Early yesterday morning, the uncle of a guy I worked with died. (Relationships are closer here; he calls him father.) He was in his 50s, the average age for a PNG adult to die (someone "elderly" is 50 an above). I saw A; he had been bawling. Everyone connected weeps and grieves openly - and extensively - when someone dies. Death and mourning are big parts of life. A had come into work to finalise something and then was off to organise the burial and attend the haus kri (where relatives, friends, associates gather at the village and mourn and perform mourning ceremonies; part of it is eating; the family kill pigs and cook and feed the mourners, in between bouts of wailing); he won't be back for 2 weeks, at least. I spoke to him briefly; he was on the verge of tears, and muted.

Outside an older man - another relative - waited for him. They were going to buy the coffin. (This is a pratical detail that is a big part of death and funerals here: finding the money and buying and transporting the coffin. Makes me realise no one in Australia talks about this aspect; it's hushed.)

He smelt of fire, and at first I thought he'd been burnt: there was something wrong with his face, his skin. But he was in mourning: covered in ash. Not grey ash though but smeared with the black of char. A had looked upset, but this man looked so terrible you could feel it in your gut. Only one word came close: devastation.