Yupna and Nankina valleys and of the Domong area. On another plane, these three areas constitute a regional nucleus of the Nayudos. Other areas of the Nayudos further apart are also linked via the feather-wheel to this core area: in the Som valley of Morobe province there is an equivalent to the feather-wheel: the dancers carry long poles with attached movable constructions made from painted bark cloth. In addition each pole is decorated with the long, bright orange bracts of a Freycinetia species, a climbing pandan, thus representing this plant when in flower or fruit. The feather-wheel is made from the wing feathers of the vulturine parrot (Psittrichas fulgidus); the distinct climbing pandanus used for the Som dancing poles is considered this bird’s prime food. This context is further elaborated in mythological narratives where male ancestors turn into vulturine parrots and female ancestors turn into climbing pandanus. There is an additional important common characteristic of the feather-wheel and the kong bayem. Both belong to a group of artefacts which are meant to dazzle and fascinate their beholder. They are created by special techniques and, paraphrasing Gell ([1992]1999: 177), their fascination lies within the artist’s power to make artefacts which produce striking effects. The kong bayem can only be made by distinct individuals who have the necessary artistic qualities. Painting is considered a mind-absorbing process and an intellectual challenge (Kocher Smid 1991: 289). It is not only important to select the appropriate plant materials to assemble a kong bayem but the quality of the painting of egg shells and bamboo tubes is of utmost importance. Both artefacts are equally ephemeral: when a kong kaap is staged the featherwheel is assembled from elements kept by various owners while the kong bayem was traditionally only made once a year, and nowadays at selected occasions (Niles 1992: 161–62). In the Yupna valley, the combining of separate elements is the preferred technique to produce ‘enchantment’ (following Gell 1999). When talking about painting this principle was explained to me as follows: ‘two components which are appropriately combined generate something new and beautiful which is more than just an addition of these components’ (Kocher Schmid 1991: 289). Further, in former times all processes using ‘technologies of enchantment’ were

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kept secret, not just the process of making a kong bayem. This included also techniques to manipulate the forces which are conceived to rule life. Yopno people distinguish an attracting and a repelling force which both originate from the same source and location as the feather-wheel and the kong bayem. In addition, the attractive force is seen to be specifically concentrated in dancers performing the kong kaap and, by extension, in decorated and performing dancers in general. Thus, this general principle of how to generate or manipulate an attracting force also applies to the performances presented at the cultural show. The local contributions to the BBY cultural centre dwelt on the same common topic and made use of the same techniques, whether people staged dances, presented dazzling or pivotal artefacts, or wanted to have documented certain steps in the process of creating enchantment. In dances this force is seen to attract females to males, to make men attractive to women. In manipulating practices, which are also based on the appropriate combination of multiple elements, the same attracting force is used to ensure the fertility of gardens and the abundance of game animals (Kocher Schmid 1991: 52–60). Here creative and economic spheres are enmeshed; the same techniques used to create dazzling artefacts or dances from multiple elements are also used to attract and control resources. The people of the Nayudos applied these techniques to the BBY in order to vest it with attracting force and to use it as a powerful node for economic development.

Syncretism The people of the Nayudos have applied their traditional techniques not only to traditional elements like the presentation of the kong bayem but also to introduced elements. Cultural shows, guesthouses, or museums have been introduced to the people of the Nayudos and, to varying degrees, have been incorporated into an existing cultural matrix. People have employed the same traditional strategies, or ‘technologies of enchantment’ to fill these imported components with local meaning, and to use them in their pursuit of the cash economy. The same introduced concepts – cultural show, guesthouse, museum – have been readily accepted all over Papua New Guinea and also in other Pacific countries and seem to be accepted vehicles for nation building and economic development. As in the Nayudos, they are often interlinked with each other and they often generate a similar set of strategies to cope with cultural and economic change and to maintain and build cultural identities: culture awareness programmes, cultural centres, village-based tourism. More recently, foreign-based nongovernmental organizations who subscribe to the notion of sustainable development and the conservation of biodiversity, have added conservation and eco-tourism as well as science tourism to this set, though with limited success (Van Helden 1998; Ellis 2002). In the Nayudos only one descent group has participated in conservation measures by setting apart a portion of its territories for the protection of a rare endemic tree kangaroo.

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In Papua New Guinea, local people and their rural leaders and the national elites seem to agree upon the value and appropriateness of this set of strategies. However, the different stakeholders have differing agendas: for the national elites access to the national networks and the maintenance of power are important; for the rural population improved infrastructure (or any infrastructure at all) and access to the cash economy are paramount goals. The foreigners, of course, (in former times the colonial administration, nowadays international nongovernmental organisations), follow their own agendas, which are largely determined by the policies and ideologies of the Western donor communities on whom they depend. In the Nayudos the incorporation of foreign elements was not equally successful and provided differing results. While the cultural show presented local people with ample opportunity to apply their traditional strategies to enchant, the guesthouse was only temporarily successful. On a local or regional level, organizing the cultural shows was a palpable proof of the MP’s leadership qualities and helped to consolidate his position. On the national level, the MP used the same syncretic strategies to attract funds and development projects and thus to secure his position, as well as to solidify his place and role in the national network of decision makers. He used the BBY cultural centre to dazzle and enchant, to attract politicians, ambassadors and donors. To them he made his electorate and home area as attractive as possible by using a mixture of imported and traditional strategies. In this whole set of strategies the notion of ‘museum’ plays a subordinate role. It is one of the foreign, imported elements of the BBY cultural centre, which were tested for their suitability and adapted to local requirements. Consequently its focus is on activities and not on objects and it is only marginally in accordance with the requirements of a Western-type museum. However, although the BBY is perhaps not a museum it is certainly part of a complex indigenous response to political and economic challenges.

Acknowledgements Field research in 1986–88 was funded by the Swiss Academy of the Humanities, and in 1991–2 supported by the Swiss Horticultural Society. The visit in 1997 was funded by the program APFT (Avenir des Peuples des Forêts Tropicales) under EC-DGVIII. Pambu, the Pacific Manuscripts Bureau at the Australian National University, has generously made Australian administration documents available. Last but not least, I wish to thank Nick Stanley, the editor of this volume, for his constructive comments.

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Notes 1.

I use the official term Yupna to designate geographical units, and the term Yopno used by people themselves, to refer to cultural units. 2. Papua New Guinea operates under a Westminster system, with a national, a provincial and a local level. Successive government reforms abolished provincial governments and replaced them with provincial assemblies, resulting in increased power for the elected members of the national parliament (Filer 1998: 7). 3. Local governments have gained in importance after the new Organic Law of 1995 abolished provincial governments. Since then the provincial assemblies are made up from the elected national parliamentarians, some appointed representatives, and the elected presidents of all rural LLGs of the respective province (Filer 1998: 78–79). 4. Such visualizations and symbolic representations of abstract concepts are traditional and still frequently applied, for instance by participants in meetings or by preachers in church, who use small makeshift items to make their points (see Kocher Schmid 1993: 787–88). 5. The designations ‘luluai’ and ‘tultul’ were taken from the Tolai language of East New Britain and the positions were created by the German Imperial Judge Hahl in 1897 to establish indirect rule (Reed [1942]1984: 139–40). 6. These ‘development funds’ are allocated by the national government to MPs to spend as they see fit within their own electorates (Filer 1998:78). 7. Literally ‘road of the money’. However, the Tok Pisin word ‘rod’ does not only refer to actual roads but also to ‘link’, ‘channel’, or ‘way to access’. 8. It was still being used in 2003, although the verandah had collapsed (Karin Etter 2003, personal communication). 9. It is now kept at the Museum der Kulturen at Basel, access number Vb 30132. 10. The BBY can be regarded as constituting a ‘history house’ for the whole Nayudos.

References Barensteiner, R. and M. Leitzinger. 1996. Neuguinea: Herausgegeben von Bruno Baumann. München: Bruckmann. Beehler, B.M., T.K. Pratt and D.A. Zimmerman. 1986. Birds of New Guinea. Wau Ecology Institute Handbook 9. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Dark, P.JC. ‘Of Old Models and New in Pacific Art: Real or Spurious? in Art and Performance in Oceania’. B.Craig, B. Kernot and C. Anderson (eds.). Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1999: 266–88. Ellis, D.M. 2002. ‘Between Custom and Biodiversity: Local Histories and Market-based Conservation in the Pio-Tura Region of Papua New Guinea’, Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Kent at Canterbury. Filer, C. with N. Sekhran. 1998. Loggers, Donors and Resource Owners: Policy that Works for Forest and People. Series 2. London: IIED Publications. Gell, A. 1999: ‘The Technology of Enchantment and the Enchantment of Technology’, in The Art of Anthropology: Essays and Diagrams, in E.Hirsch. (ed.). London School of Economics Monographs on Social Anthropology, 67. London,: Athlone Press, 159–86.

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Kocher Schmid, C. 1991. ‘Of People and Plants: A Botanical Ethnography of Nokopo Village, Madang and Morobe Provinces, Papua New Guinea’. Basle: Ethnologisches Seminar der Universität und Museum für Völkerkunde in Kommission bei Wepf & Co. AG Verlag. Basler Beiträge zur Ethnologie 33. ——— 1993. ‘Cultural Identity as a Coping Strategy towards Modern Political Structures: The Nayudos Case (Papua New Guinea)’, in: Politics, Tradition and Social Change in the Pacific, T. van Meijl and P. van der Grijp (eds.), Bijdragen tot de Taal- Land- en Volkenkunde / Journal of the Royal Institute of Linguistics and Anthropology, 149(4), 781–801. ——— In press. ‘Facets of Death in the Middle Sepik Area and Beyond’, in Overmodeled Skulls: their Art, Archaeology and Anthropology, A.C. Aufderheide (ed.). Adelaide: Crawford House Publishing Pty Ltd. Niles, D.K. 1992. ‘Kap and Tambaran: Music of the Yupno/Nankina Area in Relation to Neighbouring Groups’, in: Abschied von der Vegangenheit. Ethnologische Berichte aus dem Finisterre-Gebirge in Papua New Guinea, J. Wassmann (ed.). Berlin: Reimer, 149–83. Reed, S.W. [1942]1984. The Making of Modern New Guinea with Special Reference to Culture Contact in the Mandated Territory. Memoirs of the American Philosophical Society 17. Ann Arbor: University Microfilms International. Report from DO Aitape to HQ Lae. 4 January 1946. Pacific Manuscripts Bureau, Canberra: Australian National University. Singaut NAU. 1993. ‘The Voice of the Voiceless / Nek Bilong Maus Pas. Nayudos Amun (people’s) Union Niusleta, January. Singaut NAU. 1994. ‘The Voice of the Voiceless / Nek Bilong Maus Pas. Nayudos Amun (people’s) Union Niusleta, January. Stevenson, K. 1999. ‘Festivals, Identity and Performance: Tahiti and the Sixth Pacific Arts Festival’, in: Art and Performance in Oceania, B. Craig, B. Kernot and C. Anderson (eds.). Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 29–36. Swaine, S. 1971/72. Saidor Patrol report no 2. 7 September to 25 September.1972. Van Helden. 1998. Flip Between Cash and Conviction: The Social Context of the Bismarck-Ramu Integrated Conservation and Development Project. Boroko: Nartional Research Institute and United Nations Development Programme. Wanek, A. 1996. The State and its Enemies in Papua New Guinea. Richmond: Nordic Institute of Asian Studies and Curzon Press Ltd.

11 Can Museums become Indigenous? The Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress and Contemporary Papua Nick Stanley

Introduction One of the burdens that indigenous museums bear is that they are heir to Western concepts and definitions of the very term ‘museum’. Furthermore, as one commentator has noted ruefully, ‘museums, and the various forms of heritage derivatives, have in fact contributed to a form of institutionalised rationalization of the past’ (Walsh 1992: 176). Whilst, as Lask notes (2005: 9) museums are currently ‘reassuming, through a witty pedagogy, their former role as places of popular amusement more than institutions of solid production of scientific facts’, the author also situates contemporary museums like the Museum of the 21st Century in Tokyo within a Foucaultian perspective. ‘History is always written by the victors’ (Lask 2005: 10). Furthermore, it can be argued that part of the writing of history is the incorporation of an assumption of the naturalness and inevitableness of such a presentation. Within museums this remains the case not only in the taxonomic organization of science museums and natural history museums, it also extends to the selection, organisation, and presentation of displays in art galleries. Scientific principles are to be found at the foundation of the Western model and pervade even the most visitor-centred exhibitions: pedagogic principles in pedagogy and androgyny require that programmes provide effective evidence of planned learning and change. It must readily be admitted that one of the features that unites so many of the institutions and practices celebrated in this book is the prominence that Western scholars, officials, missionaries and collectors have played in their initiation. Only recently has attention has been systematically paid to the manner in which such

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agents forefronted the role of artefacts as talismans of cultural identity, notably Thomas (1994) and O’Hanlon and Welsch (2000). Significantly, as a result of such promotion by these agents, artefacts were incorporated into a modernizing and commercial agenda. Small examples are to be found throughout the colonial enterprise (see Warr 1947; McBean 1964) Whilst it can be effectively argued that a museum or culture centre’s provenance is no guide to its future direction, nevertheless the imprint of its creators is clearly visible and persists to the present day. But, to contradict Walsh, what is so exciting about many of the case studies examined in this collection is precisely the degree to which they breach the Western sense of museological proprieties, particularly in terms of the great power which is often invested in artefacts, and, conversely, the attention directed here to nontangible aspects of heritage, seen in active display rather than preserved in storehouses. Put simply, there is a clear distinction between, on the one hand, preservation of material fragments of the past, and on the other, of engaging with this past to ensure that it has a living future (Clavir 2002: 245). Inheritance may be a less problematic issue than it first appears. One of the distinctions that we have acquired from Mead is that between indigenous and nonindigenous models. The tension implicit in the contrast suggests that these models are mutually antagonistic and incompatible. There is a further implication that indigenous museums are potentially successful to the extent that they free themselves from the restrictions that are endemic in Western models. However, in this chapter I want to consider another alternative possibility, in which indigenous elements develop alongside, rather than in conflict with, such Western models. I should warn the reader that I will not be seeking easy ways to insinuate methods and approaches from one camp into the other. Indeed, I think that some of the incompatibilities between the two systems are major sources for future trouble. It would be well, in my view, to face these rather than seeking a facile but superficial union. I return to the case study that I offered briefly in the introduction to this book to consider a different set of questions, which I feel have significance both within the region and more widely within museum development.

What Constitutes Indigenous Aesthetics? There are, however, some preliminary problems associated with the term ‘indigenous’ that have to be faced before attempting any alternative synthetic formulation. McIntosh maintains that ‘the term indigenous is appropriate only when considering the inequitable relationship and claims of a subjugated “first people” with respect to their oppressors’ (McIntosh 2002: 23). This definition has very significant consequences for any thesis relating to indigenous museums. It means, for example, that indigenous culture is always set against an extant colonial rule, and often, McIntosh argues, such indigenous people ‘try to lever rights from the state by appeal to the international community’. So curators and proponents of indigenous cultural development always start from a reactive and

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dependent position. This makes any formulation of an ‘indigenous aesthetics’ highly problematic. An example helps illustrate this problem. Stylistically, Asmat art, particularly in respect of the design of shields, has been subject to clear categorization. A simple fourfold classification based on geographic location (Konrad, Konrad and Schneebaum 1981: 40–43; Schneebaum 1985: 58–59; Smidt 1993: 53–57) has served to distinguish between the range of Asmat shield outline shapes and design motifs. These are common to a range of associated villages which are normally closely adjacent. It is, therefore, easy to recognize the provenance of such shields. This typological categorisation has been subsequently further refined to yet another twenty-four separate subcategories on the basis of village and language/dialect. (Helfrich et al. 1995: 6–7; Konrad, Sowada and Konrad 2002: 1–2). This straightforward schema has permitted sophisticated further visual and symbolic analyses (van der Zee 1996). This clear categorical imperative might lead one to assume that Asmat people themselves would adopt the same kind of distinctions. But evidence does not support such a conjecture. This was clear when I watched three carvers from the village of Pirien examining a collection of photographs of Asmat carving submitted for the annual lumba ukir (carving contest) the previous year (2001) from across the region. In all, there were photographs of 670 carvers from sixty-seven villages to examine. My field notes record that: Ursula Konrad invited the three men in. One was the Kepala Desa (Headman) of Pirien, named Kokai. Ursula showed them the photographs of each contestant holding his entry. So for the next hour she checked each photo with them against a handlist of villages and carvers that she had previously compiled. Watching the men at work was fascinating. They passed over those they did not know but identified the village of origin for each with very few inconsistencies or disagreement. When they were unsure they passed the image around and sometimes failed to make an identification. (Stanley 2000: 13–14)

Later in the same field notes I reflected on this and similar experiments. I concluded Time and again as Ursula asked her informants to identify objects and carvers from photographs, the answers would be detailed and clear about subjects and items from the village of the informant, but others from elsewhere would be passed over without any apparent degree of specialist interest. They were merely ‘from elsewhere’. (Stanley 2000: 61)

There may be several reasons for this selective interest. However, it is likely that the concept of Asmat art held little purpose for these carvers. This visual agnosticism probably reflects a similar lack of perception of a shared linguistic or cultural inheritance across the region. Quite simply, whilst these carvers regularly

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meet their peers from other districts, especially in the capital Agats, where most villages have a permanent presence, they do not necessarily or readily perceive themselves as heirs to a shared visual or linguistic culture. To speak of ‘Asmat style’ is to employ a term clearly recognizable to colonial or outside reference systems but one that is not familiar to those who are considered indigenous. This does not imply that Asmat artists lack pride in their work. On the contrary, international recognition of the quality of Asmat work serves as a confirmation to both wow ipits (master carvers) and cescu cepes (skillful women basket makers) that their work has continuing value and significance. But this is generally seen from a local perspective. ‘Why’, a basket maker asks, ‘do you go over to Erma (a neighbouring village) and buy so much rubbish when there’s excellent work here just outside your front door?’ Excellence is seen in terms of innovation. Innovative design, such artists argue, requires more work than producing wellexecuted traditional motifs. Innovation is judged an independent good that should receive immediate financial recognition in its its own right. Conspicuous skill may be considered synonymous with degree of decoration. The Balinese market, which demands a high volume of semifinished pieces, favours extensive overdecoration (coix beads on bags, embellished additional figures on wooden panels, drums and even shields) and the transformation of abstract into concrete designs (flying fox designs on shields, for example, acquire three-dimensional heads and legs growing from the plain surface of the shield). In their response to the rapidly changing market for innovative contemporary products, carvers and basket makers in the village feel little constraint over subject matter or treatment in their creative work. There is often a clash of perspectives between them and their prospective purchasers. As baffled carvers in a village exclaimed on one typical occasion when their rapidly executed carvings were rejected: ‘We made it for you, so you have to buy it.’ When no further negotiation was forthcoming, these carvers from Binamzien retorted: ‘Go away. Go home and stop bothering us’ (Stanley 2000: 57). Here, one of the most significant factors that distinguish carvers’ and purchasers’ values is the lack of agreement about the parameters of aesthetic principles proper to the genre. Genre, in turn requires a canon from which to extemporize. Purchasers do share (often subconsciously) a view about the role of authenticity in craft production. They often find this difficult to articulate in a way that makes much sense to the artistic creators. However, this clash of perspectives is not inevitable. Carvers are, indeed, interested in photographs and illustrated books which offer historic examples from their own and other villages, but the concept of heritage or inheritance does not form a significant basis for the execution of their work. However, notions of copyright are important in ownership over designs and motifs. Such restrictions are proper not to villages nor to districts, but to individual carvers and their commissioners, and these designs are not treated as marketable.

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Indigenous Curation and Museum Training If a common indigenous aesthetic system is hard to locate this does not necessarily imply that visual anarchy reigns. The indigenous curator plays a very special role in situating museum practice in such a location. There is good reason to consider the curator as a significant cultural broker, and thus a Big Man in the Melanesian sense of the term. There are a number of features that confirm the curator’s status. Firstly, the curator bridges the gap between Western museum culture and local cultural systems. Both of the first two curators of the Asmat Museum, Abraham Kuruwaip and Yufensus Biakai, made extended study trips to Europe and America to acquaint themselves with the historic collections, particularly in the Netherlands.1 They have become intimately acquainted with Western systems of classification of Asmat art. They have also acquired an extensive knowledge of Asmat carvings dating as far back as the 1830s. This breadth of understanding is itself uncommon among Western scholars. In turn, the curators from the Asmat Museum have regularly acted as hosts to scholars from Western museums on their study trips to the region.2 Biakai has also taken Asmat carvers on tours of Europe and America, further adding to his international function as a gatekeeper and so serving to ‘to play a role in redefining the identity of the people studied to the outside world’ (Jaarsma 2000: 126).3 Indigenous curators also have an analogous significance for the local community, defining the collection in terms that make local sense. So Biakai, the longest-serving curator of the Asmat Museum, explains the significance of the museum in its catalogue, but in terms which address an international audience: The Asmat look at the museum as a dwelling place of the spirits, and consider it equivalent to an uce – a banyan tree in which they believe the spirits reside. The spirits they refer to are the spirits of the ancestors and those of the deceased whose names are given in commemoration to these unanimated objects. Beside the spirit of the object itself is present in the museum. And last but not least, ucu kamor (the spirit of the male banyan tree) and ucu kamoraot (the spirit of the female banyan tree) are also found in the museum. (Biakai in Konrad, Sowada and Konrad 2002: 66)

This description emphasizes the point made by Gathercole elsewhere that ‘indigenous cultural properties become a part of curatorial knowledge which is in itself an expression of the museum culture to which artefacts have acceded, and to which, of course, they did not belong’ (Gathercole 1989: 74). A further question, however, remains: whether this movement necessarily implies severance from original context. This is a question taken up later in this chapter. It is not surprising, therefore, that neither Kuruwaip nor Biakai, having acquired such skills in negotiating between cultures, have been content to remain in the museum. Both have sought political office consistent with their position as senior members of their community acquainted with dealing with the wider world. Biakai became the Bupati (Regent), in 2005 for an extensive region

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including Asmat, and acquired major political power. I would argue that such a career trajectory probably is available to most indigenous curators and so risks a constant drain on curatorial expertise within the museum, as Foana‘ota has illustrated in chapter 2. In such cases, museums act as the springboard for political and social development, often at the expense of curatorial training for subsequent generations. On the other hand, it could be argued that a new generation of political leaders with sound museological and cultural training are in a better position to further advance the role of the local museum. They are excellently placed to unite heritage with development.

Indigenous Audiences and Global Recognition If a pan-Asmat cultural self-consciousness is not always experienced by the villagers, can the museum contribute to an enhanced self-recognition? This is a key question which involves not only local perceptions but the interplay between Asmat and external players. The role of ‘significant others’ is important in this context. Traders, military personnel, administrators and missionaries have not only impinged, often dramatically, on Asmat life, but have also engaged with artistic and aesthetic development quite as much as in political and economic transformation. Their impact can be seen and explored in the displays. The museum represents the location of this exchange and provides visual evidence in modernist display terms. But modern exhibition design in the museum (to be found in such contemporary displays as the Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde in Leiden or the Metropolitan Museum, New York) contrasts starkly with the cultural context from which these artefacts have been extracted. When Asmat and outsider visitors come across a display of decorated skulls in the gallery, the modernist model ceases to hold sway. The museum represents a physical repudiation of early Indonesian attempts to suppress expressions of local spiritual values. The historic collection of masks, drums, shields, bis (ancestor poles), canoe prows, wuramon (soul ships), pipes, paddles and spears cannot be seen apart from ancestor and trophy skulls also exhibited in the same gallery. In the Asmat Museum the display relates to a living tradition of veneration of ancestors, itself a common feature of most Melanesian and Papuan societies. Western visitors have also sought to explore these spiritual dimensions in visual terms.4 Artists such as Bernhard (1998) and Wegerl (2002) portray Asmat people and the artist’s experience of visiting the area. Villevoye, on the other hand (2001a, 2001b), interacts with Asmat people in the making of his art.Thus, many people living in the villages across Asmat have direct access to contemporary art makers from abroad and a regular acquaintance with their aesthetic values displayed in their purchase decisions when collecting on the boardwalks. Carvers and sellers note the excitement that collectors, artists and ethnographers alike display in the acquisition of significant objects. Lindstrom argues that throughout

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Melanesia it is licit to turn the traditional notion of cargo cult on its head. We are all cargo cultist, as much in the West as in Melanesia, in that: we wait eternally for an end to desire that will not end. The Melanesian cultist merely reads our lines … cargoist discourse effaces as much as it traces the frontier between the occident and orient. It blurs cultural, geographic, and racial distinctions to insist instead that a human desire that is never satisfied and never-ending is the normal, truthful experience of humankind everywhere. (Lindstrom 1995: 56)

A consequence of this new perception is that both parties to the exchange come to have a greater recognition of each other’s interests. In a real way, the Museum of Culture and Progress offers the Asmat visitor a clear way to read Western museum cultural values through the display of Asmat artefacts in a museum. It could be argued that it is something of a tall order to expect Asmat carvers, elders and children to engage in a comparative museological exercise every time they enter the museum. What I want to argue, however, is that the museum offers the visitors another take on the material world. This take is nothing novel. Rather it is consistent with the range of experiences that both the indigenous curator, the widely-travelled Asmat and the foreign collectors and artists bring back. It is not a one-way experience. As Clifford remarks, ‘as we try to grasp the full range of indigenous ways to be “modern,” it is crucial to recognize patterns of visiting and return, of desire and nostalgia, of lived connections across distances and differences’ (Clifford 2001: 470). Local people have the possibility of shuttling to and fro between the new and the familiar, but the new also becomes the familiar too. Nevertheless, it should be recognized in this context, that openness to external force, artistic as much as economic or cultural, can lead to the use of what Kingston terms ‘dependent language’. (Kingston 1999: 4). He means that artists, when they seek to create art that appeals to ‘the categories of the monied in the realpolitik’ – Europeans, Australians and Americans – these artists inevitably devalue local categories as inauthentic. Kingston suggests that Melanesian artists, ‘like their western colleagues, might find that it is necessary and imaginative compromises between independent and dependent languages that fuel creative innovation’ (ibid). The relationship between the two types of exhibit in the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress exemplifies this complex issue. At the front of the museum, in the left-hand gallery, are exhibited the winning entries of the annual carving contest. The degree of innovation has over the years increased dramatically so that there is now a clear and categorical distinction between modern pieces that are narrative, even storyboards. These contrast clearly with the traditional pieces that are symbolic and abstract in their designs. However, the recent introduction of a very large stuffed crocodile risks upsetting the positive tension between historical objects and contemporary styles of display. The size and presence of the crocodile risks transporting all who enter the gallery back into a cabinet of curiosities.

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A question remains as to whether there is a sustainable hypothesis that indigenous art in a global context is inevitably destined to move from abstract to narrative form. By displaying both types of art, the curators of the Asmat Museum are able to construct educational programmes that explore the articulation between traditional forms and contemporary development. They are also in a good position both to demonstrate how far back such developments as filigree work go, and to show the persistence of traditional motifs in seemingly unlikely modern pieces. This is important work for two reasons. Firstly, it contradicts the pessimism of some prominent European scholars. Writing in 1956 during the Dutch colonial period, Simon Kooijman wrote, ‘the great demand for woodcarving on the part of European visitors and travellers may stimulate the production, but given present-day experience it is unlikely that this will constitute an incentive towards artistic achievement’ (Kooijman 1956: 371). What Kooijman’s prediction did not take into account was indigenous agency, which is not solely oriented towards this European market. The museum helps to maintain a dynamic interplay between historical and contemporary craft. Secondly, such a development is consistent with Clifford’s notion of ‘articulation theory’. Clifford argues that such a perspective provides ‘a nonreductive way to think about cultural transformation and the apparent coming and going of “traditional” forms’. He goes on: ‘in articulation theory, the whole question of authenticity is secondary, and the process of social and cultural persistence is political all the way back. It is assumed that cultural forms will always be made, unmade and remade’. The community has a major task in convincing others to respect its autonomy. (Clifford 2001: 478, 479). In such a process indigenous museums have a vital role to play in providing space for a variety of voices. The indigenous museum also offers a new form of discourse when the traditional museum gives up its attempt to interrogate the material it has acquired. I offer an example. There is something mournful and distressing about the account from the British Museum’s curator of ethnography, H.J. Braunholtz, commenting on the acquisition of Lord Moyne’s shields and spears collected during an expedition up the Einladen (now Sirets) river in central Asmat in 1929. Braunholtz, no doubt following Moyne’s account, described the inhabitants as ‘warlike and truculent members of the Papuan race, who are still living in the Stone Age’. He concludes his description of the collection with the disappointed comment: ‘Unfortunately the natives’ own account of their designs is not yet forthcoming’ (Braunholtz 19933/4: 155). This, fortunately is no longer the case, to some considerable extent because of the advent of indigenous voices. We all now recognize these objects collected by Moyne as coming from the Brazza River area and related to others on display in the Asmat Museum since 1973.

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Can Museums become Indigenous? It is perhaps a good place to return to the question posed in the title of this chapter. There is an element of logical contradiction built into the question, implying that institutions with a Western provenance cannot reasonably be expected to shed their pedigree. However, on closer inspection this simple dichotomy dissolves into more interesting possibilities. In the case of the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress what would represent an indigenous future? As Kreps has demonstrated ably, there is a very clear sense of what professional museum standards look like to Indonesian museologists, and they are inimical to localism (Kreps 1994). The Asmat Museum is a member of the national museum association of Indonesia, under the supervision of the Directorate of Museums (Direktorat Permuseuman). Consequently, the ‘Indonesianization’ programme, which is pursued with vigour by the central government, represents an ‘indigenous’ agenda, but one which is dependent on core bureaucratic values developed within the state cultural infrastructure. There are, however, limits to the effectiveness of such state initiatives. The largest museum/tourism complex in Indonesia, Taman Mini Indonesia Indah, constructed under the orders of President Soeharto, was designed to combine icons of modernization (for example, the petrochemicals museum) with ethnographic detail in provincial villages (Pemberton 1994: 152–61) However, Taman Mini serves rather as a public park providing, in particular, space for young people to meet without supervision. The museum agenda seems scarcely to interest or engage visitors in any way. However, there are other sources of power available to the Asmat museum. Paradoxically, these are primarily international in origin as well as in operation. The museum has a substantial endowment which produces an annual dividend wholly at the museum’s disposal. This provides a substantial buffer against any threats to the museum’s integrity. However, it requires the museum to operate in a formally rational Weberian manner consistent with conventions. How consistent is this with local traditions? This is a question one might ask of any of the cases discussed in this book. But the contrast remains profound between the quiet, academic and other-directed environment of the Asmat museum in the administrative centre of Agats, and the rhythm of daily life in the villages and along the rivers. There is a danger, perhaps hypothetical, that the financial stability of the museum may help insulate it rather than strengthen its links with the local community. The indigenization of museum personnel (indirectly strengthened by the state indonesianization policy with regard to religion and culture) may be quite consistent with internationalization. It can be argued that international organizations can help in the development of local initiatives. European and North American academics and museums represent a powerful force in implementing training and support for the museum and its agenda. Such discussions are currently taking place between the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress in Agats and the American Museum of Asmat Art, based in Minneapolis/St Paul, Minnesota.

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The Asmat, unlike most other people discussed in this book, have a museum but no cultural centre. However, the annual lumba ukir (carving contest) and other associated spin-off activities bring the museum and local carvers into a direct, if not always harmonious, relationship. The museum could be said to offer an aesthetic direction to indigenous innovation and creativity. But, in their turn, judges at the contest have to recognize and accommodate to local sentiment, especially with regard to equity in the distribution of prizes between the villages. It should be noted that, although the lumba ukir has been held for over twentyfive years, there is no discernable dropping-off in enthusiasm for the annual event amongst carvers who integrate their production within the rhythms of daily life. There has also been an evolution of new forms and sets of actors during this period (figures 11.1 and 11.2).

11.1. Contemporary shield/sculpture, Asmat, Papua. (Collection: Ursula and Gunter Konrad. Photo: Ursula Konrad. With permission from G. and U. Konrad.)

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11.2. Contemporary shield/sculpture with three dimensional ornamentation, Asmat, Papua. (Collection Ursula and Gunter Konrad. Photo: Ursula Konrad. With permission from G. and U. Konrad.)

The most recent has been the introduction of an exhibition of men carving during the festival introduced in 2004. There has also been a rapid growth of women’s fibre arts expressed in mats and bags. Here, a whole new tradition, closely modelled on the iconography of carving, has created an aesthetic life of its own. The opening up of new air and sea routes directly into Asmat over the past two years will undoubtedly provide new opportunities for local mobility and for outsiders to develop regular relationships with Asmat people. In turn this will enable the project of indonesianization to expand whilst at the same time providing an opportunity for the Asmat people to reassess their place in the wider

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world. The Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress is deeply involved in these current developments. Its collection and its engagement with the local community serves to strengthen its indigenous credentials.

Conclusion Smidt, in an interview with Raymond Corbey published in 2000, reflected on his experience as a curator at the National Museum and Art Gallery in Port Moresby. In the discussion he made a nice distinction between indigenous and Western museums. He said: ‘In western museums, sacred articles are, so to speak, desacralized by showing them to the uninitiated; they are used as material for study or approached aesthetically. In nonwestern museums, on the contrary, sacred artefacts are respected; they are seen as having a soul and appreciated for their inner spiritual power’ (Corbey 2000: 213). In a museum with a continuously changing profile of a period of thirty years, the Asmat Museum of (Culture and Progress has enjoyed the space and opportunity for a differentiation of purpose and mission. It has also been able to show how elements of social, material and spiritual life are not ‘sliced up’5 but form a continuous present, albeit one that looks simultaneously backward, forward and sideways. It has retained a respect for the power and mana of the heritage collection and yet managed to constantly innovate. This is a difficult achievement but one which any indigenous museum needs to do to survive. As I have argued in this chapter, the prospects for the future of the indigenous museum, exemplified through the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress, look bright. The indigenous museum, to survive, needs continuous financial, logistical and curatorial support. It benefits from regular contact with major international museums. The Asmat Museum has, through the lumba ukir, been able to promote innovation and manage sale of contemporary work abroad. But a nagging question remains: given its peculiar circumstances, does the Asmat Museum qualify as an indigenous museum? I would suggest that it does for two reasons. Firstly, it is present- and future-orientated (a criterion that I have argued is a distinctive one differentiating it from Western models) and, secondly, and perhaps as importantly, it engages with contemporary life. Eoe argued in Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific that local museums had to integrate with the economy and local values. This, conspicuously, the Asmat Museum has been able to do. Furthermore, it should be recognized that the Asmat Museum, like all the contemporary models discussed in this book, provides a resource and a licence of authenticity for Western scholars who come to study in both the museum and the locale. It can be effectively argued that such indigenous museums also help Western ones become ‘more dynamic places than they used to be fifty years ago’ (Bouquet 2001: 4) through their engagement with local heritage and contemporary actors who are part of the dynamic of constant cultural change.

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Notes 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

‘Abraham Kuruwaip, a Papuan from Merauke with a B.A. from Cenderwasih University, is now in Hawaii on a JDR 3rd Fund grant, studying at the East-West Center in Honolulu to be curator of the museum’ (Schneebaum 1975: 89). ‘Kuruwaip left the museum in 1882 and was replaced by Yufen Biakai, an Asmat from the village of Jamasj’ (Schneebaum 1985: 29). Local employees of commercial and cultural collecting organizations often play an analogous role. In Asmat the FUNDWI project to revive woodcarving and sell to museums and collectors abroad provided a similar role for Jeremias Mbiad (see Mbaid 1973: 36). In the neighbouring Kamoro region a similar opportunity has occurred more recently for Methodius Mamapuku (2003). ‘In 1990 and 1991 a group of carvers and performers from Papua, including both Dani and Asmat, made their own tours of Europe and North America. In New Orleans, in particular, these artists had the opportunity to make contact with Black Americans. A similar tour to North America was made in 2000. This time the Asmat carver/performers spent time with First Nation Americans on a reservation’ (Stanley 2002b: 31). See for example F. Bloemen and M. Knippenbergh, ‘Beelden uit het moraes’, Museum van Bommel, Venlo, 1991; ‘A Spellbound Vision : Viewing Asmat art Through the Eyes of the Contemporary Artist’ Weber State University, Ogden, Utah, 2002. Of her project Artefacts in Theory Henare writes, ‘Rather than seeking to avoid the “slicing up” of life altogether, the project seeks to investigate how life is sliced up differently for different people, and how some may not slice it up at all, at least in some senses, emphasising continuities and parallels over distinctions and difference’ (Henare 2003: 64).

References Bernhard, H. 1998. Asmat: Gegegnung und Reflexion, Horst Bernhard in Neuguinea. Linz: Schlossmuseum. Biakai, Y. 2002. ‘The Asmat Museum : Why So Important?’ in Asmat: Perception of Life In Art: The Collection of the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress, U.Konrad. A. Sowada and G. Konrad. (eds.). Mönchengladbach: B Kühlen Verlag: 65–68. Bouquet, M. 2001. ‘Introduction: Academic Anthropology and the Museum. Back to the Future’, in Academic Anthropology and the Museum: Back to the Future, M. Bouquet (ed.). New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1–16. Braunholtz, H. 1933–1934. ‘Carved Shields and Spears from Dutch New Guinea’, British Museum Quarterly, 8, 153–55. Brown, M. 2003. Who owns Native Culture? Cambridge Massachussetts and London: Harvard University Press. Clavir, M. 2002. Preserving What Is Valued: Museums, Conservation and First Nations, Vancouver and Toronto: University of British Columbia Press, 2002. Clifford, J. 2001. ‘Indigenous Articulations’, The Contemporary Pacific, 13(2), 468–90. Corbey, R. 2000. ‘Anthropologist and Curator: Dirk Smidt’, in R.Corbey. Tribal Art Traffic: A Chronicle of Taste, Trade and Desire in Colonial and Post-colonial Times, Amsterdam: Royal Tropical Institute, 201–13.

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Gathercole, P. 1989. ‘The Fetishism of Artefacts’, in Museum Studies in Material Culture. S. Pearce (ed.). Leicester: Leicester University Press. Helfrich, K., N. Jebens, W. Nelke and C. Winkelmann. (eds.). 1995. Asmat: Mythos und Kunst. Berlin: Museum für Völkerkunde, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin. Henare, A. 2003. ‘Artefacts in Theory: Anthropology and Material Culture’, Cambridge Anthropology, 23(2), 54–66. Hitchcock, M. and N. Stanley. Forthcoming. ‘Out–door Ethnographic Museums, Tourism and Nation Building in Southeast Asia’. Jaarsma, S. 2000. ‘Will the True Ethnographer Step Forward?’, in Ethnographic Artefacts: Challenges to a Reflexive Anthropology, S. Jaarsma and M. Rohatynskyi (eds.). Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 124–49. Kingston, S. 1999. ‘Pidgin Arts’, Anthropology Today 15(2), 1–4. Koijman, S. 1956. ‘Art of Southwestern New Guinea: A Preliminary Survey’, Antiquity and Survival, 5(1), 343–72. Konrad, G., Konrad, U. and Schneebaum, T. 1981. Asmat: Life with the Ancestors: Stone Age Wood Carvers in Our Time, Glashütten: Friedhelm Brückner. Konrad, U., A.Sowada and G. Konrad. (eds.). 2002. Asmat: Perception of Life in Art. The Collection of the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress, Mönchengladbach: B Kühlen Verlag. Kreps, C. 1994. ‘The Paradox of Cultural Preservation in Museums’, The Journal of Arts Management, Law and Society, 23(4), 291–304. ——— 1998. ‘Museum-making and Indigenous Curation in Central Kalimantan, Indonesia’, Museum Anthropology, 24(2), 5–17. ——— 2003. Liberating Culture: Cross-Cultural Perspectives on Museums, Curation and Heritage Preservation. London and New York: Routledge. Lask, T. (ed.). 2005. ‘Museums – Collections – Interpretations: Rethinking the Construction of Meanings and Identities’, Civilisations 3(2), 7–19. Lindstrom, L. 1995. ‘Cargoism and Occidentalism’, in Occidentalism: Images of the West, J. Carrier (ed.). Oxford: Clarendon Press, 33–60. Mamapuku, M. and T. Harple. 2003. ‘Ancestral Heritage and the Essence of Life’, in Kamoro Art: Tradition and Innovation in a New Guinea Culture, D. Smidt (ed.). Amsterdam and Leiden: KIT Publishers and Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde, 22–23. Mbiad, J. 1973. ‘The Asmat Handicraft Project’, IRIAN: Bulletin of West Irian Development. Jayapura: University of Cenderwasih, 2(1), 36–37. McBean, A. 1964. Handicrafts of the South Seas: an Illustrated Guide for Buyers, Noumea: South Pacific Commission. McIntosh, I. 2002. ‘Defining Oneself, and Being Defined as “Indigenous”’, Anthropology Today 18(3), 23–24. O’Hanlon, M and R. Welsch (eds.). 2000. Hunting the Gatherers: Ethnographic Collectors, Agents and Agency in Melanesia 1870s–1930s, New York & Oxford: Berghahn Books. Pemberton, J. 1994. On the Subject of ‘Java’, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Schneebaum, T. 1975. ‘A Museum for New Guinea’, Craft Horizons 35(2), 36, 88–89. ——— 1985. Asmat Images from the Collection of the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress. Agats: Museum of Culture and Progress. Smidt, D. (ed.). 1993. Asmat Art: Woodcarvings of Southwest New Guinea, Leiden: Periplus Editions. Stanley, N. 2000. Unpublished Fieldnotes in West Papua, September–October.

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——— 2002a. ‘Living with the Ancestors in an International Art World’ in Asmat: Perception of Life in Art. The Collection of the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress, U. Konrad., A. Sowada., and G. Konrad. (eds.). Mönchengladbach: B. Kühlen Verlag, 24–32. ——— 2002b. ‘Museums and Indigenous Identity: Asmat Carving in a Global Context’, in Pacific Art: Persistence, Change and Meaning, A Herle., N. Stanley., K. Stephenson and R. Welsch (eds.). Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 147–64. ——— 2005. ‘A Matter of Location: Art and Anthropology in the Museum’, in Intruders: Alternative Reflections on Art and the Ethnological Museum, G Drosterij, T Ooms and K Vos (eds.). Amsterdam: Waanders Publishers. Thomas, N. 1994. Colonialism’s Culture: Anthropology, Travel and Government, Cambridge: Polity Press. van der Zee, P. 1996. ‘Etsjopok: Avenging the Ancestors. The Bisj Pole of the Asmat and a Proposal for a Morphological Method, a Discussion Paper’. Ghent: Department of Ethnic Art, University of Ghent. Villevoye, R. 2001a. 150 Amsterdam: Galerie Fons Welters. ——— 2001b. Rood Katoen [Red Calico] Leiden: Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde. Walsh, K. 1992. The Representation of the Past: Museums and Heritage in the Post-Modern World, London and New York: Routledge. Warr, W. 1947. South Seas: A Handbook for Leaders, London: Edinburgh House Press. Wegerl, I. 2002. Malerei: Gesichter einer anderen Welt, [Faces from a Different World]. Mönchengladbach: Asmat Art Galerei.

Part IV Reflections on the Future of Indigenous Museums

12 The Transformation of Cultural Centres in Papua New Guinea Robert L. Welsch When George W. Stocking, Jr. (1985) solicited contributions for the third volume in his History of Anthropology series, Objects and Others, he wrote that he was hoping to obtain essay submissions about how anthropologists had changed the ways that they approached the study and meaning of objects. But instead of papers about objects, he largely received contributions focused on the institutions that housed ethnographic objects: the museum. Stocking’s experience suggests how strong the linkage between objects and museums is in the minds of anthropologists. In the twenty years since – in part because of Stocking’s book – anthropologists have taken objects somewhat more seriously as evidence of cultural process, as vehicles for cultural communication, and as symbols around which cultural and local identities can coalesce. Yet, for many anthropologists, the presumed linkage between museums and objects is still as strong as it was when Stocking issued his ‘call for papers’. It should not be a surprise to us that when anthropologists read these essays about indigenous museums, many will presume that these Melanesian museums are about the preservation of objects. But many of these case studies suggest a much more complex role for museums and related cultural institutions than a single-minded preoccupation with objects. Indeed, what makes these cultural institutions indigenous is the ways they have deviated from the mission of the natural history or art museum in Europe, Australia or America. As many of the essays in this volume suggest, objects generally mean something quite different for Pacific Islanders than for Western curators, collectors and museum anthropologists. For most Pacific communities, objects stand for important traditions, ideas, customs and social relations that ought to persist. The preservation of objects may be a nice thing but, ultimately, every object can be remade as local needs require, much as they always were recarved, repainted or newly assembled. And, of course, in many societies certain masks or other ritual paraphernalia should be destroyed following a ritual or performance

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and should not be preserved. For islanders it is generally the traditions, the stories, the performances, and perhaps most importantly the relationships among people and between people and places that are critical. If an object is lost or damaged, it can always be made once more. But if a tradition is lost it is lost forever. Thus, we ought to expect that indigenous museums and related cultural institutions in the Pacific would tend to take on a rather different significance from what we might expect in the West. Melanesian museums and cultural centres may or may not preserve objects effectively. But whether they collect and conserve objects or not, the key evidence of their success might best be understood by the extent to which these indigenous institutions conserve – and help islanders conserve – their cultural traditions. As a consequence, when we discuss indigenous museums in Melanesian countries, it is probably the indigenous cultural centre, rather than the museum in the Western sense, that should become the focus of our attention. In customary Melanesian societies there simply was no tradition of the cabinet of curiosities as there was in Western countries. There is clear evidence that Melanesians saved exotic objects that they had been given by friends and relatives in other communities some distance away. In 1909, for instance, at Sissano Lagoon, Field Museum curator A.B. Lewis collected a hair basket made at Rabuin near Wewak, more than 200 kilometres and six or eight languages to the east (Welsch 1998 1: 246, Fig. 4.14). What makes this object so interesting is the fact that he reported in his diary and demonstrated in his photographs that Sissano men wore their hair very long, which meant that such a basket could never be worn. Presumably, the Sissano owner had saved this object as tangible evidence of some long-distance social relationship, of the sort that were so vital to the social and economic lives of people living along the Sepik coast. Such objects typically were important because they embodied important social relations. But their preservation was not very significant since the relationships would persist whether the object survived or not. Thus, the Sissano owner of this hair basket could readily part with the valued sign of friends in distant places, when an anthropologist offered him some tobacco, matches, beads, or some similar European object. Whatever their traditional role in depicting or displaying social and cultural practices and relations, objects are only one element of any Melanesian cultural centre or museum. Rarely are they the only ingredient that might make these institutions successful. This chapter considers the experiences of various cultural institutions in Papua New Guinea that more or less fit one or more of the four criteria Nick Stanley has set out in the introduction as an indigenous museum or cultural centre. My interest is less in establishing which of these institutions are more indigenous and which less, than in understanding how these institutions have or have not flourished. Of particular interest is whether this track record is linked to how well they have maintained their ‘indigenous’ base. With this mind, I will consider a variety of institutions in Papua New Guinea (PNG), beginning with the country’s premier institution, the National Museum and Art Gallery.

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Forerunners to the National Museum The most important cultural institution in PNG – and the only institution that has international standing as a museum – is the National Museum and Art Gallery. Situated in Waigani next to the National Parliament, the National Museum holds the largest collection of New Guinea ethnographic and archaeological objects anywhere. Nearly all of the objects in the collection were obtained since 1953 and a large part of the collection was obtained in the villages by patrol officers and other staff of the colonial Department of District Services and Native Affairs. This collection is actually the fourth national collection of ethnographic objects for the two separate territories of Papua (formerly British New Guinea) and New Guinea (formerly German New Guinea, later the Mandated Territory of New Guinea under the League of Nations, and, after the Second World War, the UN Trust Territory of New Guinea). The first official collection was assembled by Sir William MacGregor, who served as Lieutenant-Governor of British New Guinea from 1888 to 1898. During this time he led a remarkable series of exploratory patrols to most parts of the protectorate. Whenever he interacted with local people he tried to collect objects from them. In part, these objects were intended to document the precontact material culture of the communities he was trying to pacify and control. But they also had the effect of establishing some sort of relationship with the people, and they helped assert the government’s authority. The MacGregor collection was the earliest official collection from any part of the island. At his death he made it clear that the collection belonged to the people of Papua. He lodged the collection at the Queensland Museum, to hold in trust for Papuans. This collection consists of nearly 8,000 objects, the majority of which have recently been repatriated to PNG in one of the largest repatriation efforts anywhere. These objects have now joined the rest of the National Museum’s collection in Port Moresby (see Quinnell 2000). The second official collection was assembled by Sir Hubert Murray, who served as Administrator of Papua and later Lieutenant-Governor from 1906 till his death in 1940. Murray was assisted by his patrol officers and resident magistrates. He was also helped by F.E. Williams, who served as Government Anthropologist from 1922 to 1943. In 1914, while Murray was on home leave, Miles Staniforth Smith was appointed Acting Administrator. In this capacity he arranged for a small natural history museum to be established and a building for it to be constructed behind the old court house, on the site of the Crowne Plaza Hotel, formerly the Travelodge in downtown Port Moresby (Stuart 1970: 204, 348). Staniforth Smith displayed mostly geological and biological specimens in this museum, although, later, ethnological objects were also installed there. When Williams was Government Anthropologist he set up an office in the same building and it was from here that he edited and published The Papuan Villager, his newspaper for Papuans. It is not clear who the intended audience was for Staniforth Smith’s little museum. But one thing is certain, it was not an

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indigenous museum in any sense. For his part Murray never supported the museum or any of Staniforth Smith’s other endeavours. Murray did recommend his own museum for Port Moresby to the Minister for External Affairs in 1915, but Cambridge anthropologist A.C. Haddon suggested that such a museum would be too difficult in Moresby and the concept was abandoned (Mosuwadoga 1976: 1). The collections that Murray and his officers assembled in the field were stored here for a time, especially after Williams had his office there. But all of these objects were sent — more or less regularly — to Australia for safe keeping. For many years these objects were housed at the Australian Museum in Sydney, but in 1933 they were sent to the Institute of Anatomy in Canberra. These objects are now part of the collection of the National Museum of Australia (Mosuwadoga 1976: 1; Craig 1995: 2003). A third official collection, much smaller than those of MacGregor and Murray, was made in the Mandated Territory between the world wars. This collection was largely the work of New Guinea Government Anthropologist E.W. Pearson Chinnery. It was originally housed in Rabaul and later found its way into the National Museum of Australia’s collection, where it remains today (Mosuwadoga 1976: 1; Eoe 1991; Craig 2003). None of these three attempts to preserve Papua New Guinea’s ethnological heritage were indigenous efforts in any sense of the term. All were the work of the colonial government, its officers and administrators. The only concern represented in these collections was to preserve objects whose local meanings and significance these officers knew were changing as Papuans and New Guineans were adjusting to government control and to the modern world. It would not be until after the Second World War that any institution would emerge with a broader objective.

The National Museum and Art Gallery By the end of the Second World War, whatever official collections had existed in the newly amalgamated Territory of Papua and New Guinea had already been sent to Australia or had been lost during hostilities. In 1953 the Department of District Services and Native Affairs instructed its field staff to begin collecting ethnographic objects in the villages they patrolled and administered. In the same year amendments were made to the Antiquities Ordinance in an effort to control the export of antiquities and to protect the territory’s heritage. These events led to the formation of a museum committee to advise Donald Cleland, Administrator of the Territory of Papua and New Guinea, on establishing a museum. The main result of this committee was passage of the Public Museums and Art Galleries Ordinance in 1954. This ordinance established the Papua New Guinea Public Museum and Art Gallery. The Government Anthropologist, Charles Julius, served as curator. He found space to store the museum’s small but growing collections in unused sheds

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in the grounds of Government House. In 1959 Sir Alan Mann – then Chief Justice in the territory – became president of the board of trustees. Mann arranged for more permanent funding and for a building to house the territory’s cultural heritage. In 1960 space for the museum was found in the lower level of the old European wartime hospital. This structure on MacGregor Street later became the House of Assembly and, later still, became Papua New Guinea’s first Parliament building. A small exhibition area and some storage space was available in this facility. Throughout the 1960s Mann arranged for visiting curators and directors to visit the museum and to advise on what development was necessary for the museum. These visitors included W.F. Ellis, Director of the Queen Victoria Museum in Laurenceton, Tasmania, in 1963, who recommended a variety of improvements in the ways objects were registered, stored, conserved and exhibited (Ellis 1965). The National Museum building was a gift of the Australian government to the Independent State of Papua New Guinea. Construction was begun in July 1975 and completed in June 1977. The National Museum did not start out as an ‘indigenous’ museum, since for its entire history the board of trustees and visiting specialists had consistently recommended changes that would make the museum function like any of the state museums in Australia. The senior administrative staff were expatriates, and strategies for storage, building the collection, registering accessions, and displaying objects to the public were similar to, if not identical to practices used in Australia. At independence in 1975, the National Museum was positioned to become the most important museum in the Melanesian region. With the exception of museums in Hawai‘i and New Zealand, it was destined to be the most prominent museum in the entire Pacific as well. But the National Museum was not well placed to be an indigenous museum. The model for this museum as established in the 1960s and early 1970s was one that seems hardly distinguishable from any natural history museum in Australia, Europe or America. As the name suggests, the National Museum and Art Gallery was originally conceived of as more than simply a natural history museum. From as early as 1954, the museum was also intended to serve as the country’s national art gallery, a role it has not lived up to quite as well. PNG had been independent for two decades when the first position for any kind of curator responsible for contemporary art was established. Even then, the artist Martin Morububuna had only a temporary appointment at the museum. It was only a few years ago that Joe Nalo took up the first permanent position as Curator for Contemporary Art. At the back of the museum is a small amphitheatre that was regularly used in the late 1970s when I first visited the museum. For a number of years this space was an important venue for performances of traditional dances (singsing). But even in the 1970s, very few ‘traditional’ singsings were performed in this space. Most dances were choreographed to fit the relatively small space and in a style of performance expected by European audiences. More importantly, many of these dance performers live in Port Moresby, but have family origins in many different

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ethnic groups from all parts of the country. Many of the dance troupes were students at either the University of Papua New Guinea or one or another of the local high schools. My point is not to challenge the authenticity of these performances (see, e.g., Welsch 2004), but rather to suggest that in these instances the National Museum was actually helping to preserve knowledge of these cultural traditions and was playing a role in disseminating knowledge of such traditional culture to both audiences and performers. But live performances in the museum’s amphitheatre have all but disappeared over the years since the building was officially opened. The wooden stumps that served as seats have gradually begun to rot, as the museum has increasingly focused on preserving the material culture of the nation’s diverse cultures, evidence of the country’s prehistory, its contemporary arts, and biological specimens of its natural species. Most museums around the world have experienced a similar kind of reformulation of mission and the National Museum’s experience should be viewed in a broader international context. The Field Museum in Chicago, for example, where I have been affiliated for twenty years, began with diverse collections about transportation, armaments, industrial technology, and even collections about Christopher Columbus’s discovery of and voyages to the New World. But all of these departments and their collections were disposed of within the first fifteen years of Field Museum’s existence as its board of trustees decided gradually to focus on the four traditional fields of natural history: anthropology, botany, geology and zoology. Something similar has happened at the PNG National Museum as it has become focused exclusively on anthropology, prehistory, natural history and contemporary art. The Director, Soroi Marepo Eoe, has not abandoned many of the other dimensions of the museum’s objectives. For example, the museum’s modern history branch was established in 1978 and is housed on Ahuia Street in Gordons. Its collections document the Second World War, the colonial era, and, in a more limited way, the experiences of PNG since independence. Even more recently the National Museum acquired the site of the Old Parliament building, in the basement of which the museum itself had been housed from 1960 to 1977. Soon after the National Museum acquired the Old Parliament site in 1999, arsonists destroyed much of the structure, apparently in an effort to open the site for commercial development. Despite the destruction, the museum did mount a temporary exhibition on part of the Old Parliament site in 2000 to celebrate the 25th anniversary of independence. Restoration of the Old Parliament is one of Eoe’s longer-term goals. He also hopes to expand the museum campus complex on the current site in Waigani, extending into Constitution Park. Among other things, this complex would have a new facility for the modern history collections, a convention centre, and expanded facilities for exhibition and storage of collections.

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The Indigenization of the National Museum When the museum first moved into its office in the basement of what would later become the Old Parliament building, the museum’s staff consisted of the Government Anthropologist Charles Julius and a native assistant. In 1963 Roy Mackay was hired as preparator, and the following year became head of museum operations when Julius died. In 1968, the staff consisted of two expatriate staff: a Preparator-in-Charge, and his Secretary/Administrative Assistant. In addition there were five indigenous employees: three full-time staff who served as ‘Storeman/Cleaners’ or as an Administrative Employee, as well as a part-time labourer and taxidermist. As plans for the new building developed the museum hired Dirk Smidt, a Dutch anthropologist, as Director in 1972. Smidt had come to the museum initially for a six-month term as Curator of Anthropology, as a temporary replacement for Preparator-in-Charge Roy Mackay. Smidt continued in this capacity for another year and was appointed Director of the museum when Mackay resigned his post. Archaeologist Brian Egloff was brought in as Curator of Anthropology and the two worked with a staff of nine Papua New Guineans and three expatriates. Prior to independence Smidt moved into an advisory capacity when the museum appointed Geoffrey Mosuwadoga to be the first indigenous director. The director’s annual report that year proclaimed that ‘1975 can be considered as the turning point in the Museum’s history when localization of key positions commenced in the museum’. He went on to note that ‘four key positions remained which were held by overseas people, Curator of Anthropology, Curator of Natural History, Assistant to the Director, and the Administrative officer’. For each of these positions local people were being trained to replace them. He went on to predict that, ‘By 1978, all professional positions will be localized and the Museum will be completely run by Papua New Guineans’ (1976: 5). But history does not always unfold as planned and a number of expatriates were hired as curators and assistants to the director over the following thirty years. When Brian Egloff returned to Australia it was hoped that Soroi Eoe would take over as Curator of Anthropology. From 1980 to 1983, an Australian, Barry Craig, assisted in this transition by becoming Curator of Anthropology, but eventually leading to Eoe’s appointment. In 1978 Pamela Swadling became Curator of Prehistory, a post she held for the next twenty years. After Eoe became Director, the museum recruited an American anthropologist, Mark Busse, as Curator of Anthropology in 1990. It was Busse who recruited and mentored his own replacement, Andrew Moutu. When Busse left the museum in 1999, the Curator of Natural History, Frank Bonaccorso, was the only remaining expatriate on the staff, until he left in 2002. Nick Araho currently serves as Curator of Prehistory and Andrew Moutu is Curator of Anthropology. Today, nearly thirty years after independence, the National Museum and Art Gallery is staffed entirely by Papua New Guineans. The staff has finally become fully indigenous. But to what extent is the museum an indigenous institution?

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The Mission of the National Museum The National Museum’s mission has also expanded in the protection and preservation of National Cultural Property (NCP). Before the Second World War both the Mandated Territory of New Guinea and the Territory of Papua had enacted legislation prohibiting export of certain kinds of antiquities and important cultural artefacts. As early as 1913 Governor Murray had enacted restrictions on the export of stuffed heads and human skeletons without an export permit. Using similar legislation, the Government Anthropologist F.E. Williams had unsuccessfully attempted to prevent photographer Frank Hurley and the Australian Museum curator Allan McCulloch from exporting their large collection of ethnological objects from Papua to Australia in 1923. This shipment was delayed for a time, but Williams was eventually forced to release the shipment – largely on the basis of McCulloch’s affiliation with an established scientific institution, the Australian Museum. Williams was concerned that collectors were having a detrimental impact on native communities by stripping them of their art and artefacts. He published an attack on Hurley under the title ‘The Collection of Curios and the Preservation of Native Culture’, as his first anthropology report as Government Anthropologist of Papua (see Williams 1923). Following the Second World War, the combined government of Papua and New Guinea made amendments to the Antiquities Ordinance in 1953; the Public Museums and Art Galleries Ordinance was enacted the following year. In 1965 the House of Assembly passed the National Cultural Property (Preservation) Act, which required permits to export most kinds of older ethnological objects from PNG. PNG’s National Cultural Property legislation as subsequently amended requires staff of the National Museum to inspect and issue export permits to anyone wishing to remove objects from PNG, and prohibits export of anything deemed important to the nation’s cultural heritage (see, e.g., Busse 2000; Moutu 2004). The National Museum was given primary responsibility for enforcing this legislation, which included inspection of material ready to be exported and identification and registration of important objects still in villages that needed special protection. Examples of these latter items would include the entire spirit house (haus tambaran) at Kanganaman village and certain carvings held in the spirit house in Korogo village, both in the Middle Sepik area. In such instances, it is the National Museum’s responsibility to identify important cultural objects, bring these objects to the attention of the Prime Minister, who will proclaim these objects as national cultural property (NCP) by listing them as such in the National Gazette. The museum has listed as NCP many dozens of carvings, figures, masks, house posts and other architectural features in villages around the country. It is also the museum’s responsibility to protect these items from being sold to foreign collectors and exported from the country. Curators at the National Museum have had varied strategies for how such items might be protected. Barry Craig, for example, felt it essential to make periodic visits to villages with listed NCP items,

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in an effort to establish a relationship between the community and the museum, and to make certain that the community was protecting the listed NCP material. With more limited funding for staff travel, Mark Busse attempted to prohibit export of such items at the point of export. Andrew Moutu, an anthropologist trained at Cambridge, has conducted his own extended field research in the Middle Sepik. He has established a relationship with elders in key villages. His staff of Senior Technical Officers, John Dap, Wilfred Oltomo and Sebastian Haraha, make periodic visits to these and other communities with listed NCP whenever possible, often in conjunction with inspections of material ready for export. All of these efforts have slowed the flow of illegal exports of cultural material overseas, and it is an area of responsibilityof which the National Museum and its staff can be proud. But the focus on the preservation of NCP together with an emphasis on the protection, care, and storage of objects in the museum’s collections has given the National Museum a very narrow focus. As Sebastian Haraha (this volume) suggests, the National Museum has become the haus tumbuna for all Papua New Guineans. Given the time and resources required to preserve the nation’s material culture, there is little time and even fewer resources available for the museum to preserve the nonmaterial aspects of the nation’s artistic and cultural heritage. The mission of the National Museum is focused on preserving the material culture of PNG. Despite some flurry of interest in encouraging traditional-style dance performances in the late 1970s, the burdens of NCP legislation and limited budgets have forced the museum to narrow its mission to the preservation of objects.

Complementary Roles for National Cultural Institutions The National Museum represents only one model of a cultural institution involved with protecting and promoting traditional culture in PNG. At the national level there are two other institutions that have promoted the preservation of indigenous culture. The first is the National Cultural Commission (NCC). Headed by Jacob Simet, the NCC has been successful in sponsoring and organizing cultural festivals. The NCC has sent its staff out to village communities to muster interest in its projects, such as the annual Mask Festival in Rabaul. The second is the Institute of Papua New Guinea Studies (IPNGS), now part of the National Research Institute, which has preserved recordings of traditional music and oral literature. During its history, IPNGS has promoted local authors, novelists and playwrights. It has published books and magazines about traditional culture, and its staff has produced documentary films about the nation’s diverse cultures. Together, these three institutions — the National Museum, the NCC, and IPNGS —largely occupy complementary rather than competitive roles in supporting, encouraging and preserving PNG’s cultural heritage. Each helps preserve and promote PNG’s cultural heritage in different ways.

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Alternative Models of the Indigenous Museum and Cultural Centre in PNG Outside Port Moresby the situation is quite different, because the distribution of indigenous cultural institutions aimed at preserving or promoting traditional culture is extraordinarily uneven. The premier regional indigenous museum is the J.K. McCarthy Museum at Goroka in the Eastern Highlands. The McCarthy Museum was launched in 1964 by Peter Fox, then President of the Goroka Rotary Club. A variety of local expatriate interests in Goroka supported the project, which first opened its doors to the public in 1968 as a branch museum of the National Museum and Art Gallery, with a status much like that of the Modern History Museum in Port Moresby (Trustees 1967: 6–7; Miles 1968; M’Bagintao 1991). As a branch museum, its mission parallels that of the National Museum. Like the National Museum, the McCarthy Museum is indigenous only in the sense that it now has an indigenous staff and is concerned with preserving and exhibiting examples of indigenous material culture. Since independence, many other new cultural institutions have emerged in many parts of the country. Each is attempting to preserve traditional culture in its own fashion. In doing so each is drawing upon a mix of indigenous and nonindigenous elements, ideas and ways of preserving indigenous culture. Several cultural centres in the provinces have attempted to model themselves on institutions like the National Museum or the McCarthy Museum. Nearly all of these institutions were started, at least in part, as a way of attracting tourists through the sale of carvings, bilums, baskets and other artefacts. Most of these institutions have exhibition spaces for display of museum objects from the local region from the centre’s own collection. Many either arrange dance performances or coordinate their activities with local dance groups. In nearly every case, there is a local flavour to each of these cultural centres that justifies viewing each as an indigenous institution. Nearly all of these centres were funded in part by the National Cultural Council or some more local governmental body. One factor that does, however, affect the extent to which these institutions are indigenous or not concerns who the driving force was behind their formation. The majority of these provincial cultural centres were the inspiration of an expatriate. Perhaps the best known of these institutions was the Gogodala Cultural Centre, completed in 1974 with the encouragement and support of anthropologist Tony Crawford (see Owen 1976; Mula 1991). Enga Cultural Centre was established in 1972 with assistance from the linguist Paul Brennan (Tumu and Kyakas 1991). The Maprik Cultural Centre was established under the direction of architect, later art dealer, Chris Boylan in 1974 (Beier 1976, 1991). And anthropologist Andrew Strathern helped establish the Western Highlands Cultural Gallery in 1983 (Kuti 1991). Another group of cultural centres were organized by local area governmental authorities. In some cases these were encouraged by an expatriate, but these centres

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had education or tourist attractions as their primary goal. These include the West New Britain Cultural Centre in Hoskins, which was first proposed by the West New Britain Area Authority (now the West New Britain Provincial Government) in 1977 (Namuno 1991) and the Ialibu Cultural Centre and Museum, which was funded by the Ialibu Basin Association in 1974 (Kombea 1991). Another example that probably belongs in this latter group is the North Solomons Cultural Centre near Kieta, which was started in the early 1970s by A. Sarei, Leo Hannet, Moses Havini and other local leaders (Winion 1991). This impressive list of local notables may suggest a more indigenous character than other similar institutions. But the project was heavily supported by the community development officers of Bougainville Copper Ltd., who arranged for much of the funding. But the civil war on Bougainville destroyed most of the local infrastructure including this cultural centre, which remains closed. All of these cultural centres have had a variety of goals, which stand in rather stark contrast to those of the National Museum. One goal is to help local people, especially children, learn about their local cultural heritage. Some of these centres have incorporated traditional materials into part of their architecture or have used some mix of traditional and permanent materials. Nearly all of them have attempted to use their cultural centre as a performance space. Almost without exception, these provincial and local-level centres incorporate an exhibition space that suggests that their founders had at least partly modelled their institution on the National Museum or some similar institution. Yet, in another respect, most of these institutions are unlike the National Museum. Each in its own way has attempted to use the cultural centre as a way of helping the local economy by serving as a venue for promoting the sale of locally made crafts. Such efforts to sell local crafts suggests another model behind these cultural centres: the store or market. In my experience, local people in PNG are frequently eager to start up a local museum or cultural centre as a way of making money by selling local products. The role of exhibitions is much less significant in such communities than the economic role that turns the local museum into a commercial gallery.

The Madang Cultural Centre and the Engawel Culture Centre I want to conclude my discussion of indigenous cultural centres by focusing on two specific examples that illustrate how such institutions can range along a continuum of indigenous institutions. The first example is the Madang Cultural Centre, situated in the seaport town of Madang on the northern coast of New Guinea. The second is the small, family-operated Engawel Culture Centre, on the road leading from Mt. Hagen to Enga Province. I discuss these two centres because both stand in sharp contrast with the National Museum – in scale, in goals, and in the degree to which each is indigenous.

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The Madang Museum and Cultural Centre was opened on 6 June 1981 by Kaki Angi, the Madang Provincial Minister for Commerce, Tourism and Culture. The idea of this institution arose six years earlier and it was supported by the Provincial Government, various resident expatriates, and local tourist services (see Silau 1991). Over the years this cultural centre has been involved with a variety of cultural performances, many organized for tourists. Education of both Madang Province young people and foreign tourists have been key goals (Silau 1991). This did not begin as an indigenous institution, but, like the National Museum, it has taken on a variety of indigenous features. The cultural centre surrounds a main room, with a tiled floor and exhibit cases along some of the walls. The visitor immediately confronts an array of objects, both free-standing and in cases, all over the room. One’s first impression is that this is a small local museum like any other discussed above. On closer examination, one realizes that the objects on display are exhibited in a manner very different from what one might find in other institutions. For one thing, there are rather few labels and what labels do exist provide very limited information about the objects. On closer inspection still, one realizes that only about half of the objects on display are from Madang Province; the others are generally unidentified and are mostly from the neighbouring East Sepik Province, well known for its carvings and other art. Here and there are giant clam shells, corals and other marine species, interspersed with the ethnological material. This assemblage is what one might expect of a Papua New Guinean cabinet of curiosities. What is striking to me as a curator and museum anthropologist is that these objects seem very important to the life of and raison d’être of the cultural centre. But imparting information to naïve tourists cannot be their central goal. To make sense of these collections requires much more local and regional knowledge than is required to understand any of the exhibition cases or art objects in the National Museum. It is precisely these features that make the Madang Cultural Centre so indigenous. To understand this array of objects requires the knowledge of a guide. The particular arrangement of the curiosities, thus, becomes much less important because it is the personal explanation of some knowledgeable person that is the key to understanding. One failing of this cultural centre is that it really does not have enough staff trained to interpret cultural heritage, nor are these staff insistent enough in interpreting the collection to foreign visitors. The Engawel Culture Centre presents a very different kind of indigenous cultural institution. This centre is situated on clan land outside of Mt. Hagen and has become a rural tourist attraction. Visitors are brought into a settlement that consists of a long grassy field of the sort that Hageners often use for feasting and pig exchanges. At the head of the field are a cluster of houses, some constructed from permanent materials, some of traditional bush materials. Above the staircase on one of the houses is a sign that reads:

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Engawel Culture Centre We Store and Display: (Traditional Customs) * Courting Ceremonies * Traditional Singsings * Traditional Warfares * String Band * Stone-Axe Sharpening * Fire-Making Independently run and operated by a single clan group, this cultural centre clearly has a different notion of what needs to be preserved, stored and displayed. Readers familiar with the intensity of tribal fighting in the Highland region may wonder what it is about tribal warfare that needs to be preserved for posterity, but in fact this custom is one of the highlighted performances at this centre. As they walk along the line of houses, tour groups are shepherded back to a smaller clearing, lined on one side by women selling bilums (string bags) and other local crafts. As anyone who has visited Mt. Hagen will know, Highland women selling bilums are ubiquitous in the area. As soon as one arrives at the airport one sees dozens of women with their bilums hanging on the chain-link fences. After visitors have had a chance to shop, the guides show them a small house containing skulls and other traditional relics. Then the first cultural demonstration of the day begins. When I visited we witnessed fire-making with a cane and hard wood. This sort of demonstration is probably one of the most common kinds of cultural demonstration for foreigners in New Guinea and not just in post-independence times. Anthropologist A.B. Lewis saw fire-making a number of time between 1909 and 1912 in many of the coastal areas. In each case he dutifully photographed it, knowing that it would be a crowd pleaser back home in America. New Guineans learned rather quickly that Westerners need matches to make fire. At Engawel, after the requisite photos are taken, the visitors will be led back to the first clearing. Here, the more important demonstrations will begin. Several women, carefully painted and outfitted for a singsing, will sing and sway, performing for the attentive audience, beating hand drums or plastic drink bottles if drums are not at hand. After more photo opportunities and a chance to talk with the women, the main performance will begin. Quite unlike anything one has read or heard about tribal fighting in the Highlands, the tribal fight they will stage for us is controlled, explained and carefully choreographed. The story concerns a relatively minor transgression, the theft of a stalk of bananas. But rather than such a theft triggering a violent outburst or a barrage of spears, it leads to competitive oratory, for which Hageners are justly famous. Like duelling banjos, the leaders from the two clans compete with loud and melodic haranguing in the Melpa language. One suspects that most visitors do not quite understand the importance of such a competition. In any event, since the goal of the performance is to demonstrate ‘traditional warfare’ the negotiations inevitably break down, even after a small pig

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is brought out as a peace offering. The two sides, consisting of about twenty men, hurl spears at one another until one is slain and carried off the field. The performance ends to the applause of the tour group, who then get a chance to be photographed with the warriors. Clearly, the Engawel Culture Centre is preserving quite different aspects of culture from those old ethnological collections found in the National Museum or even in the Madang Cultural Centre. It resembles aspects of other Highlands cultural institutions discussed by Burton (1991).They are interested in objects, because the women who were vendors selling their string bags and other crafts were eager to make a sale, later replacing their stock with new production. Clan sacra are preserved in one of the centre’s sheds. These ritual objects now have very different meanings for these people, whose parents and grandparents had converted to Christianity. The costumes, face and body paint, the hand drums, netted caps and feathers – all of these objects were important objects for display. But unlike in the Madang Cultural Centre, here we saw nearly every item exhibited in situ. And of course, for most of the older men, the oratory that preceded the staged fighting was the centrepiece of the performance. It is likely that few tourists have much sense of its local importance, but given the fact that twice as much time was given over to oratory than to actual spear hurling, I have to conclude that this oratory, rather than violence, was what the performance was showcasing. Here at Engawel Culture Centre we have a truly indigenous cultural centre. I cannot say whether any expatriates involved in the Mt. Hagen tourist industry have offered this group any advice. But it is hard to imagine any foreigner advising the community to put the pieces together in the particular ways they have. What is even more unexpected is the fact that these performances and demonstrations really work well for tour groups. One suspects that three or four hours of such demonstrations would be too long for most tourists, but the hour or so spent here seems to be a crowd pleaser. And tourist reactions are certainly amusing to their hosts, especially the young villagers. Neither the Madang Cultural Centre nor the Engawel Culture Centre are museums in the most typical sense of the term. Nevertheless both of these institutions are indigenous, though neither is exclusively a museum. What differentiates these cultural centres from other conventional museums is human agency. In both Madang and Engawel interpretation and performance are central features, giving significance to objects in ways rarely achieved in traditional Western-style museums. The persistence of such institutions and their agendas has an impact on national institutions like the National Museum, the NCC and the IPNGS and gives new life force to them. Consideration of these provincial museums and cultural centres suggests three key models around which we can envision an indigenous cultural institution in PNG: the exhibition space, the performance space and the marketplace. Each of the provincial-level institutions mentioned above embodies a somewhat distinctive mix of these three tendencies. To understand what it means to be an indigenous cultural institution demands that we not assume that an ‘indigenous

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museum’ be quite the kind of museum that we are used to in the West. Simultaneously, we should also assume that most indigenous museums will be something more than the museums we are used to seeing in Australia, Europe or the Americas. It is a tribute to the staff of the National Museum and Art Gallery that they have kept to the international standards and goals of museology. But we should not be surprised if the National Museum begins to take on other missions that emerge from more indigenous institutions. By redefining the National Museum as a haus tumbuna (Haraha this volume) they have already begun to indigenize their mission from preservation of objects to holding these objects in trust for local communities. And these are not goals one sees in most of the major metropolitan museums around the world.

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M’Bagintao. I. 1991.‘The J.K. McCarthy Museum, Goroka, Eastern Highlands, PNG’. In S.M. Eoe and P. Swadling (eds.). Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific. Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum, 30–36. Miles, D.W. 1968. ‘J. K. McCarthy Branch Museum: Draft Annual Report. Annual Report of the Trustees of the Public Museum and Art Gallery of Papua and New Guinea for the Year 1968’. Port Moresby: Public Museum and Art Gallery of Papua and New Guinea ,19–21. Mosuwadoga, G. 1976. ‘Director’s Report to the Trustees of the Papua New Guinea Public Museum and Art Gallery for the Year Ending 30/6/76’ in Papua New Guinea Public Museum and Art Gallery Annual Report of the Trustees, 1975–76 Port Moresby: Public Museum and Art Gallery of Papua and New Guinea, 1–11. Moutu, A. 2004. An Introduction to the Papua New Guinea National Cultural Property (Preservation) Act. Port Moresby: National Museum and Art Gallery. Mula, B. 1991. ‘The Gogodala Cultural Centre, Balimo, Western Province, PNG’. In S. M. Eoe and P. Swadling. (eds.). Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific, Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum, 70–73. Namuno, J. 1991 ‘The West New Britain Cultural Centre, PNG’. in S.M. Eoe and P. Swadling (eds.). Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific. Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum, 92–100. Owens, C.G. 1976. ‘Gogodala: A Cultural Revival?’ Port Moresby: Institute of Papua New Guinea Studies. [Video]. Quinnell, M. 2000. ‘“Before it Has Become Too Late”: The Making and Repatriation of Sir William MacGregor’s Official Collection from British New Guinea’, in M. O’Hanlon and R.L. Welsch. (eds.). Hunting the Gatherers: Ethnographic Collectors, Agents and Agency in Melanesia, 1870s–1930s, Oxford: Berghahn Books, 81–102. Silau, T. 1991. ‘The Madang Museum and Culture Centre, PNG’. In S.M. Eoe and P. Swadling (eds.). Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific. Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum, 86–91. Stocking, G.W. Jr. 1985. ‘Objects and Others: Essays on Museums and Material Culture’, History of Anthropology, 6(3), Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Stuart, I. 1970. Port Moresby: Yesterday and Today. Sydney: Pacific Publications. Trustees of the Papua and New Guinea Public Museum and Art Gallery. 1965. Annual Report of the Trustees for the Year 1963 Extended to Cover the Year 1964. Annual Report of the Trustees of the Papua and New Guinea Museum and Art Gallery, 1963–1964, 3–11. ——— 1967. Annual Report of the Trustees of the Public Museum and Art Gallery of Papua and New Guinea for the Year 1967. Tumu, A. and A.K. Kyakas. 1991. ‘The Enga Cultural Centre, Wabag, PNG’. In S.M. Eoe and P. Swadling (eds.). Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific. Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum, 53–63. Welsch, R.L. (ed.).1998. An American Anthropologist in Melanesia: A.B. Lewis and the Joseph N. Field South Pacific Expedition, 1909–1913. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. ——— 2004. ‘Epilogue: The Authenticity of Contested Art Worlds’. Visual Anthropology 17, 401–06. Williams, F.E. 1923. ‘The Collection of Curios and the Preservation of Native Culture. Territory of Papua’, Anthropology Report, No. 3. Port Moresby: Government Printer. Winion, N. 1991. ‘The North Solomons Cultural Centre, PNG’, in S.M. Eoe and P. Swadling. (eds.). Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific. Port Moresby: Papua New Guinea National Museum, 101–106.

13 The Theoretical Future of Indigenous Museums: Concept and Practice Christina Kreps Introduction It is appropriate that this volume opens with reference to Hirini Mead’s article ‘Indigenous Models of Museums in Oceania’, which appeared in the ICOM journal Museum in 1983. The article was indeed seminal since up to that time little had been published on non-Western museums, much less so-called ‘indigenous museums’. In fact, Mead may be credited with introducing the very concept of indigenous museums, and opening our eyes to the existence of other museological forms and practices. In addition to questioning the ‘common sense’ behind reproducing the western museum model in non-Western contexts, Mead also illuminated how Pacific islanders have long had their own means of caring for and preserving valued cultural traditions and materials. In short, contemporary museums and cultural centres were but extensions of earlier traditions (also see Edwards and Stewart 1980; Simpson 1996). Here was a truly fresh voice and alternative perspective, presenting us with new ways of thinking about what constitutes a museum, curatorial behavior and heritage preservation. Mead was at the forefront of an emerging postcolonial critique of Western museums that was challenging the hegemony of Eurocentric museological discourse and practice, calling for a broadening of the field to include multiple voices and perspectives. Certainly, we owe an intellectual debt to Mead for breaking new ground and sowing the seeds for the generation of new museological paradigms. This volume demonstrates the headway that has been made over the past two decades in the actual, on-the-ground development of museums in the Pacific, as well as in the analysis of them. But much remains to be studied and understood. Pacific museums and cultural centres are in a constant state of development and follow no single predetermined path or trajectory, a point made repeatedly throughout this volume. Like all cultural institutions they remain incomplete

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projects, continuing to evolve in response to changing social, economic and political conditions in addition to the changing needs and interests of their communities. In theorizing these varied institutions we now have the advantage of an historical perspective, and many more case studies for comparative analysis. The narratives herein are both ‘celebratory and ‘anxious’ (Feld 2000), as authors consider how Pacific museums and cultural centres represent acts of cultural resilience, appropriation and reinterpretation, but also provoke cultural and political frictions that can undermine their intended purposes. What is revealed is the complex character of these institutions in which histories of cultural exchange, domination and resistance, and the formation of plural identities, are inscribed. In what follows, I attempt to contextualize this body of work within the framework of critical and comparative museology, or the critically informed comparison of the ways in which museological forms and practices are similar in various cultural settings and the ways in which they are different. I also compare the motivations and processes behind the development of Pacific museums and cultural centres since the case studies presented in the volume offer insights on strategies employed and lessons learned. In this way, they contribute to a better understanding of the factors that might contribute to a museum’s or cultural centre’s success or failure. Additionally, I discuss how Pacific museums and cultural centres are in the vanguard of current movements in the international museum community. In this sense, Pacific museums and cultural centres are viewed as models for pioneering new museological paradigms that have implications for both theory and practice.

Pacific Museums and Cultural Centres in Comparative Perspective The case studies collected here provide valuable ethnographic data on the forms museums and curatorial practices take in differing cultural and national settings for cross-cultural comparative analysis and critical inquiry. A basic premise of the comparative approach is that the units of comparison are of like kind and that comparison is possible because patterns, or even divergences from patterns, can be identified. To compare is not to deny particular museums and curatorial practices their unique character or specific qualities. Rather, similarity and distinctiveness can exist concurrently and be recognized within specified dimensions. The notion of ‘indigenous’ is problematicized from the outset in this anthology, in terms of how it is based on a non-Western/Western museum dichotomy constructed to distinguish Pacific museums from their Western counterparts. Stanley is correct in questioning the assumption that we can define the Western model unambiguously and use it as a counterpoint of reference. But this ambiguous state underscores how all museums, Western or non-Western, are cultural constructs and products of specific historical, social, political and economic contexts. The constructed nature of cultural institutions makes

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ambiguity a given and, thus, is in itself a subject of critical inquiry. As many authors show, what is going on in these institutions – the purposes and interests they serve, and the meanings they take on in various contexts – is open to multiple and ongoing interpretations. What may be considered ‘indigenous’ at one point in time or place may not be in others as the boundaries of indigenousness perpetually shift, dissolve, or become further consolidated in response to various pressures. As Venbrux cleverly shows, entire islands can be transformed into indigenous ‘museumscapes’ through the manipulation of spatial, temporal and cultural indices by both outsiders and natives in the course of interlocking and unfolding histories. Aware of its problematic and ambiguous nature, plus the complexities it obscures, at best we can use the label ‘indigenous’ simply as a hermeneutic device for identifying and analysing similarities and differences among Pacific museums and cultural centres and those in other national and cultural contexts. It follows then that the comparative approach does not require stable definitions or units for analysis. Change is a constant variable in the study of these institutions as it is for all cultural phenomena, and their forms are endlessly malleable. In chronicling the history of particular museums and cultural centres, the authors provide useful data for comparing how they have developed over time as well as the various factors that contribute to their success or failure. The question of who initially established an institution is at the heart of many discussions concerning the degree to which an institution can be considered indigenous. As several authors stress, many, if not most, museums and cultural centres in the region were originally set up by expatriates. But Welsch asks, for example, does it really matter if the impetus for establishing a museum or cultural centre came from outsiders? Does this disqualify them from being indigenous? To Welsch, an indigenous founder or staff is but one element in the overall workings of a museum or cultural centre. The question is not so much one of ‘authenticity’, but rather issues of voice, authority and control. The larger concern should be how these institutions have or have not flourished. Here we must also ask how success is defined. Is success measured by an institution’s longevity, the number of visitors it attracts, the revenue it generates, or how well it meets its missions and goals? For community-based museums success might rest on the degree to which they are fully integrated into a community’s cultural life and help sustain and conserve its cultural traditions, as well as what they contribute to the socioeconomic development of a community, its sense of place and identity. In my own research on museum development in Indonesia over the past fifteen years I have observed that an indigenous staff is not necessarily a prerequisite for success. For example, the staff of the Provincial Museum of Central Kalimantan, Museum Balanga, where I conducted ethnographic research on from 1991 to 1992, was entirely made up of local people. But the museum was primarily under the administrative control of the central government’s Directorate of Museums based in Jakarta, which set standard guidelines and policies for all provincial museums to follow. The management style of the museum was decidedly ‘top down’, leaving little room for community

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participation in decision making regarding the museum’s purposes, content and programming. Outside the staff, only a few community members were actively involved in museum activities on a regular basis (see Kreps 2003a). Museum Balanga could be seen as successful in terms of its collection and display of regional material culture, but it was a failure, in my opinion, when it came to community support and involvement. Despite the fact that it had been in existence since the 1970s, Museum Balanga largely remained on the margins of local society. I was not surprised, then, to find the museum virtually moribund when I made a return visit in 2000. Local people need to feel a sense of ownership in a museum and be involved in its development in order for it to be sustainable in the long run. Juda, Herle, and Philp accentuate this point in their description of the creation of the Gab Tutui Cultural Centre in the Torres Strait, where local participation was a requirement from the beginning stages of its development. According to the authors, the emphasis on local participation was an outgrowth of Islanders’ criticisms of earlier museums that had been established by outsiders and largely for outside audiences. These museums had not been created in the spirit of Ailan Kastom, traditional protocol, beliefs and customs, and thus were mostly ignored by Islanders. Mead contended in 1983 that an important requirement of indigenous museums is that indigenous people should be the guardians, protectors and advocates of their own cultures and cultural heritages. I would add that this can also be a requirement for an institution’s success. However, we must likewise remember that indigenous communities, like all communities, are not homogeneous in their values and interests. Dundon describes the tensions that are created as a result of cultural advocacy in her analysis of the development of the Gogodala Cultural Centre. In such a climate, the question not only becomes who should be the guardians of a community’s cultural heritage, but also, what constitutes that heritage. As Dundon shows, indigenous cultures today are grounded in Christianity as well as in aspects of traditional life. What are the sources of conflicts and how they can be resolved are important questions for determining the relevancy of cultural work in particular settings, and the kinds of values it holds for individuals and a community at large. Bolton’s study of the Women’s Cultural Project and the Vanuatu Cultural Centre’s work in transforming public discourse on the use of kastom further illuminates how divisions and alliances can form around differing interpretations and uses of culture. The author’s analysis of the ‘gendering’ of kastom draws our attention to a critical dimension of cultural work that is often overlooked. In both instances, we see how different communities wrestle with the legacies of colonialism and their contemporary manifestations. Dundon’s and Bolton’s cases illustrate how museums and cultural centres can be ‘contested terrain’, where communities debate what culture is, how it should be represented, and who controls the processes of representation (Karp and Lavine 1991). As such, they can be arenas for working out differences, and negotiating positions of authority. They equally attest to the power these

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institutions have as forces in the construction of community identities and cultural life. The critical analysis of museums in diverse national and cultural settings has revealed how ‘museums not only exist within a particular time and space, [but] also help articulate particular temporal and spatial orders. It is in this respect that we can see them as not just existing within a context but also as themselves creating cultural contexts’ (Macdonald 1996: 8). The cultural contexts in which museums and cultural centres exist in the Pacific region today are complex and multilayered. We now recognize that museums, just like cultures, do not exist in isolation. They are shaped by larger historical, economic, political, social and cultural influences that emanate from local, regional, national, and international sources. Museums and cultural centres in the Pacific, despite their specificities and own local character, are part of an international/transnational museum community and culture. Some may carry the imprint of this international museum culture more than others, and herein lies one of the main issues addressed in this volume. To what degree can these museums be considered indigenous? As many of the authors in this volume point out, museums and cultural centres in the Pacific are a fusion of indigenous and nonindigenous elements, or non-Western and Western, as well as aspects of contemporary and traditional culture. Just as we have learned that there is no one essential element that defines Western museums, we have also learned that we cannot essentialize indigenous museums, or, reduce our interpretation of them to any one defining characteristic or history.

Pacific Museums and Cultural Centres as Models of Cross-Cultural Approaches to Heritage Management and Preservation In his 1983 article, Mead questioned the appropriateness of applying Western, professional museum models and practices in Pacific contexts. At that time, Mead feared that indigenous models of museums and local cultural traditions were being undermined by the increasing influence of western-style museology. In an anxious tone, he warned that ‘to accept the Western model is to lose control over the culture itself and especially the indigenous philosophy and educational system … Rather than dismantle the belief system of the indigenous people for the sake of setting up a European-style museum’ he advised that ‘one should work within that belief system as much as possible’ (1983: 101). The postcolonial critique of Western museology, to which Mead contributed, has not only led to a new critical theory of museums and made us aware of other bodies of knowledge and practices, but has also transformed practice. Multiple voices and perspectives are now informing museological discourse and practice, furthering the liberation of culture from the management regimes of Eurocentric museology (Kreps 2003a). Of course, much remains to be done in redressing historical wrongs (repatriation comes to mind here) and in the work of cultural restitution. Yet key

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words in the discourse of international museology today are collaboration, participation, and the recognition of agency on the part of all stakeholders. Stanley points out how non-Western and Western approaches to museums do not necessarily have to be in conflict, and in fact, indigenous elements often develop alongside or overlap with Western models, as seen in the case of the Asmat Museum for Culture and Progress. Rather than continue to problematize the hybrid nature of these institutions we should accept it as a given and view it as a site for exploration, recording what works and doesn’t work in different settings. While advancements have been made in understanding the complexities of these hybrid cultural forms, we have only just begun to scratch the surface in our investigation of indigenous models of museums, curatorial practices and concepts of cultural heritage preservation as examples of museological behaviour. Museological behaviour can be seen as any activity or body of practices that exhibit a concern for the preservation of cultural materials. This behaviour can include structures or spaces for the collection, storage, display and preservation of objects as well as practices related to their use, interpretation, care and conservation. Museological behaviour is yet another form of cultural expression for ethnographic documentation and analysis, adding to our knowledge of human cultural diversity. The study of museological behaviour has much to contribute to our understanding of what from the material world people chose to collect, care for and preserve, in addition to the methods they have devised to do so. It also offers clues to how people manifest a concern for the preservation of cultural heritage, which, in simplest terms, can be understood as the transmission of culture through time. Kingston’s work on Lak funerary ritual provides rich ethnographic detail on indigenous museological behaviour in New Ireland. Moreover, it suggests methods that can be employed to reveal how indigenous concepts and approaches to heritage preservation are lodged in cultural forms, practices or knowledge systems that on the surface may not appear to have museological dimensions. Schmid’s example of the cultural center and museum at Tetep, Madang and Morobe Provinces in Papua New Guinea, Babek Bema Yoma, similarly could be mined for ethnographic clues to the existence of an indigenous concept of heritage preservation. Schmid translates the name of the museum as literally ‘ancestors’ ceremonial compound homestead’. The appearance of the word ‘ancestors’ immediately signals a link with the past, and perhaps an associated way of life, being brought into the present. Further investigation may reveal that the name, Babek Bema Yoma, not only carries symbolic value but also represents an indigenous medium for the transmission of culture through time, or, cultural heritage preservation. The recognition of indigenous museological behaviour is not just a matter of theoretical interest and useful for comparative analysis, but its integration into museums and cultural centres can also be a determining factor in their success. Foana’ota, for instance, stresses that the most successful cultural centres in the Solomon Islands are those that incorporate traditional beliefs, skills and political systems as well as objects that are of importance to local communities’ culture and

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histories. Local people ‘see themselves’ or elements of their own culture in museums and centres so they are not intimidated by them or think they are just for outsiders. The Gab Titui Cultural Centre may also prove to be a successful model, especially regarding the use of indigenous knowledge systems, worldviews and traditional protocols as organizing principles for exhibits and activities. These cases, among others, illustrate how museums and cultural centres in the Pacific are sites for what Amar Galla calls ‘cross-cultural heritage management’. At these sites diverse concepts and approaches to heritage management and preservation are being brought together to create new models for museological discourse and practice. Galla contends that ‘the discourse of cross-cultural heritage requires systematic research, consultation, and negotiation with a range of stakeholders’ (1996: 89). Cross-cultural heritage management strategies do not simply entail the mixing or merging of concepts and approaches. Rather, they acknowledge the right of each to be understood and respected on their own terms while coalescing around unified goals. The approach acknowledges that there are differences among cultures in how objects are perceived, valued and treated, and that strategies that have been seen as appropriate in one cultural context may not be in another. Cross-cultural heritage management implies that there is not one museology, but a world full of potential museologies, opening avenues for the ongoing development of more inclusive, culturally relative approaches to cultural representation, curation and preservation. The current trend of integrating Native American methods of traditional care into mainstream anthropology and natural history museums is an example of how cross-cultural heritage management strategies are being applied in the United States. As a result, we are gaining new insights into Native American views on the value and meaning of objects in addition to how they should be treated. To many Native Americans, as for peoples of the Pacific, objects are not scientific specimens or works of art. They are family heirlooms, symbols of rank and status, sacred materials necessary for the perpetuation of religious beliefs and practices, accessories in the performance of songs, dances and in storytelling, or documents of a community’s heritage and history. We have also learned that many Native American groups have long had their own cultural caretakers or curators. ‘In some cultures, the caretaker has the responsibility for keeping artifacts safe on behalf of a larger group until they are passed on to subsequent generations’ (Smythe quoted in Williamson 1997: 3). Philip Cash Cash, a Native American scholar, sums up the trend in the following passage: Traditional religious practitioners are now beginning to experience greater freedom to introduce and apply indigenous forms of curation in the museum. As indigenous curators, they bring to the museum a newly added dimension of human potential that is testimony to the immediacy, vitality and power of objects to mediate the lived, everyday world we have now come to share. (2001: 144)

Cross-cultural heritage management is a framework for museological practice that emphasizes the social and cultural dimensions of curation and heritage

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preservation, or, how such work is linked to larger social structures, processes and relationships. It calls for the recognition that people in diverse cultural settings have specific kinds of relationships to objects, and particular ways of seeing, valuing, treating and ascribing meaning to them that constitute their own curatorial traditions. Haraha’s description of the kinds of interactions and negotiations taking place in the Papua New Guinea (PNG) National Museum and Art Gallery illustrates how curatorial work cannot be divorced from the wider social and cultural context, in which some community members have previously defined relationships to objects as well as perceptions of the social roles of people and places entrusted with protecting them. The PNG National Museum and Art Gallery is a model of crosscultural heritage management in how it respects and honours these relationships and the social expectations of the museum as a custodian of traditional culture. Haraha explains how the museum is likened to the elavo (men’s ceremonial house) and haus tumbuna, or traditional ‘storehouse for old things’, which historically have functioned as custodians of cultural heritage. In a fascinating discussion, he describes how traditional curatorial rights and responsibilities associated with these institutions have not just been transferred to the museum, but to the director of the museum. According to Haraha, some village people perceive the director ‘as the museum’ because of his extensive knowledge about the beliefs and customs of Papua New Guinea and customary practices related to particular objects, such as those that possess spiritual and magical powers. As head of the museum, the director is seen as the ultimate owner and protector of these objects, as the head of the elavo would have been. The personification of the director as the museum exemplifies the intensely personal relationships people can have with museums based on their intimate relationships with specific objects, and how curatorial work is entangled in these relationships. The anthropological work taking place in the PNG National Museum and Art Gallery resonates with current trends in some American museum, where ‘some anthropologists in the museum world are making the shift from curating collections of objects to curating the systems and the people that produce them … Rather than curate dead or captured specimens of a culture, curators are increasingly concerned with the living larger whole’ (Kurin 1997: 3). Haraha’s essay focuses on the role the PNG National Museum and Art Gallery plays in collecting and preserving objects as well as the cultural knowledge, beliefs and customs related to objects and the meanings they hold for people. Thus, the museum is concerned with preserving both tangible and intangible cultural heritage. The centrality of intangible cultural heritage in Pacific museums is a theme echoed throughout this volume. Several authors point out how objects in Pacific museums do not necessarily carry the same weight of significance as they do in Western museums, and this is one characteristic that distinguishes them from their Western counterparts. Welsch, for example, asserts that for most Pacific communities objects stand for important traditions, ideas, customs and social relations, and it is the stories they illustrate, the performances they are part

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of, and the relationships among people and between people and places that are of more importance than the objects themselves. The emphasis put on the documentation and preservation of intangible cultural heritage places Pacific museums at the leading edge of current international museological trends. The passage of the UNESCO Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2003 recognizes the importance of intangible cultural heritage to cultural continuity and identity, and the preservation of global cultural diversity. According to the Convention, intangible cultural heritage is: ‘the practices, representations, expressions, knowledge, skills — as well as instruments, objects, artifacts and cultural spaces associated therewith — that communities, groups and in some cases individuals recognize as part of their cultural heritage’. The domains of intangible cultural heritage covered by the Convention include languages, oral literature, performing arts, knowledge and know-how, and narrative forms in all their diversity. The Convention calls for greater research on and documentation of intangible cultural heritage, which is a task that community museums in the Pacific are particularly well suited for since they are embedded in the ethnographic context and their staff and community members are often composed of ‘native ethnographers’. Indeed, the Convention stresses how community members and ‘culture bearers’ themselves should take the lead in and be responsible for identifying and documenting intangible cultural heritage, as well as carrying out measures to protect it. The activities of the Women’s Cultural Project and Vanuatu Cultural Centre are clearly potential models of such work. While Pacific museums have been from their early stages of development arenas for the expression, documentation and representation of various forms of intangible cultural heritage, Western museums are just beginning to direct their attention to intangible cultural heritage as they make the transition from being object-focussed to being more people-focused (see Kreps 2003b). Thus, Pacific museums can serve as models for how aspects of intangible cultural heritage may be better integrated into museums, especially indigenous curatorial practices and concepts of cultural preservation, since these too can be considered examples of intangible cultural heritage. As institutions that embody the principles and practices of cross-cultural approaches to heritage management and preservation, Pacific museums may also function as ‘schools’ for training in culturally appropriate and site-specific museological methods. Pacific museums and cultural centres may also provide examples of the role these types of institutions can play in community socioeconomic development. In addition to functioning as sites for the expression, preservation and representation of local cultural heritage, they are also valuable economic resources. Tourism development is one of the primary motivating forces behind the establishment of many of the museums and cultural centres discussed in this volume. How the issue of tourism is addressed in each case is another domain for comparative analysis. Much has been written on the negative impact tourism can have on local cultures – for example, how tourism often leads to the commodification and objectification

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of culture for consumption by outside audiences. However, besides providing much-needed revenue for local communities, tourism can have other positive effects. Indigenous people do not have to be ‘victims of tourism’, as LeFevre demonstrates for the Kanak of Lifou, but can manipulate and use tourism as an avenue for cultural revitalization and empowerment. Here again the question of who is in control of the enterprise becomes of central importance. We need more positive examples like this for instruction in culturally appropriate, communitybased approaches to tourism development; approaches that attempt to reconcile seemingly opposing interests, i.e., those of local people and the preservation of their cultural heritage and the development of museums for outside audiences. Many of the case studies presented in this volume add to the already extensive literature on the role of museums and cultural work in national development and the forging of national identities. Pacific museums and cultural centres, like museums elsewhere in the world, offer a space for public dialogue, and in some cases action. They can be arenas for addressing pressing social issues or painful episodes in the process of nation building. Bolton describes how the Vanuatu Cultural Centre and its fieldworker network functions as a channel for the communication of information on issues relating to health care, environmental conservation, social welfare, and the impact of development and social change on local communities. Such efforts ultimately are directed to the ongoing project of national development. Indeed, Bolton writes that the Vanuatu Cultural Centre ‘is striking in the degree to which it has influenced and contributed to Vanuatu’s national development’. In jolting contrast, Losche eloquently narrates the history of the Tjibaou Cultural Centre of New Caledonia as a missed opportunity for confronting and processing a history of violence and political turmoil. Losche’s objective is to draw attention to how museums and cultural centres can act to suppress such histories and alternative narratives that might lead to deeper understandings of how humans know and experience violence. Contrary to popular, romantic representations of the Pacific as a ‘peaceful, tropical paradise’, Losche reminds us that the region has been historically marked by ‘unremitting warfare’ that has no doubt left its stain on people’s consciousness. In passing reference to holocaust museums in Japan, the United States and Europe, Losche intimates the place the Tjibaou Cultural Centre could take in the growing, international ‘museums of consciousness’ movement that seeks to not only memorialize but also give voice to those who have been ‘erased from the record’. In this respect, Losche moves our attention from local and particular narratives to those that also have universal significance and value.

Conclusion: Pacific Museums and Cultural Centres as the ‘Post- and Future-Museum’ Pacific museums and cultural centres are complex sites where diverse needs, interests and objectives are being brought together and worked out through

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ongoing processes of negotiation, consultation and collaboration. They are arenas where conventional notions regarding the forms museums should take, as well as the purposes they should serve, are being reformulated as well as the idea of culture, and how it is to be defined, interpreted and represented. In this sense, many Pacific museums and cultural centres are at the forefront of recent theoretical developments in the museum world that call for a rethinking of both the concept of the museum and culture in museums. Such developments are the outcome of postcolonial and postmodern critiques of museums and their approaches to cultural representation. Pacific museums and cultural centres, in their forms, functions, activities and character, do not resemble the ‘modernist museum’ so much as what HooperGreenhill calls the ‘post-museum’, which, she asserts, is just beginning to emerge. Hooper-Greenhill describes some of the characteristics of the post-museum, which are very much in keeping with contemporary Pacific museums and cultural centres’ missions, philosophies, activities and approaches. Regarding the role of objects and exhibitions as a means of communication in museums, she writes: The post-museum will hold and care for objects, but will concentrate more on their use rather than on further accumulation. In addition, the post-museum will be equally interested in intangible heritage. Where the tangible material objects of a cultural group have largely been destroyed, it is the memories, songs and cultural traditions that embody that culture’s past and future. In the modernist museum display is the major form of communication … In the post-museum, the exhibition will become one of many other forms of communication. The exhibition will form part of a nucleus of events which will take place both before and after the display is mounted. These events might involve the establishments of community and organizational partnerships; the production of objects during educational programmes, which then enter the collections; periods of times when specific community groups use the museum spaces in their own way. (2000: 152)

In the ‘post-museum’, curatorial authority is shared by community members and other stakeholders because the museum is more engaged with and integrated into the community, contributing to its vitality. The production of events and exhibitions as conjoint dynamic processes enables the incorporation into the museum of many voices and many perspectives; knowledge is no longer unified and monolithic; it becomes fragmented and multivocal. There is no necessary unified perspective — rather a cacophony of voices may be heard that present a range of views, experiences, and values. The voice of the museum is one among many. Where the modernist museum was (and is) imagined as a building, the museum in the future may be imagined as a process or an experience. The post-museum will take … many architectural forms. It is, however, not limited to its own walls, but moves as a set of process into the spaces, the concerns, and the ambitions of communities. (2000: 152–53)

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The developments taking place in Pacific museums and cultural centres described in this volume confirm Hooper-Greenhill’s contention that ‘the intellectual development of the post-museum will take place outside the major European centres which witnessed the birth of the modernist museum’ (2001: 153). Respectively, Pacific museums and cultural centres do not just exemplify the ‘postmuseum’, but also anticipate the ‘future-museum’ in both concept and practice. The case studies in this volume add to our knowledge of the forms museums and museological practices take in different national and cultural settings as well as the larger social, economic and political forces that affect their development. The volume is commendable in how it brings together the voices of both scholars and practitioners from diverse national, cultural and professional backgrounds. As such, they represent a wide range of perspectives and experiences. It is a remarkable achievement, and makes a substantial contribution to the growing body of literature in critical and comparative museology.

References Cash Cash, P. 2001. ‘Medicine Bundles: An Indigenous Approach’. In The Future of the Past: Archeologists, Native Americans, and Repatriation, T. Bray (ed.). New York and London: Garland Publishers, 139–45. Edwards, R. and J. Stewart. (eds.). 1980. Preserving Indigenous Cultures: A New Role for Museums. Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service. Feld, S. 2000. ‘A Sweet Lullaby for World Music’, Public Culture 12(1), 145–71. Galla, A. 1996. ‘Indigenous Peoples, Museums, and Frameworks for Effective Change’ in Curatorship: Indigenous Perspectives in Post-Colonial Societies. E. Arinze and A. Cummins (eds.). Hull: Canadian Museum of Civilization, the Commonwealth Association of Museums, and the University of Victoria, British Columbia, 82–95. Hooper-Greenhill, E. 2000. Museums and the Interpretation of Visual Culture. London and New York: Routledge. Karp, I. and S. Lavine (eds.). Exhibiting Cultures: The Poetics and Politics of Museum Display. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press. Kreps, C. 2003. Liberating Culture: Cross-Cultural Perspective on Museums, Curation, and Heritage Preservation. London and New York: Routledge. ——— 2003. Curatorship as Social Practice. Curator. 46(3), 311–23. Kurin, R. 1997. Reflections of a Culture Broker. A View from the Smithsonian. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press. Macdonald, S. 1996. ‘Introduction’. In Theorizing Museums: Identity and Diversity in a Changing World. S. Macdonald and G. Frye. (eds.) Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Mead, S.M. 1983. ‘Indigenous Models of Museums in Oceania’, Museum 138, 98–101. Simpson, M. 1996. Making Representations: Museums in the Post-Colonial Era. London and New York: Routledge. Williamson, L. 1997. ‘Pest Management at the National Museum of the American Indian’, ICOM Ethnographic Conservation Newsletter 15, 2–3.

Notes on Contributors Leilani Bin Juda was Arts Development Officer for the Torres Strait Regional Authority from 2002 until 2005 and was a member of the Steering Committee for the development of Gab Titui. She previously worked at the National Museum of Australia where she was responsible for the Past-times and Paipa exhibitions (2001, 2002). ✦ Lissant Bolton is Head of the Oceania Section of the Department of Africa, Oceania and the Americas at the British Museum. Her research focuses on gender and kastom in Vanuatu, and on the indigenous use of collections and cultural knowledge. She has undertaken long-term collaborative research with the Vanuatu Cultural Centre and has been advisor to the Women’s Culture Project there since 1991. She is the editor of the volume ‘Fieldwork, Fieldworkers: Developments in Vanuatu Research’ (Oceania special issue 1999). Her book Unfolding the Moon: Extending Kastom to Women in Vanuatu was published in 2003. She was the lead curator of the British Museum’s current award-winning Living and Dying Gallery. She is a member of the AHRC funded Melanesia Project. ✦ Alison Dundon is an ARC Post-doctoral Fellow in the School of Archaeology and Anthropology in the Faculty of Arts, in Australian National University, Canberra. She has conducted fieldwork in Western Province in Papua New Guinea. Among her publications are ‘Crisis in a Christian country in Western Province, PNG’ Oceania March 2002 and ‘Mines and monsters: a dialog on development in Western Province, PNG’ Australian Journal of Anthropology August 2002 ✦ Lawrence Foana‘ota is Director of the Solomon Islands National Museum and Cultural Centre. Since the Regional Assistance Mission to the Solomon Islands he has been a member of the official Reconciliation Commission. He has published an account of the Solomon Islands Museum’s development in Eoe and Swadling Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific and ‘Educating Public Taste : the National Museum’s Role in the Development of Contemporary Art in the Solomon Islands’ in Artlink (1996). He has also recently served as President of the Pacific Islands Museums Association

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✦ Sebastian Haraha has been a Senior Technical Officer in the Department of Anthropology at the National Museum and Art Gallery in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea for nearly sixteen years. Over this period he has managed some of the extensive collections of the National Museum. He has made numerous field trips throughout the country to conduct research on traditional art and material culture, to enforce the National cultural Property (Preservation) Act, and to issue export permits. Born in Iuku village in the Orokolo area of the Gulf Province, he has had a long interest in the art of his home province. He has represented the National Museum at many national and international conferences, meetings, and art festivals in Australia, the Pacific Islands, and the United States. ✦ Anita Herle is Senior Curator for Anthropology at the University of Cambridge Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. She has conducted historic and field research on Torres Strait art and culture. She co-ordinated the exhibition Torres Strait Islanders (1998–2000) and assisted with the preparations and installation of Past-times at National Museum of Australia and the Cairns Regional Gallery (2001, 2002). ✦ Sean Kingston is a freelance author and the publisher of the anthropology press Sean Kingston Publishing. His Ph.D. (London) was based on fieldwork in southern New Ireland, and he has written a series of well-received publications on art, cognition, museums and the Pacific, including, in 2003, ‘Form, attention and a southern New Ireland life cycle’ (JRAI 9(4): 681–708), which received the J.B. Donne Prize for the Anthropology of Art. ✦ Christina Kreps is Director of Museum Studies and Professor of Anthropology at the University of Denver. She is also editor of Museum Anthropology. Her recent publications include ‘The paradox of preservation in museums’ The journal of arts management, law and society, 23(4) (1994) 291–304; ‘Museum-making and indigenous curation in Central Kalimantan, Indonesia’ Museum Anthropology, 1998, 24(2):5–17 and Liberating culture: cross-cultural cultural perspectives on museums, curation and heritage preservation, Routledge, London and New York, 2003.

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✦ Tate LeFevre is a graduate student in anthropology at New York University. As an undergraduate student at Dartmouth College she received a research grant from the Clair Garber Goodman Fund to support her field research in Lifu, New Caledonia. Her honors thesis entitled Seizing Identity, Manipulating Globalization: The Wetr Dance Troupe in Lifou, New Caledonia earned her the Wesbrook Prize for the best anthropology thesis of 2004. ✦ Diane Losche is a Senior Lecturer in the School of Art History and Theory, College of Fine Arts, University of New South Wales in Sydney Australia. She has worked as a Curator at The Australian Museum, Sydney and is currently doing extensive archival research on the history of the Anthropology Department of the American Museum of Natural History, New York. She is the Co-editor, with Nicholas Thomas, of Double Vision: Art Histories and Colonial Histories in the Pacific. Cambridge University Press and the author of numerous articles and essays. ✦ Jude Philp is Senior Curator for the Macleay Museum, at Sydney University Museums. She has previously worked with the Pacific collections, Anthropology Division at the Australian Museum. Her research interests include material culture studies, colonialism and collection in the Pacific, particularly in the Torres Strait where she has conducted fieldwork and photographic research. She worked with Anita Herle for the exhibition Torres Strait Islanders at Cambridge (1998–2000), and as a consultant to the National Museum of Australia’s Torres Strait Islander gallery. ✦ Christin Kocher Schmid has worked at the Ethnographic Museum, Zurich. Her publications include ‘Of people and plants. A botanical ethnography of Nokopo village, Madang and Morobe Provinces, Papua New Guinea’. Basel, Ethnologisches Seminar der Universität und Museum für Völkerkunde in Kommission bei Wepf & Co. AG Verlag. Basler Beiträge zur Ethnologie 33. 1991; ‘Cultural identity as a coping strategy towards modern political structures: The Nayudos case (Papua New Guinea)’ in: van Meijl, Toon and Paul van der Grijp (eds.), Politics, Tradition and Social Change in the Pacific. Bijdragen tot de TaalLand- en Volkenkunde / Journal of the Royal Institute of Linguistics and Anthropology 149.( 1993)4: 781-801. She has also contributed to a catalogue for the exhibition of art from the Admiralty Islands at the Rietberg Museum Zurich in 2002. She has in press ‘Facets of death in the Middle Sepik area and beyond’. In Aufderheide, Arthur C. (ed.) Overmodeled skulls: their art, archaeology and anthropology, Adelaide, Crawford House Publishing Pty Ltd.

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✦ Nick Stanley is Director of Research and Chair of postgraduate studies at Birmingham Institute of Art and Design, University of Central England. He is author of Being Ourselves for You: The Global Display of Culture (Middlesex University Press, 1998) and co-editor with Ian Cole of Beyond the Museum : Art, Institutions, People, (Oxford, Museum of Modern Art, Museum of Modern Art Papers, Volume 4, 2000) and with Anita Herle, Karen Stevenson and Robert L Welsch of Pacific Art: Persistence, Change and Meaning (University of Hawai‘i Press 2002) ✦ Eric Venbrux is Associate Professor of Anthropology at Radboud University Nijmegen. He has conducted anthropological fieldwork among the Tiwi people of Australia, as well as in Switzerland and the Netherlands. His research interests are in local religion, ritual change, material culture, and the verbal and visual arts. He is author of A Death in the Tiwi Islands: Conflict, Ritual and Social Life in an Australian Aboriginal Community (Cambridge University Press, 1995) and numerous articles and chapters. ✦ Robert L. Welsch is a Visiting Professor of Anthropology at Dartmouth College and an Adjunct Curator of Anthropology at the Field Museum in Chicago. He has conducted field research in Papua New Guinea, Indonesia, Alaska and New Hampshire. He is the author of An American Anthropologist in Melanesia: A. B. Lewis and the Joseph N. Field South Pacific Expedition, 1909–1913 (University of Hawai’i Press 1998) and is a co-editor of Hunting the Gatherers: Ethnographic Collectors, Agents, and Agency in Melanesia, 1970s–1930s (Berghahn Books 2000, with Michael O’Hanlon), Pacific Art: Persistence, Change and Meaning (University of Hawai’i Press 2002, with Anita Herle, Nick Stanley and Karen Stevenson) and Taking Sides: Clashing Views on Controversial Issues in Cultural Anthropology (McGraw-Hill, 2005, with Kirk Endicott). At the Hood Museum of Art at Dartmouth College, he is currently a Guest Curator organizing the first major exhibition of art from the Papuan Gulf of New Guinea in the United States since 1961.

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Index ABC (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) 100, 113n1 Abilo, Ken 164 aboriginal living museum 119–20, 121–2, 124 abstract and narrative art 196–7 acquisition of traditional objects 138, 141–3, 143–4, 146–8 Agency for the Development of Kanak Culture (ADCK) 87 Aida lopala 156, 162 Ailan Kastom (cultural identity) 93–4, 97, 98, 100, 102, 103, 107, 113n4, 226 Akin, D. 168n10 Allen, Louis A. 125 American Museum of Natural History 137 Anderson, B. 4, 6 Anderson, C. 131n10 Angi, Kaki 218 Antiquities Ordinance, PNG (1953) 214 Anu, Christine 95 Apuatimi, Raphael and Declan 128 Araho, Nick 140, 213 architecture DPFC (Direction of Architectural and Cultural Heritage), Lifou 81–2 Gab Titui Cultural Centre, Torres Strait 97–9 institutional ‘architecture’ in Southern New Ireland 48 of Tjibaou Cultural Centre, Noumea 73, 75 Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney 126 artefacts acquisition of traditional objects 138, 141–3, 143–4, 146–8 of Babek Bema Yoma (BBY) 183–4, 185–6 changing aspects of Papuan Gulf objects 145–6 ephemeral nature of artefacts 185–6 in foreign museums 102 knowledge associated with objects 146–8 land disputes and museum objects 145 location of 74 magical powers of objects, belief in 138 ownership and location of objects 106–7 Pacific and Western perceptions of 207–8, 230–31 preservation of 40, 44, 101, 143–4, 148–9, 191, 207–8, 215, 221, 228 and social relationships 208 spiritual powers of objects, belief in 138 articulation theory 197 arts abstract and narrative art 196–7

‘arts advisers’ from Europe 127 of Asmat people 15, 192–3, 194, 196, 198, 202n4 bark paintings 125 contemporary artworks 74–5 contest and artistic change 14–15 Cook Islands, Festival of Pacific Arts 79 geographical categorization of 192 local arts and crafts inputs 98–9 museums for, construction of 4–8 ‘primitive art,’ production of 124–5 visibility of art and culture 88 Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress 13–15, 18, 190, 194, 201, 228 carving exhibitions 200–201 indigenous audiences and global recognition 195–7 Indonesianization programme 198 power sources, availability of 198–9 Asmat people of Papua Province, Indonesia 1, 13–16, 192–3, 194–5, 195–6, 199–201, 202n1 abstract and narrative art 196–7 art of 15, 192–3, 194, 196, 198, 202n4 ‘articulation theory’ 197 carving of 13–14, 192, 194, 196, 202n3 connections across differences and distances 196 cultural properties and curatorial knowledge 194–5 cultural self-consciousness 195 dependency 196 exhibition design 195 geographical categorization of art 192 imagery 14 indigenous agency 197 innovative products, changing markets for 193 local communities and indigenous curation 194 lumba ukir (carving contest) 192, 199, 201 openness to external forces 196 spiritual dimensions, visual exploration of 195–6 sustainability 196–7 visual agnosticism 192–3 warrior shields 13, 192 Augé, M. 76 Austing, John 140 Australia see Northern Australia, Melville and Bathurst Islands; Gab Titui Cultural Centre, Torres Strait Australian Council 109 Australian Museum, Sydney 110, 113n14, 114n25, 137

256 Australian South Pacific Cultures Fund 2 authenticity 9, 12, 16, 51, 67n3, 122, 124–5, 197, 201, 212 authentic alterity 85 distinctiveness and 121 inauthenticity 196 role in craft production 193 staged authenticity 84–5 auto-exoticism 12 Babadzan, A. 154 Babek Bema Yoma (BBY) 6–7, 228 artefacts of 183–4, 185–6 cultural shows 175–9, 180–81 dazzling strategies 185–6 elements of 174, 175–9, 180 ephemeral nature of artefacts 185–6 guesthouses 174, 180, 181–2 history of 173–80 kong bayem, symbolic strength of 183–4, 185 local museums and cultural centres 182–4 situation of 170 sports contests 180–81 syncretism 186–7 Badu Island dance troupe 97 Bagali, Kamo 164, 166 Balanga Museum, Kalimantan 225–6 Bani, Ephraim 95, 101, 103, 104–5, 108, 112, 113n12 Bani, Mary 113n17 Barensteiner, R. and Leitzinger, M. 182 bark paintings 125 Barkus, Rosie 99 Basedow, H. 119, 122, 123 Bataille, G. 68n8 Bathurst Island 1, 117–19, 123–6, 128, 130 Beaver, W.N. 153 Beckett, Jeremy 94, 101, 106 Beier, Ulli 139, 154, 216 Being Ourselves for You (Stanley, N.) 85 Bell, fatal ambush of Commissioner 17, 40 Bell, Joshua 141 Bennett, Dorothy 125 Bensa, Alban 73, 81, 86 Bernhard, H. 195 bi-polar models of museums 4 Biakai, Yufen 202n1 Bin Juda, Leilani 1, 17, 93–112, 226, 235 Bishop Museum, Honolulu 137 Blackwood, P. 32 Bloemen, F. and Knippenbergh, M 202n4 Bogatyrev, P. and Jakobson, R. 118 Boigu dance troupe 97 Bois, Y. and Krauss, R. 68n8 Bolton, Lissant 1, 7, 17, 23–36, 108, 166, 167n9, 226–7, 232, 235 Bonaccorso, Frank 213 Bongian, Joe 55 Bonnemaison, J. 32 Bougainville Copper Ltd 217 Bouquet, M. 201 Bourdieu, Pierre 68n10 Boylan, Chris 216

Index Brandl, M.M. 126 Braunholtz, H.J. 197 Brennan, Paul 216 brief for Tjibaou Cultural Centre, Noumea 76 British Museum 113n14, 197 British New Guinea 209 Brown, M.F. 9 Brown, Y.H.L. 130n1 Buin Museum, Bougainville 2–3, 4, 6, 12, 15, 17, 101, 118 bullroarers 52, 64, 141, 146 Burbridge, M. 125 Burton, J. 220 Busse, Mark 140, 142–3, 213, 214, 215 Busse, Mark et al 140 Bweier, U. and Kiki, A.M. 139, 149 Caesar, Rudi 140 Calvert, Frances 102, 114n12 Campbell, J. 120 canoe designs 157–63 carvings of Asmat people 13–14, 192, 194, 196, 202n3 exhibitions at Asmat Museum 200–201 Gogodala Cultural Centre carvings 153–4, 157–63 as income source 14–15 racing canoes in PNG 153–4 Casey, D. 110 Casey, E. 66 Cash Cash, Philip 229 CEDAW (Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women) 31, 36n4 Chanter, A. 80, 81 Christianity 144, 166, 220, 226 Catholic Church 15, 16, 123, 125, 127, 128 Christian Europeans 159 Christian missionaries 23, 93 denominations of 94, 95 evangelical Christianity 154, 159, 165 Gogodala Christians 154, 156, 157, 159, 161, 165, 166 Lutheran Church 183 civil rights for aborigines 126 Clavir, M. 191 Cleland, Donald 210 Clifford, J. 196, 197 Cochrane, S. 7, 164 Cohen, E. 85 Cole, Glenn 128, 129 collections aboriginal cultural items, collection and dispersal of 117 collected heritage and museum creation 52–3, 55, 63 and images of Southern New Ireland 65–7 location and collection of artefacts 14 National Art Collection of Australia 153 from Papuan Gulf in National Museum 139–41, 145–6 ‘Past Times: Torres Strait material from the Haddon Collection’ 103–4

Index colonialism colonial history of Noumea 72, 73, 77 French colonialism 80–81 and independence of Lifou 80–81 colonisation 113n6 commodification of culture 85, 88 communities communication with rural areas 28 community as museum in Melville and Bathurst Islands 117–19 Islander communities, unique characteristics of 105–6 living museum, source community as 120–28 local communities and indigenous curation 194 mediation between diverse communities 111–12 sociological development through indigenous museums 231–2 comparative perspective, cultural centres and museums 224–7 Conigrave, C.P. 123–2, 131n7 conservation 25–6, 53, 64, 66 Cook Islands, Festival of Pacific Arts 79 Cooper, Joe 120–21, 122–3 copyright 10–11, 15 Corbey, Raymond 201 Cracks in the Mask (Frances Calvert film) 102, 114n12 Craig, B. and Eoe, S.M. 143 Craig, Barry 68n16, 148, 210, 213, 214–15 Crawford, Anthony 18, 151, 153–4, 155–6, 160, 162, 163, 165, 167n1, 167n2, 167n3, 216 cross-cultural approaches to heritage 227–32 heritage management 229 Crowe, Peter 24 Crowne Plaza Hotel, Port Moresby 209–10 cruise ship docks 83–4 Cubillo, Franchesca 110 Cultural and Historical Sites Survey in Vanuatu 36n3 cultural centres as indigenous museums 207–8 Solomon Islands National Museum (SINM) 41 transformation in PNG of 207–21 tribal culture centres ix Vanuatu Cultural Centre 24–6, 27, 28–9, 34, 35, 36n2, 226 Cultural Property (Preservation) Legislation, PNG (1965) 145, 214 culture broadcasting of 86, 89 constructed nature of institutions 224–7 contemporary culture, Kanak culture or 81–2 contemporary roles for institutions 215 cultural attachment 48 cultural constructivism 9–10 cultural difference in Lifou, French aim to erase 81 cultural generification 11 cultural tourism 86, 87, 88, 127–9 curatorial knowledge and cultural properties 194–5 diversity of cultural expression 95–7

257 heritage in national development 26–7, 35 items of local importance in SINM 43–4 key models for cultural institutions 213, 217–21 revival in Melville and Bathurst Islands 126–7 self-consciousness of Asmat people 195 separation at Tjibaou Cultural Centre, Noumea 71 sharing and preservation in Lifou 85–6, 88 shows at Babek Bema Yoma (BBY) 175–9, 180–81 CUMAA (Cambridge University Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology) 102, 103, 106, 110, 113n11, 113n13, 114n23 curation curatorial knowledge and cultural properties 194–5 indigenous curation 3–4, 7–8, 194–5 issues in 8–12, 16–17 training and 194–5 Curtis, T. 28 custom as guiding force (la coutume) 82–3 Dan, Seaman 95 dance aborigines ‘welcome dances’ 121–2 Badu Island dance troupe 97 Boigu dance troupe 97 Erub dance troupe 97 Mabuiag Island dance troupe 97 Mer dance troupe 97 performance at Gab Titui Cultural Centre 95–7 Saibai Island dance troupe 97 Serpeye dance troupe 97 Thana Fire Dance Troupe 97 traditional dance performances at PNG National Museum 211–12 traditional dance styles at Gogodala 154 Daniel, Giburna et al 94 Dap, John 215 Dark, P.J.C. 179 Davenport, W. and Coker, G. 6, 41, 42 Davis, R. 104–5 Day, Ribis 102 Day, Ron 112, 114n26 dazzling strategies at Babek Bema Yoma 185–6 De Jong, A. 118, 121 dependency 196 display in museums 53–4, 55, 63, 64, 66 multi-media display 74 objects and knowledge, display of both 5–6 ownership and selective display 112 pedagogy and display 64 Dorante, Joseph 99 dramaturgical manipulation of perception 47–8, 64–5 Dundon, Alison 16, 151–66, 226–7, 235 Duras, Marguerite 70–71 East Kwaio Cultural Centre 41 EDF (European Development Fund) 40 Edwards, R. and Stewart, J. 223 effigies of deceased in Southern New Ireland 58

258 lalamar shell-money effigies 58, 60–61 tonger food effigies 58, 59 Egloff, Brian 140, 213 Ellis, D.M. 186 Ellis, W.F. 211 Enga Cultural Centre, PNG 216 Engawel Culture Centre, PNG 217, 218–21 Entangled Objects (Thomas, N.) 4 Eoe, S.M. and Swadling, P. 141 Eoe, Soroi Marepo 1, 6, 138, 140, 146–8, 148–9, 210, 212, 213 ephemeral nature of artefacts 185–6 Ephraim Bani Gallery 98–9, 102 Errington, Frederick 11, 12, 67n6 Errington, S. 4, 49, 67n6 Erub dance troupe 97 Ethnic and Tourist Arts (Graburn, N.) 3–4 Etter, Karin 182, 188n8 Europe (and Europeans) 88, 102, 121, 126, 128, 194, 196, 202n3, 207 aboriginal contact with 130 arrival in New Caledonia 80 cabinets of curiosities, tradition of 208 Christian Europeans 159 detritus of 4 EDF (European Development Fund) 40 Eurocentric museology 227–8 European model of museums 7, 38 femaleness in 33 holocaust museums 232 incursion into Western Pacific 2, 33, 119 indigenous and Western museums, distinction between 2, 3, 4–5, 7–8, 201, 207, 211, 221, 227–8 influence of 124–5 ‘invention of tradition’ 10 on Melville and Bathurst Islands 119–20, 122–3 modernist museums 234 in New Caledonia 80–81 patrimony, notions of 51 scholars from 197, 198 trade in goods from 4 Troupe de Wetr in 79, 87 evangelical Christianity 154, 159, 165 Evangelical Church of PNG (ECPNG) 153 Fabian, J. 118, 121 Fahey, J. 72 Fairweather, Ian 88 Fallon, J. 127 Faona’ota, Lawrence 5, 17, 38–45, 228–9, 235 Feld, S. 224 feminism and kastom in Vanuatu 31–2 in Vanuatu 29–32 Field Museum, Chicago 137, 212 fieldworker programme in Vanuatu 24–6 Filer, C. and Sekhran, N. 171, 188n2, 188n3, 188n6 Foelsche, P. 120 folklorization, museumification and 118 Foster, R.F. 12–13

Index Fox, Peter 216 Frazer, J.G. 119 French colonialism 80–81 Front de Libération Kanak et Socialiste (FLNKS) 80 Fry, H.K. 131n6, 131n7 funerary rites 55–61, 61–5 ‘future-orientation’ 166, 223–34 Gab Titui Cultural Centre, Torres Strait 93–112, 229 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Arts Board 108–9 affiliations with other organisations 110, 111 Ailan Kastom (cultural identity) 93–4, 97, 98, 100, 102, 103, 107, 113n4, 226 ATSIAB (Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Arts Board) 108–9 ATSIC (Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission) 111–12 Australia Council 109 Badu Island dance troupe 97 Boigu dance troupe 97 building design 97–9 creation of 100–104 cultural expression, diversity of 95–7 dance performance 95–7 diverse communities, mediation between 111–12 diverse local interests 111 Erub dance troupe 97 events leading to launch of 100 funding for 108–10 ‘hub’ function of 107–10 ICC (Island Community Council) 101 identity symbols 97 inaugural exhibition 99 inclusion, respect and selectivity in 111–12 Indigenous Mentoring Programme 109 Indigenous Regional Arts Development Fund 108–9 ‘island time’ 104–5 Islander communities, unique characteristics of 105–6 Kala Lagaw Ya, language of Western Islands 97, 113n7 local and global interests, relationships between 111–12 local arts and crafts inputs 98–9 local interests, relations between 111–12 location and ownership of objects 106–7 Mabuiag Island dance troupe 97 mediation between local communities, potential for 111–12 Mer dance troupe 97 Meriam Mir, language of Eastern Islands 97 objects in foreign museums 102 opening of 93, 94–5 ownership and selective display 111–12 people, place and associated objects 105 Saibai Island dance troupe 97 selective inclusion, position of 111–12

Index Serpeye dance troupe 97 support, gathering and giving of 107–10 TAFE (Tertiary and Further Education) College 105 Thana Fire Dance Troupe 97 time and place 104–7 TSIMA (Torres Strait Islander Media Association) 100 TSRA (Torres Strait Regional Authority ) 94, 101, 102, 103, 104, 107, 108, 113n2, 113n9 Galla, Amar 229 Garae, Roselyn 28 Gardner, Sister Ann 128 Gathercole, P. 194 Gee, L.C.E. 130n1 Gell, Alfred 11, 13, 114n22, 185 gender hierarchies in Vanuatu 31–2 geographical categorization of art 192 German New Guinea 209 Gerth, H. and Wright Mills, C. 5 Gewertz, Deborah 11, 12 global recognition, indigenous audiences and 195–7 Gogodala - A Cultural Revival? (Chris Owen film) 156 Gogodala Cultural Centre, PNG 155–66, 216, 226, 228 Aida lopala 156, 162 canoe designs 157–63 carvings 153–4, 157–63 ‘future-orientation’ 166 Gogodala Christians 154, 156, 157, 159, 161, 165, 166 iniwa sakema (ancestral skills and knowledge) 152, 153, 154, 158, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 166 ‘living’ expression of ‘past’ 165–6 moving the centre 163–6 revival and building 156–7, 165–6 traditional dance styles 154 Goodale, J.C. 126, 127 Graburn, Nelson 3–4 Grau, A. 126 Greenwood, Davydd 78, 84, 86 Greh, Senea 149 Groger-Wurms, Helen 125 Gsell, Father F.X. 122, 123, 128 guesthouses at Babek Bema Yoma 174, 180, 181–2 Gunn, M. 113n12 Haddon, Alfred C. 101, 102, 106, 110, 210 Hannet, Leo 217 Haraha, Sebastian 5, 16, 18, 137–49, 215, 230, 236 Harrison, S. 10, 107 Hart, C.W.M. 123, 124 Havini, Moses 217 Helfrich, K. et al 192 Henare, A. 202n5 Herbert, C.E. 118 heritage channeling heritage in museums 52–4

259 collected heritage and museum creation 52–3, 55, 63 cross-cultural approaches to 227–32 dangers of 47–8 intangible cultural heritage 231 management, cross-cultural approaches 229 mortuary rites and Western heritage processes, differences between 55–61, 65 in national development 26–7, 35 in Southern New Ireland 49–52 Herle, A. and Philp, J. 103 Herle, A. and Rouse, S. 103 Herle, Anita 1, 17, 93–112, 128, 226, 236 heterogeneity, articulation of 64–5 Hetherington, K. 54 Hiatt, L.R. 119 Hill, E. 122 Hiri Moale Festivals, PNG 141, 143 Hiroshima Mon Amour (Resnais and Duras film) 70–71, 72, 76 history of Babek Bema Yoma (BBY) 173–80 representation of historical violence 70–71, 72, 76–7 Vanuatu history project 35 hohao (ancestral boards) 142, 145, 146, 149 Hohao (Bweier, U. and Kiki, A.M.) 139, 149 Holmes, Sandra 125–6 holocaust museums 232 Hooper-Greenhill, E. 233–4 Howie-Willis, I. 131n9 Hubert, H. and Mauss, M. 65 Huffman, Kirk 24, 25–6, 35, 36n2 Humphreys, Kate 113n1 Hurley, Frank 214 hybrid cultural forms 228 Hyndman, D. 68n16 ICC (Island Community Council), Torres Strait 101 identity denied identity, fighting for 80–81 formation on Melville and Bathurst Islands 124 and kastom in Vanuatu 26 and national development 232 piracy of 10 rediscovery in Lifou 86, 89 symbols at Gab Titui Cultural Centre 97 IFM (Isatabu Freedom Movement), Solomon Islands 41 IKCs (Indigenous Knowledge Centres) 112 Imperial War Museum, London 72 indigenous aesthetics 191–3 indigenous agency of Asmat people 197 indigenous and Western museums, distinction between 2, 3, 4–5, 7–8, 201, 207, 211, 221, 227–8 indigenous audiences and global recognition 195–7 indigenous knowledge and practice 35 Indigenous Mentoring Programme, Gab Titui Cultural Centre 109

260 indigenous museological behaviour, recognition of 228–9 indigenous museums agency from indigenous sources 4 alternative models of 216–17 art museums, construction of 4–8 authenticity in 9, 12, 16, 51, 67n3, 122, 124–5, 197, 201, 212 ‘auto-exoticism’ 12 bi-polar models 4 burden of Western concepts on 190 can museums become indigenous? 198–201 carving as income source 14–15 character of 49, 63–5 community as museum 117–19 community sociological development 231–2 comparative perspective, cultural centres and museums 224–7 concept of 2–4, 198–201 constructed nature of cultural institutions 224–7 contest and artistic change 14–15 ‘contested terrain’ of 226–7 copyright 10–11, 15 criticisms of 2–3 cross-cultural approaches to heritage 227–32 cross-cultural heritage management 229 cultural centres as 6, 207–8 cultural constructivism 9–10 cultural generification 11 curation indigenous curation 3–4, 7–8, 194–5 issues in 8–12, 16–17 training and 194–5 establishment of institutions 225 examples of 6–7 formulation of 13–14 fragility of 17 future in Solomon Islands 38–45 future (theoretical) for 223–34 global recognition, indigenous audiences and 195–7 headway in development of 223–4 hybrid cultural forms 228 identification and assessment of 48–9 identity and national development 232 identity piracy 10 indigenous and Western museums, distinction between 2, 3, 4–5, 7–8, 201, 207, 211, 221, 227–8 indigenous audiences and global recognition 195–7 indigenous museological behaviour, recognition of 228–9 inheritance 191 intangible cultural heritage 231 intellectual property rights 10–11 internal workings of 8–12, 16–17 localism in 5, 226, ix multilayered contexts for 227 national development 232 Native American methods 229–30

Index Nayudos Cultural Centre, Huon Peninsula 6–7, 170–88 objects and knowledge, display of both 5–6 Onga Cultural Centre, Romonga 6–7 ownership and involvement of locals 226 ownership of artefacts 10–11 politics of 9–10 ‘post- and future-museums’ 232–4 practice and indigeniety 1–18 precarious nature of 16 prominence of Western initiators 190–93 prospects for future 201 respect from outside 14 ritual knowledge 11–12 selective representation 10 single-purpose types ix Solomon Islands, future in 38–45 state promotion of 7–8 teleology 12–16 theoretical impact of 67 tribal culture centres ix and Western museums, distinction between 201 indigenous people attitude to SINM 40 in evolving museumscape 117–31 responses to challenges 170–88 Indigenous Regional Arts Development Fund 108–9 Indonesia 7, 13, 14, 15, 16, 195, 198, 225–6 inheritance 35, 191, 192, 193 iniwa sakema (ancestral skills and knowledge) 152, 153, 154, 158, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 166 Institute of PNG Studies (IPNGS) 215, 220 intangible cultural heritage 231 intellectual property rights 10–11 The Irish Story (Foster, R.F.) 12–13 Island Melanesia 1, 17, 23–89 Arafura Sea 1, 17 Big Man concept 1, 16, 18, 194 see also Lifou, New Caledonia; Vanuatu; Solomon Islands; Southern New Ireland; Tjibaou Cultural Centre Jaarsma, S. 194 James, B. 122 James Cook University 113n14 Jeffries, A.C. 140 Johassen, Jon 10, 11 Joliffe, Eric 126 Jolly, M. 85, 154 Jones, P. 126 Julius, Charles 210–11, 213 Kaeppler, A.L. 154 Kala Lagaw Ya, language of Western Islands 97, 113n7 Kalo, Morris 30 Kanak culture contemporary culture or 81–2 representation of 73–4 Kanak suffrage 80 Kanin, Mike 181

Index Karave, Iopa 141–3 Karp, I. and Lavine, S. 226–7 Karp, I. et al 5 Kasarherou, Emmanuel 73–4, 75–6 kastom in Vanuatu 23–4, 25–6, 27, 29, 31, 32–4, 35–6n1 Keesing, Roger 10 Kelvingrove Museum, Glasgow 113n14 Kennedy, Florence 103, 112 Kenrick, J. and Lewis, J. 67n4 Kiki, Albert Maori 139, 141 Kingston, Sean 5, 17, 47–68, 196, 228, 236 Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B. 117, 119, 126 Kivovia, mythical hero of Kaia clan 138 Klaatsch, Hermann 119, 121, 122, 131n4, 131n7 knowledge associated with objects 146–8 cultural properties and curatorial knowledge 194–5 IKCs (Indigenous Knowledge Centres) 112 indigenous knowledge and practice 35 iniwa sakema (ancestral skills and knowledge) 152, 153, 154, 158, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 166 objects and knowledge, display of both 5–6 ritual knowledge 11–12 traditional knowledge preservation of 141–3, 148–9 revival of 44 women’s knowledge and practice 34 Kocher Schmid, Christin 6, 18, 170–88, 228, 237 Kombea, P. 217 kong bayem, symbolic strength of 183–4, 185 Konrad, Gunter 199, 200 Konrad, Konrad et al 192 Konrad, Sowada et al 192, 194 Konrad, Ursula 192, 199, 200 Kooijman, Simon 197 Koori Mail 100 Kreps, Christina 8, 18, 49, 67n4, 198, 223–34, 236 Kuaso, Alois 149 Küchler, S. 65, 66 Kuisine, Moïse 79 Kulcher, S. 167n8 Kuper, A. 67n4, 119 Kupka, Karel 125 Kurin, R. 230 Kuruwaop, Abraham 202n1 Kuti, M. 216 Laa, Nathan 140 Lak area of Southern New Ireland accessibility of 49 ancestral spirits 51–2 funerary ritual 55–61, 61–5, 228 kastom in 51 ritual of 47–8, 49–53, 66–7 wol (code of behaviour) in 51, 64 land disputes and museum objects 145 languages Kala Lagaw Ya of Western Islands 97, 113n7 Meriam Mir of Eastern Islands 97

261 Tairuma language of PNG 141–3 Laracy, H. and White, G. 72 Lask, T. 190 Laura, Ivia 140 Layard, J. 32 Lea, Bernard 159, 167n4 League of Nations Mandated Territory of New Guinea 209, 210 Leerssen, Joep 12 LeFevre, Tate 17, 78–89, 232, 237 Lewis, A.B. 208, 219 Lifou, New Caledonia ADCK (Agency for the Development of Kanak Culture) 87 colonialism and independence 80–81 commodification of culture 85, 88 contemporary culture, Kanak culture or 81–2 cruise ship docks 83–4 cultural broadcasting 86, 89 cultural difference, French aim to erase 81 cultural sharing and preservation 85–6, 88 cultural tourism 86, 87, 88 custom, guiding force (la coutume) and development 82–3 DPFC (Direction of Architectural and Cultural Heritage) 81–2 FLNKS (Front de Libération Kanak et Socialiste) 80 French colonialism 80–81 identity, rediscovery of 86, 89 identity denied, fighting for 80–81 Kanak culture, contemporary culture or 81–2 Kanak suffrage 80 local manipulation of tourism 88 ‘melancholia’ and tourism 84–5, 85–6 modernity and tradition 82–3, 88 Pacific Arts Conference (2001) 87 recuperation in action 87 social structure and economic decision-making 82–3 tourism, culturally destructive legacy of 78–9 tourism docks 83–4 tourist experience, provision of 85–6, 89 tradition and modernity 82–3, 88 Troup de Wetr 79, 81, 82–3, 84, 86, 87, 88, 89 visibility of art and culture 88 Lightner, S. and Naupa, A. 35 Lightner, Sara 35 Ligo, Godwin 26 Lindstrom, L. 9, 195–6 Lini, Irene 33 Linnekin, J. and Poyer, L. 86 Linnekin, Jocelyn 9–10, 86 Linon, Elsie 33 living museums Gogodala Cultural Centre 165–6 Melville and Bathurst Islands 120–28 localism in arts and crafts inputs 98–9 cultural centres and local museums 182–4 global and local interests, relationships between 111–12 indigenous curation and local communities 194

262 in indigenous museums 5, 226, ix in manipulation of tourism 88 location and collection of artefacts 14 and ownership of objects 106–7 Loisy, A. 65 London Missionary Society 113n10, 141 longhouses of PNG 142, 146, 151, 154, 155–7, 159, 161, 163–6, 165, 167n5 at Balimo 154, 156 at Kini 151 komo (central hall) of longhouses 155, 156, 157, 162 see also Gogodala Cultural Centre Losche, Diane 17, 70–77, 87, 232, 237 lumba ukir (carving contest) of Asmat people 192, 199, 201 Lutheran Church 183 Lyons, A.P. 153, 167n5, 167n8 Mabo, Biship Saibo 5–6, 93, 94, 95, 101, 107 Mabuiag Island dance troupe 97 McBean, A. 191 MacCannell, Dean 84, 85–6, 87 McCarthy Museum at Goroka 216 McCulloch, Allan 214 Macdonald, S. 227 McGrath, Victor 101, 102, 112 MacGregor, Sir William 139, 209 McIntosh, Ian 3, 191 Mackay, Roy 213 Mackenzie, M. 153, 162 Madang Cultural Centre, PNG 217–18, 220 Magani Malu Kes, Townsville 106 magical powers of objects, belief in 138 Malvatumauri (National Council of Chiefs) in Vanuatu 31, 36n5 Mamapuku, Methodius 202n2 management of difference 54, 64–5 Mann, Sir Alan 211 Maprik Cultural Centre, PNG 216 Marchant, Anne 129 Masson, E.R. 122 Mauss, Marcel 65 M’Bagintao, I. 216 Mbaid, Jeremias 14, 202n2 Mead, Hirini 223, 226, 227, ix Mead, S.M. 5, 8–9, 12, 16, 68n14, 68n18, 191 MEF (Malaita Eagle Force), Solomon Islands 41 Melanesia see Island Melanesia; New Caledonia; Solomon Islands; Southern New Ireland; Vanuatu Melk-Koch, Marion 2 Melville Island 1, 117–19, 119–20, 121–7, 128–30 memory erasure of memories 71–2, 75 memorialization in the Pacific 72, 76–7 and mortuary rites 58–61 violence, memories of 70, 71–2, 76–7 Mer dance troupe 97 Meriam Mir, language of Eastern Islands 97

Index Merlan, F. 118 Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York 15, 137, 195 Middleton, Victor T.C. 40 Mike Ferris Partners 97–8 Miles, D.W. 216 mission station on Bathurst Island 123, 125, 127–8 missions of National Museum and Art Gallery, PNG 214–15 Solomon Islands National Museum (SINM) 39–40 Mitchell, Jean 27 Mitchell, W.T.J. 66 modernist museums 234 modernity and tradition 76, 82–3, 88 Molisa, Grace 29–30, 34 monumentality 75, 76 Moore, David 101, 102 Moro (IFM leader), Solomon Islands 42, 43 Moro Movement Customhouse 41 Morphy, H. 119 Morris, J. 121, 131n3 mortuary rites 55–61, 65 Mosby, T. and Robinson, B. 103 Mosby, Tom 103 Mosuwadoga, Geoffrey 154, 210, 213 Mountford, C.P. 119, 125, 126 Moutu, Andrew 213, 214, 215 Moyne, Walter E.G., Lord 197 Mula, Bege 18, 163, 164, 166, 216 Muluwurri Museum at Milikapiti 129–30 Mulvaney, D.J. and Calaby, J.H. 130n2, 131n3 Munda Custom Learning Centre 41 Munn, N. 67n2 Murphy, J.F. 122, 123 Murray, Max 167n7 Murray, Sir Hubert 209, 210, 214 Museum fur Volkerkunde, Berlin 113n14 Museum (ICOM journal) 223, ix museums channeling heritage in 52–4 museumification of island culture 121–6 processes of 61–5 techniques of 48–9 as theatres 54 see also indigenous museums Museums and Cultural Centres in the Pacific (Eoe, S. and Swadling, P.) 1 Myers, F.R. 118 mythology, representation of 125–6 Nakata, N.M. 107, 113n12 Nalo, Joe 211 Namibia, Okambo tradition in 88 Namuno, J. 217 narratives, sharing of 76–7 Natagera Village Customhouse 41 National Archives of Vanuatu 36n3 National Art Collection of Australia 153 National Cultural Council, PNG (NCC) 155, 220

Index national cultural property (NCP) 214–15 national development 24, 127, 232 heritage in 26–7, 35 identity and 232 National Gazette 214 National Geographic 119 National Museum and Art Gallery of PNG 137–49, 166, 201, 209–15, 221, 230 changing aspects of Papuan Gulf objects 145–6 collection from Papuan Gulf 139–41, 145–6 contemporary roles for cultural institutions 215 Director’s involvement in preservation and revival 148–9 establishment of 210–11 forerunners 209–10 gift of Australian government 211 indigenization of 213 knowledge associated with objects 146–8 land disputes and museum objects 145 mission of 214–15 as modern Haus Tumbuna 137–8, 230 modern history branch 212 objectives 211–12 Old Parliament site 212 original conception 211–12 preservation of artefacts 40, 44, 101, 191, 207–8, 215, 221, 228 of cultural heritage 13, 88, 166, 223, 228 display and 63 documentation and 8, 231 food presercation techniques 32 of global cultural diversity 231 heritage management and 227–32 of indigenous culture 215 legislation on 139, 145, 214 localized concerns for 112 of National Cultural Property (NCP) 214–15 of traditional knowledge 141–3, 148–9 reformulation of mission 212 revival of Papuan Gulf art 148–9 secrecy 145–6 traditional dance performances 211–12 traditional knowledge, preservation of 141–3, 148–9 National Museum of Australia (NMA) 103, 104, 110, 113n14 National Museum of Ireland 113n14 National Museum of Natural History, Washington 137 Native American methods 229–20 NAU (Nayudos Amun Union) 171–2 Naupa, Anna 35 Nayudos Cultural Centre, Huon Peninsula 6–7, 170–88 Nayudos people 170–72, 173–5, 179, 181, 182, 184, 187 Neale, M. 126 Netherlands 15, 194, 195 New Caledonia 70–77, 78–89 see also Lifou, New Caledonia; Tjibaou Cultural Centre Niles, D.K. 185

263 NMA (National Museum of Australia) 103, 104, 110 Noah, Goby 103 North Solomons Cultural Centre, Kieta 217 Northern Australia, Melville and Bathurst Islands 17 aboriginal living museum 124 aborigines ‘welcome dances’ 121–2 bark paintings 125 Bathurst Island 1, 117–19, 119, 123–6, 128, 130 civil rights for aborigines 126 commercial interests and visitor transactions 122–4 community as museum 117–19 Cooper on Melville Island 120–22 cultural items, collection and dispersal of 117 cultural revival 126–7 cultural-tourism infrastructure 127–9 ‘experience economy’ 119 external museum interests, influence of 122 folklorization, museumification and 118 identity formation 124 indigenous museums, community as museum 117–19 indigenous people in evolving museumscape 117–31 Islanders’ reputation for hostility 120 legal restrictions on access 119 living museum, source community as 120–28 Melville Island 1, 117–19, 119–20, 121–7, 128–30 merchantile ambitions of Islanders 121–2 mission station on Bathurst Island 123, 125, 127–8 Muluwurri Museum at Milikapiti 129–30 museum constructions 128–30 museumification of island culture 121–6 mythology, representation of 125–6 Northern Territory, administration of 123 objectification of culture 127 Papiau beach, Bathurst Island 123 Patakijyali Museum at Nguiu 128–9, 130 Pirlangimpi Art Centre 130 postfuneral rituals 126–7 ‘primitive art,’ production of 124–5 production of ‘authentic’ objects 124 resistance to European intrusion 119 ritual planning, flexibility in 122 site preservation 119–20 sociological change 126 stranger-handling 123 Territories, Department of the 126 Three-Ways Tiwi Cultural Centre 128 Tiwi Land Council 127, 128–9 Tiwi people 1, 17, 117, 124–8, 128–9, 131n8 tourist industry development, local involvement 127–8 visitor escorts 123–4 ‘world of aboriginal life’ 119–20 The Northern Territory Times and Gazette 120, 121, 126, 131n4 Noumea Accords (1998) 80–81

264 Objects and Others (Stocking Jr, G.W.) 207 O’Hanlon, M. and Welsch, R. 68n19, 191 O’Hanlon, Michael 4, 6, 12, 18, 39, 68n19 Oltomo, Wilfred 215 Onga Cultural Centre, Romonga 6–7 O’Reilly, J. 68n17 Orokolo area of PNG 137–8, 139–40, 141–3, 146, 148–9 Owens, Chris 167n7, 216 ownership of artefacts 10–11 and involvement of locals 226 location and ownership of objects 106–7 and selective display 111–12 Pacific Arts Conference (2001) 87 Pacific Islands Monthly 162–3 Pannell, S. 3, 8 Papiau beach, Bathurst Island 123 Papua New Guinea (PNG) 18 acquisition of traditional objects for National Museum 138, 141–3, 143–4, 146–8 alternative models of indigenous museums 216–17 Antiquities Ordinance (1953) 214 artefacts and social relationships 208 Babek Bema Yoma (BBY) 6–7, 228 artefacts of 183–4, 185–6 cultural shows 175–9, 180–81 dazzling strategies 185–6 elements of 174, 175–9, 180 ephemeral nature of artefacts 185–6 guesthouses 174, 180, 181–2 history of 173–80 kong bayem, symbolic strength of 183–4, 185 local museums and cultural centres 182–4 photographic record 183 situation of 170 sports contests 180–81 syncretism 186–7 Bougainville Copper Ltd 217 Buin Museum, Bougainville 2–3, 4, 6, 12, 15, 17, 101, 118 carving of racing canoes 153–4 Crowne Plaza Hotel, Port Moresby 209–10 cultural centres, transformation of 207–21 Cultural Property (Preservation) Legislation (1965) 145, 214 Department of District Services and Native Affairs 209 ECPNG (Evangelical Church of PNG) 153 Enga Cultural Centre 216 Engawel Culture Centre 217, 218–21 Gogodala Cultural Centre 155–66, 216, 226, 228 Aida lopala 156, 162 canoe designs 157–63 carvings 153–4, 157–63 ‘future-orientation’ 166 Gogodala Christians 154, 156, 157, 159, 161, 165, 166

Index iniwa sakema (ancestral skills and knowledge) 152, 153, 154, 158, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 166 ‘living’ expression of ‘past’ 165–6 moving the centre 163–6 revival and building 156–7, 165–6 traditional dance styles 154 Hiri Moale Festivals 141, 143 hohao (ancestral boards) 142, 145, 146, 149 indigenous people, responses to challenges 170–88 IPNGS (Institute of PNG Studies) 215, 220 key models for cultural institutions 213, 217–21 Kivovia, mythical hero of Kaia clan 138 longhouses of 142, 146, 151, 154, 155–7, 159, 161, 163–6, 165, 167n5 at Balimo 154, 156 at Kini 151 komo (central hall) of longhouses 155, 156, 157, 162 Madang Cultural Centre 217–18, 220 Maprik Cultural Centre 216 national cultural property (NCP) 214–15 National Gazette 214 National Museum and Art Gallery 137–49, 166, 201, 209, 210–12, 213, 214–15, 216, 221, 230 changing aspects of Papuan Gulf objects 145–6 collection from Papuan Gulf 139–41, 145–6 contemporary roles for cultural institutions 215 Director’s involvement in preservation and revival 148–9 establishment of 210–11 forerunners 209–10 gift of Australian government 211 indigenization of 213 knowledge associated with objects 146–8 land disputes and museum objects 145 mission of 214–15 as modern Haus Tumbuna 137–8, 230 modern history branch 212 objectives 211–12 objects, preservation of 143–4, 148–9 Old Parliament site 212 original conception 211–12 preservation of artefacts 40, 44, 101, 191, 207–8, 215, 221, 228 of cultural heritage 13, 88, 166, 223, 228 display and 63 documentation and 8, 231 food presercation techniques 32 of global cultural diversity 231 heritage management and 227–32 of indigenous culture 215 legislation on 139, 145, 214 localized concerns for 112 of National Cultural Property (NCP) 214–15

Index of traditional knowledge 141–3, 148–9 reformulation of mission 212 revival of Papuan Gulf art 148–9 secrecy 145–6 traditional dance performances 211–12 traditional knowledge, preservation of 141–3, 148–9 NAU (Nayudos Amun Union) 171–2 Nayudos Cultural Centre, Huon Peninsula 6–7, 170–88 Nayudos people 170–72, 173–5, 179, 181, 182, 184, 187 NCC (National Cultural Council) 155, 220 North Solomons Cultural Centre, Kieta 217 objects, Pacific and Western perceptions of 207–8, 230–31 Old Parliament Building 211, 212, 213 Onga Cultural Centre, Romonga 6–7 Orokolo area 137–8, 139–40, 141–3, 146, 148–9 politics of 171 Port Moresby 137, 139, 141, 143, 161–2, 163–6, 201, 209–10, 216 Public Museums and Art Ordinance (1954) 214 Sepik Province 48, 139, 208, 214–15, 218 spirit houses 214 spiritual and magical powers of objects, belief in 138 Tairuma language 141–3 Teptep 170–75, 181–2, 183 traditional stories, recording of 141–3 Vailala area 142, 143, 145, 149 West New Britain Cultural Centre 217 Western Highlands Cultural Gallery 216 see also Solomon Islands; Southern New Ireland; Papua Province, Indonesia Papua New Guinea Post-Courier 180–81 Papua Province, Indonesia Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress 13–15, 18, 190, 194, 201, 228 carving exhibitions 200–201 indigenous audiences and global recognition 195–7 Indonesianization programme 198 power sources, availability of 198–9 Asmat people 1, 13–16, 192–3, 194–5, 195–6, 199–201, 202n1 abstract and narrative art 196–7 art 15, 192–3, 194, 196, 198, 202n4 ‘articulation theory’ 197 carving 13–14, 192, 194, 196, 202n3 connections across differences and distances 196 cultural properties and curatorial knowledge 194–5 cultural self-consciousness 195 dependency 196 exhibition design 195 geographical categorization of art 192 imagery 14 indigenous agency 197 innovative products, changing markets for 193

265 local communities and indigenous curation 194 lumba ukir (carving contest) 192, 199, 201 openness to external forces 196 spiritual dimensions, visual exploration of 195–6 sustainability 196–7 visual agnosticism 192–3 warrior shields 13, 192 The Papuan Villager 209 Paradise (O’Hanlon, M.) 18 Passi, Bishop David 103, 106 ‘Past Times: Torres Strait material from the Haddon Collection’ 103–4 Patakijyali Museum at Nguiu 128–9, 130 patrimony, notions of 51 Pearson, E.W. 210 Peers, L. and Brown, A. 5, 111, 117 Pemberton, J. 198 Pentecost Island 85 Phillips, D. 68n9 Philp, Jude 1, 17, 93–112, 226, 237 photographic records Babek Bema Yoma (BBY) 183 Solomon Islands National Museum (SINM) 44 Piano, Renzo 73 Picard, M. 84 Pilling, A.R. 120, 131n3 PIMA (Pacific Islands Museums Association) 2, 148 Pine, B.J. and Gilmore, J.H. 119 Pirlangimpi Art Centre 130 politics of indigenous museums 9–10 Papua New Guinea (PNG) 171 Port Moresby 137, 139, 141, 143, 161–2, 163–6, 201, 209–10, 216 ‘post- and future-museums’ 232–4 postfuneral rituals 126–7 Povinelli, E.A. 118, 121–2 Powell, A. 124 Powell, Kirsty 162–3 preservation of artefacts 40, 44, 101, 191, 207–8, 215, 221, 228 of cultural heritage 13, 88, 166, 223, 228 display and 63 documentation and 8, 231 food presercation techniques 32 of global cultural diversity 231 heritage management and 227–32 of indigenous culture 215 legislation on 139, 145, 214 localized concerns for 112 of National Cultural Property (NCP) 214–15 of traditional knowledge 141–3, 148–9 Preziosi, D. 54, 65 ‘primitive art,’ production of 124–5 Prosler, M. 5 Public Museums and Art Ordinance, PNG (1954) 214 Puruntatameri, J. et al 128 Pye, J. 124

266 Queen Victoria Museum, Tasmania 211 Queensland Heritage Trails Network 113n8 Queensland State Museum, Brisbane 106, 113n14, 209 Queensland Tourism Award 111 Quinnell, Michael 140, 148, 209 Rabaul 47, 210, 215 Raffety, Chips 113n5 Reed, S.W. 188n5 Regenvanu, Ralph 25, 26–7, 28, 31, 34–5 Regional Assistance Mission to the Solomon Islands (RAMSI) 44 Rehuher, K.F. 39 Reid, G. 119, 120, 130n2 Reports of the 1898 Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Straits (1901–35) 107 Resnais, Alain 70–71 Rhoades, James W. 140 Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde, Leiden 195 ritual knowledge 11–12 ritual planning, flexibility in 122 Robinson, Brian 103 Robinson, Lee 113n5 Rockefeller, Michael C. 15 Rockefeller Foundation 15 Roman Catholic Church 15, 16, 123, 125, 127, 128 Rooijakkers, G. and Van de Weijer, R. 121 Rowlands, M. 94 Rowley, C.D. 125 Royal Anthropological Institute (RAI) 44 Sabatino, Nino 99 sacrificial economies 65–7 Saibai Island dance troupe 97 Sarei, A. 217 Saussol, Alaine 81 Schneebaum, T. 13–14, 192, 202n1 Schultze-Westrum, Thomas 139 Scott, Harry 113n10 Sepik Province, PNG 48, 139, 208, 214–15, 218 Serpeye dance troupe 97 Serras, George 94, 95, 96, 98, 99, 100 Sihaze, Chief Paul 79 Silau, T. 218 Simpson, C. 122, 126 Simpson, M. 117, 223 Singaut NAU (People’s Union) 171, 172, 174, 175 Singe, John 101 single-purpose museums ix Smidt, Dirk 140, 192, 213 social science research 28 social structure and economic decision-making 82–3 sociological change, Torres Strait Islands 126 Soeharto, President of Indonesia 198 Solomon Islands IFM (Isatabu Freedom Movement) 41 indigenous museums, future in 38–45 MEF (Malaita Eagle Force) 41 Moro (IFM leader) 42, 43

Index RAMSI (Regional Assistance Mission to the Solomon Islands) 44 traditional societies in 38–9 Solomon Islands National Museum (SINM) 39, 40, 41, 43–4, 45, 228–9 activities and programmes 44, 45 cultural centres 41 cultural items of local importance 43–4 East Kwaio Cultural Centre 41 ethnic tensions, effect on 41–3 expatriate origins 39, 45 historic photographic record 44 importance of role 45 indigenous population, attitude of 40 interest in work of 40–41 maintenance 39 mission 39–40 Moro Movement Customhouse 41 Munda Custom Learning Centre 41 Natagera Village Customhouse 41 resources, funding and 39–40, 41 respect for customs of others 43–4 traditional knowledge, revival of 44 training for youth, programmes of 44–5 Somare, Sir Michael 140, 154 South, Barrina 112 Southern New Ireland ancestral amalgamation of forgotten pasts 61 assessment of indigenous museums 48–9 buildings and ritual 61–2 collected heritage and museum creation 52–3, 55, 63 collections and images 65–7 conservation by museums 53, 64, 66 culmination of primary mortuary rites 56–8 cultural attachment 48 dangers of heritage 47–8 display in museums 53–4, 55, 63, 64, 66 dramaturgical manipulation of perception 47–8, 64–5 effigies of deceased 58 funerary rites, incremental process in 55–61, 61–5 heritage in 49–52 heterogeneity, articulation of 64–5 identification of indigenous museums 48–9 indigenous museums character of 49, 63–5 identification and assessment of 48–9 theoretical impact of 67 institutional ‘architecture’ 48 Lak accessibility 49 Lak ancestral spirits 51–2 Lak funerary ritual 55–61, 61–5, 228 Lak kastom 51 Lak ritual 47–8, 49–53, 66–7 Lak wol (code of behaviour) 51, 64 lalamar shell-money effigies 58, 60–61 management of difference 54, 64–5 memory and secondary mortuary rites 58–61 mortuary rites and Western heritage processes, differences between 55–61, 65

Index mourners, gifts for 56 museums channeling heritage in 52–4 processes of 61–5 techniques of 48–9 as theatres 54 past, experience of 47–8 pedagogy and display 64 sacrificial economies 65–7 stewardship of the past 51 storage in museums 53, 63, 66 sum malaise of loss 55–6, 58, 60, 61 tondong ritual 56–8 tonger food effigies 58, 59 tubaun masks 58–61 Sowden, W.J. 120 Spencer, Baldwin W. 118, 119, 122, 123, 126–7, 130, 131n7 spirit houses of PNG 214 spiritual dimensions, visual exploration of 195–6 spiritual powers of objects, belief in 138 sports contests 180–81 Staniforth Smith, Miles 209–10 Stanley, N. and Cole, I. 67n1 Stanley, Nick 1–18, 45, 84, 85–6, 88, 101, 110, 112, 118, 124, 187, 190–202, 238 states kastom and state structure 27 museums and state origins 70, 73 promotion of indigenous museums 7–8 status-alteration systems 32–3 Steen, T.A. 140 Stephan, E. and Graebner, F. 67 Stevensen, K. 181 Stocking Jr, George W. 119, 207 Stokes, A. 140 Stoklund, B. 118 storage in museums 53, 63, 66 stranger-handling 123 Strathern, Andrew 154, 216 Strathern, Marilyn 11, 30 sum (malaise of loss) in New Ireland 55–6, 58, 60, 61 sustainability 196–7 Swadling, Pamela 1, 213 syncretism 186–7 Tairuma language 141–3 Tapim, Frances 103, 112 Tarisesei, Jean 25, 31 teleology 12–16 Teo, P. and Lim, L.H. 78 Teptep, PNG 170–75, 181–2, 183 Thaiday Sr, Ken 99, 112 Thana Fire Dance Troupe 97 Thomas, Nicholas 4, 88, 114n16, 159, 191 Three-Ways Tiwi Cultural Centre 128 Thurnwald, Richard 2, 3, 17, 101, 118 Thursday Island see Gab Titui Cultural Centre, Torres Strait time ‘island time’ 104–5

267 place and 104–7 Tiwi Land Council 127, 128–9 Tiwi people of Melville and Bathurst Islands 1, 17, 117, 124–8, 128–9, 131n8 Tjibaou, Jean-Marie 75–6, 80, 86 Tjibaou Cultural Centre, Noumea 70–77, 87 architectural distinction 73, 75 artefacts, location of 74 colonial history 72, 73, 77 contemporary artworks 74–5 cultural separation 71 erasure of memories 71–2, 75 facing the future 73–4 grand cases 74 Hiroshima Mon Amour (Resnais and Duras film) 70–71, 72, 76 historical violence, representation of 70–71, 72, 76–7 Kanak culture, representation of 73–4 memorialization in the Pacific 72, 76–7 memories of violence 70, 71–2, 76–7 modernity 76 monumentality 75, 76 multi-media displays 74 multiple sites 75 narratives, sharing of 76–7 origins 73 representing the unrepresented 71–2 rules and regulation 76 star status 73 state origins and museums 70, 73 Tjibaou, voice of a generation 75–6 user-friendliness 75 tondong ritual of Southern New Ireland 56–8 tonger food effigies 58, 59 Tonkinson, Bob 26 Torres Strait Islander Media Association (TSIMA) 100 tourism culturally destructive legacy of 78–9 docks on Lifou, New Caledonia 83–4 industry development, local involvement 127–8 ‘melancholia’ and 84–5, 85–6 tourist experience, provision for 85–6, 89 Tourism Council of the South Pacific 2 tradition and modernity 82–3, 88 traditional dance performances of 211–12 styles of 154 traditional knowledge preservation of 141–3, 148–9 revival of 44 traditional societies in Solomon Islands 38–9 traditional stories, recording of 141–3 training for youth 44–5 Trainor, L. 120 Trask, H.-K. 10 tribal culture centres ix Troup de Wetr of Lifou 79, 81, 82–3, 84, 86, 87, 88, 89 Tryon, Darrell 25, 36n2

268 TSRA (Torres Strait Regional Authority) 94, 101, 102, 103, 104, 107, 108, 113n2, 113n9 tubaun masks of Southern New Ireland 58–61 Tumu, A. and Kyakas, A.K. 216 Tungatalum, N. and Cole, G. 129 UN Trust Territory of New Guinea 209 UNESCO Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage 68n17, 231 Urry, John 84 Vailala area of PNG 142, 143, 145, 149 Van Helden 186 Vanuatu administration of 23–4 communication with rural areas 28 conservation 25–6 Cultural and Historical Sites Survey 36n3 Cultural Centre 24–6, 27, 28–9, 34, 35, 36n2, 226 cultural heritage in national development 26–7, 35 education system, criticism of 34–5 feminism and kastom 31–2 feminism in 29–32 fieldworker programme 24–6 gender hierarchies 31–2 history project 35 identity and kastom 26 indigenous knowledge and practice 35 kastom in 23–4, 25–6, 27, 29, 31, 32–4, 35–6n1 Malvatumauri (National Council of Chiefs) 31, 36n5 National Archives 36n3 National Film and Sound Unit 36n3 presentation skills of fieldworkers 33 resources for change 26–9 respect, deference and 33 revival of kastom 26 social science research 28 state structure and kastom 27 status-alteration systems 32–3 strategic intervention 34–5 vernacular education 28 VKS (Vanuatu Kaljoral Senta) 24–6, 27, 28–9, 34, 35, 36n2, 226 VNCW (Vanuatu National Council of Women) 23–4, 29, 30, 31 WCP (Women’s Culture Project) 24, 25, 29, 33, 34, 226 weavers on Ambae 7 women fieldworkers 32–4 women’s knowledge and practice 34 women’s organizations 30 Young People’s Project 36n3 Vanuatu Daily Post 30 Vanuatu National Library 35 Venbrux, E. and Jones, P. 123 Venbrux, Eric 17, 117–31, 238 Villevoye, R. 195 visitor escorts 123–4

Index visual agnosticism 192–3 VKS (Vanuatu Kaljoral Senta) 24–6, 27, 28–9, 34, 35, 36n2, 226 VNCW (Vanuatu National Council of Women) 23–4, 29, 30, 31 Völger, G. 121, 131n4 Waia, Terry 93, 103 Wallerstein, I. 3 Walsh, K. 190 Warr, W. 191 Warrior, Matatia Andrew 97 warrior shields of Asmat people 13, 192 WCP (Women’s Culture Project) of Vanuatu 24, 25, 29, 33, 34, 226 weavers on Ambae 7 Weber, Max (and Weberian method) 5, 198 Wegerl, I. 195 Weinberg, J. and Elieli, E. 72 Weiner, A.B. 9 Welsch, Robert L. 4, 18, 139, 141, 207–21, 225, 238 West New Britain Cultural Centre 217 Western and indigenous museums, distinction between 2, 3, 4–5, 7–8, 201, 207, 211, 221, 227–8 Western Highlands Cultural Gallery 216 Weymouth, R. 159 Whap, Terrence 112 White, G. 85 White, Hayden 72 White, Peter 112 Williams, Barry 98 Williams, F.E. 141, 209, 210, 214 Williamson, L. 229 Wilson, John 129 Wilson, L. 102 Winion, N. 217 Winslow, D. 80 Witcomb, A. 61 women fieldworkers of Vanuatu 32–4 knowledge and practice of 34 women’s organizations of Vanuatu 30 Woneaemirri, Pedro 129–30 Wright, S. 9 Young, Morris 140 Young People’s Project, Vanuatu 36n3