The same thing happened to warriors and penis gourds. Again, outsiders pressured them to adopt Western garb. The result was often an undignified compromise—a man with his tribal covering protruding through a pair of shorts! Having experienced the New Guinea of my youth, when the people walked proud in their bilas, I am discouraged to see crowds of native people in their one pair of pants and T-shirt emblazoned with Western products and slogans.
I hope we can still learn to celebrate tribal cultures. I hope at the same time that we can continue to let go of the tribal and racial prejudices that exists, truth be told, just under the skin of most of us. Perhaps this is naive, but I hope we can do it while holding onto the best aspects of our heritage—our unique dance, music, dress and food that make the various peoples of our planet so interesting. I rue the day when the whole world is one big strip mall flogging the same fast food and retail chains—a global homogenized mediocrity of the lowest common denominator.
There are two other gigantic presences in the room I want to recognize. One is Homer, and the other, John Bunyan. TEETH is, to the best of my ability, an homage to “the Odyssey“ and “Pilgrim’s Progress.”
For any skill in bringing the crocodile to life, I once more acknowledge my debt to C.S. Lewis—and Richard Adams, author of “Watership Down,” “The Plague Dogs” and many more, whose creation of the great bear “Shardik” was a marvelous thing. Before that, I cut my teeth on my father’s made-up tales about Uncle Wiggily and friends, running from the wolf in the Black Forest. With apologies to Howard Garis—Dad, your stories were the best!
Of course, there was the Bible. As the child of missionaries, I was immersed in the scriptures. Then there was a long period where I wanted desperately to fit in, and I “forgot” my origins.
It was not until I began to study literature at university that I realized what a profound advantage I had been given! As Northrop Frye wrote in “The Great Code,” “a student of English literature who does not know the Bible does not understand a good deal of what is going on….”
There was another New Guinea book I read as a boy that had a lasting impact. This was the first-hand report by Russell Hitt of the interaction between intrepid missionaries and the New Guinea nation known as the “Dani.” That book was “Cannibal Valley,” and came complete with powerful chiefs, sorcerers, intrigue, vendetta wars, and the consumption of human flesh. That was the long-distant inspiration for the Mambu and the Valley of the Cannibals.
It was around the time I first read Hitt’s book, when I was about eleven, that I had my own first story published. We Ukarumpa kids hiked to the one-room school in nearby Aiyura, presided over by the formidable Mrs. Schindler. But by this time, I was attending school by correspondence with Australia.
A horror story I wrote was picked up by the school magazine. I no longer recall the title, but I do remember that it involved a boy much like me. He is home alone one night, quietly reading, when he looks up to see a sorcerer with wild dreadlocks leering at him through the screen window! The boy sits petrified by terror, hour after hour. He knows that if he even dares turn a page, let alone glance up, he will be killed, and very likely mutilated. He reads the same paragraph ad infinitum, ad nauseum. At last his parents return, and at once the wicked warlock transmogrifies into an ordinary mop leaning against the window. And so the evil one waits, until the next time he can catch the boy alone.
I imagine that story went out across the Australian outback to terrorize dozens if not hundreds of rural youngsters. Now that I think about it, I do believe TEETH began there!
What I can tell you for certain is that the South Pacific island made a huge impression that has remained strong all these years. The wild topography, the colorful trade language, the WW2 aircraft wrecks that were our playground, the pulse of the singsing drums, the big-hearted people, the mighty rivers, the crystalline oceans in which I have plunged as a scuba diver, outlandish insects, and animals that include the saltwater crocodile, have long inhabited my personal dreamtime.
I have never forgotten New Guinea. (I’m sorry, but I will probably call PNG “New Guinea,” even though I know it is not politically correct, until I climb the great tree of the dead myself. This is because I grew up in the then-Australian Trust Territory of New Guinea, with Papua to the south, and Dutch New Guinea to the west).
In truth, the realities of PNG—which went from the Stone Age to the Space Age in one generation—are often far more bizarre than fiction. A novel has the challenge of being credible. First and foremost, this is an entertainment for the 21st Century.
I want to throw a rose as well to the great movie and documentary makers, a pantheon too legion to name. (I spent most of my first career as a creator of television documentaries and other programs). On the docu and book side, I must mention “First Contact” by Australia’s Bob Connolly and Robin Anderson, featuring the priceless photographs and film shot by the Leahy brothers in the 1930s. Bob kindly supplied historical footage for my own documentary on New Guinea, “Return to the Stone Age” (see my website).
In TEETH’s genre, Steven Spielberg’s “Jaws,” the only good shark flick, and the “Jurassic Park” movies, were influential. Mr. Spielberg taught me that the lulls between the monster’s attacks are at least as important as its appearance.
I am also grateful to another genius of the silver screen, Mel Gibson. His epic productions stand head and shoulders above the crowd. I learned much from his work about the courage to tell big stories, and about construction of set up and payoff.
I’ve read that Francis Ford Coppola took two essential items to the jungles of Asia when he filmed his epic, “Apocalypse Now.” One was a dog-eared copy of Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness.” (“The horror. The horror”). The other was a list of more than 600 things about the Vietnam War he simply must work in.
In TEETH, I had at least that many topics to include about the place, the people, and its history. In addition, I wanted to illustrate a fact I think is fundamental to any hope of finding peace on Earth. We are all connected, even (or perhaps especially), sworn enemies. To that end, the book has many parallels. Johnny is an ambush hunter: so is the Father. There is Footy and his foot, and the crocodile and his foreleg. And more. For better or for worse, this is my attempt to weave that tapestry. I hope you enjoyed the result.
To the survivors of Pearl Harbor and their descendants: my apologies for taking the liberty of placing Johnny’s father as a Lt. Commander and Executive Officer of the USS Arizona. In fact, there were seven Lt. Commanders of the warship as of Dec. 1, ’41, two of whom, P. Register and J. French, were killed in the bombing, along with Captain Franklin Van Valkenburgh. The actual Executive Officer, Ellis Geiselman, survived. In the interest of keeping alive the memory of Dec. 7, I beg your indulgence.
Also, to the survivors of the only atomic bomb attacks in history, the “hibakusha” of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Please forgive me for the fictional use of your terrible ordeal and suffering. Again, the purpose is to make these things real for new generations. Also, I did want to emphasize the horrific irony of the inadvertent destruction of the center of Christianity in Japan and the Urakami Cathedral (located at Ground Zero of the explosion over Nagasaki). However, by no means do I mean to imply that any group of Japanese was or is more important than any other.
A word about facts: while a great deal of reading and research went into this, and I am grateful to the authors of more than a hundred books on various aspects of history, ethnography and more, and to everyone who shared their knowledge and expertise, all errors are my responsibility.
When describing real people, and events ascribed to them, I have tried to be accurate. For example, the speech attributed to General MacArthur on the occasion of his return to the Philippines is what he said. The radio report of the dropping of the atom bomb on Hiroshima is from an actual broadcast of the time, and so on.
In regard to dates, as Newt Gingrich and William Forstchen noted so carefully in “Pearl Harbor – A
Novel of December 8th,” on the other side of the International Date Line, all dates are a day later than in North America.
One of the trade languages of New Guinea is pidgin English, spelled in-country, “tok pisin” (talk pidgin). It would have been easy to get carried away with (to me, fascinating) pidgin expressions, but this would have made the book laborious for most readers. I have parted company with the official spelling of some of the vocabulary. Of note is the word for “crocodile,” which I render as “pookpook” (rhymes with “book”). The official spelling is “pukpuk,” but when most readers made it sound like Hawaiian hockey, I went phonetic.
There are more people I hasten to thank. One is Yasuyuki Kasai, a Japanese of samurai descent whose father was a soldier in WW2. While researching TEETH, I came across the Guinness Book of World Records report of “The Greatest Disaster Suffered from Animals.” This was the Ramree Island Saltwater Crocodile attack on Japanese soldiers in February, 1945. My Chas Rutherford is a “witness” to the event.
On that trail, I found “Dragons of the Mangrove” by Mr. Kasai, a well-researched novel from the viewpoint of the Japanese soldiers who had to enter the perilous swamp. Yasuyuki disputes how many actually died during that crossing. Mr. Kasai was kind enough to read my manuscript at an early stage. He has generously given a great many helpful observations about the story, and in particular, the Japanese characters, martial arts, and the samurai and their swords.
The poem Katsu writes in the sand was inspired by a book I read long ago—“Zen Flesh, Zen Bones” a translation into English of ancient Japanese writings. At least, that is where I think I read an old haiku similar to the one I gave Katsu. The original involved a house, not a country. I wrote my version, and Yasuyuki was kind enough to translate it back into Japanese. Thank you, Yasuyuki! Your encouragement and friendship have been a delightful bonus to all this.
I thank Sharon and Tom. They took time from an always-insane schedule to travel across the US so that Sharon could read the manuscript. She has been consistently strong in her encouragement and support. Heartfelt thanks to both of you.
Then there is my brother, Dave Dean. He, too, lived in New Guinea, and almost died there (but that is another story). He and I have shared favorite books for decades. I so enjoyed having him read TEETH! He made many insightful suggestions that improved the book. Thanks, brother.
Cover art rules! Deborah and I saw Dwight Kirkland’s Africa paintings and were entranced. “What if we could get him,” we dreamed, and we did. Thank you Dwight.
Another enthusiastic reader was Donna Wooten, M.A. and teacher. Thanks, Donna! Then there was Montessori teacher and professional proofreader, Julie Price. Julie, you’re a peach.
I give a final tip of the hat to all you friends and strangers who shared your advice, insights and encouragement along the way.
See you later, alligator. In a while, crocodile.
Behind me looklook, pookpook.
Timothy James Dean
“Somewhere on Planet Earth,” November, 2009
Don’t be a stranger!
www.TimothyJamesDean.com
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Worlders
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www.worlders.net
The first 500 to register will be listed as the
founding members of Worlders.
Did you grow up so many places, you’re not sure where you from, or where you belong? Well, there’s a tribe you do belong to, and we gather at worlders.net.
“Where in the world are you from?” If you’re a “Worlder,” that’s a tough question. People like me, who grew up with cannibals, and had lived in six countries by the time I was eighteen, learned early to dodge that one.
Some Worlders (like me) are the children of missionaries. Others I went to school with in places like Kodaicanal in South India, are the offspring of diplomats, scholars, industrialists, aid workers, and the military. We share many attributes.
Launched with this book is a new virtual “coffee shop” where you are always welcome! Make new friends—share your story.
Deborah, my wife, is a “Navy brat.” And while she didn’t necessarily hop countries, she moved a lot. We share a joy in exploring our planet. Neither of us would trade our experiences, and the people we have met, for any of the benefits no doubt enjoyed by the “stay-at-homers.” Of course, there is a darker side to growing up disconnected. More on that as we get to know one another.
Many Worlders have a lively interest in the furthest-flung corners of the world. Our friends are generally a well-traveled lot. Many of us work in communications. Quite a few are writers.
We Worlders may be rootless—we often feel like we don’t belong anywhere. At the same time, we are equally at home everywhere. We are not necessarily rooted vertically—planted in one place. We are rooted laterally—that is, to people and other places, and even our memories. Many of us carry “sacred objects”—a box of photographs and a particular painting that when you hang it, you’re home (again).
We Worlders really got going in a big way after the Second World War. Aircraft shrunk the planet. The pace of the global diaspora picked up.
We have been called other names (yes, those too!). The late Ruth Useem, an American sociologist, took her kids to India. She observed that they experienced two cultures, and created a third from the mix. Thus, in the 1960s, she coined the term, “Third Culture Kid.”
Some years later, my old friend and fellow Kodai alumnus (who, sadly, recently left the planet), Norma McCaig, coined another term—“Global Nomads.”
I’ve never been entirely comfortable in the skin of either expression. For one, I lived in far more than two countries, so “third culture” is more like seventh. (Nor have I been a “kid” for some time). And while “nomadic” describes how I’ve lived, there are those Worlders who had a much-traveled childhood, and then settled down.
To me, “Worlders” is apt. Planet Earth is our home, even if we are just a-passing through. If you relate, come participate.
Moreover, it doesn’t matter if you merely grew up in Missouri and moved to Montana. If you have the peculiar sense of not belonging anywhere, of being the chameleon who blends in but isn’t of the crowd—if you are searching for ways to find a community into which you fit by definition, then worlders.net may be for you.
What we are not is a political organization. Like Thoreau, most of us who have to get through borders agree, “that government is best which governs least of all.” (No, we are not denying that terrorists exist. We are simply saying that personally, we want it easy to get from here to Timbuktu!).
Neither are we a religious gathering. We each, no doubt, bring our spiritual beliefs, and Worlders come from every faith and walk of life. The only thing of which the site is intolerant is hatred of any other tribe, and intolerance itself.
Welcome you Worlders, you members of the Planet Earth tribe!
See you online.
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