The Wantok system, a traditional social network based on language and kinship ties, has both positive and negative effects on business in Melanesia. While it fosters community support and trust, it can also lead to inefficiencies and exclusion. Below is a detailed analysis of its impacts on business:

A. Positive Effects of the Wantok System in Business

1. Trust and Reliability

• Strong Networks: The Wantok system builds trust among members, making it easier to establish business relationships and partnerships.
• Reduced Transaction Costs: Trust within the Wantok network reduces the need for formal contracts or legal oversight, lowering transaction costs.

2. Access to Labor and Resources

• Community Support: Businesses can rely on their Wantok network for labor, resources, and informal credit, which can be crucial for startups or small enterprises.
• Shared Knowledge: Members of the Wantok often share skills, knowledge, and expertise, which can benefit business operations.

3. Market Access

• Local Markets: Businesses can tap into their Wantok network to access local markets and customers, ensuring a steady demand for goods and services.
• Loyalty: Wantok members are often loyal to businesses owned by their kin, providing a reliable customer base.

4. Risk Sharing

• Collective Responsibility: The Wantok system allows businesses to share risks, as members often support each other during financial difficulties or crises.
• Informal Insurance: In times of loss or failure, the Wantok network can provide informal insurance by offering financial or material support.

5. Entrepreneurial Opportunities

• Encouragement of Startups: The support of the Wantok network can encourage individuals to start businesses, knowing they have a safety net.
• Mentorship: Experienced members of the Wantok can mentor aspiring entrepreneurs, providing guidance and advice.

6. Cultural Relevance

• Localized Business Models: Businesses that align with Wantok values and traditions are more likely to succeed, as they resonate with the community.
• Community Engagement: Businesses can leverage their Wantok connections to engage with the community and build goodwill.

B. Negative Effects of the Wantok System in Business

1. Nepotism and Favoritism

• Hiring Practices: Businesses may prioritize hiring Wantok members over more qualified candidates, leading to inefficiencies and lower productivity.
• Unfair Advantage: Outsiders may find it difficult to compete or participate in businesses dominated by Wantok networks.

2. Financial Burden

• Obligations to Support: Successful business owners are often expected to financially support their Wantok, which can drain resources and limit reinvestment in the business.
• Pressure to Share Profits: Profits may be redistributed within the Wantok network rather than being used to grow the business.

3. Limited Growth

• Small-Scale Operations: The reliance on Wantok networks can limit businesses to small-scale, local operations, hindering expansion into larger markets.
• Resistance to Outsiders: Businesses may struggle to attract investors or partners outside their Wantok network, limiting growth opportunities.

4. Inefficiency

• Lack of Meritocracy: Decisions may be based on kinship rather than merit, leading to poor management and inefficiencies.
• Resource Misallocation: Resources may be diverted to support Wantok members rather than being used for business development.

5. Conflict of Interest

• Loyalty vs. Professionalism**: Business owners may face conflicts between their loyalty to their Wantok and the need to make objective, professional decisions.
• Favoritism in Contracts**: Contracts or business opportunities may be awarded to Wantok members, even if they are not the best fit.

6. Barriers to Innovation

• Resistance to Change**: The traditional nature of the Wantok system can discourage innovation or the adoption of new technologies and practices.
• Risk Aversion**: Businesses may avoid taking risks or exploring new markets due to the pressure to conform to Wantok expectations.

7. Exclusion of Non-Wantok Members

• Limited Diversity**: Businesses dominated by Wantok networks may lack diversity in perspectives, skills, and ideas, which can hinder creativity and problem-solving.
• Social Tensions**: Exclusion of non-Wantok members can create social tensions and resentment, affecting business relationships and community harmony.

8. Over-Reliance on Informal Systems

• Lack of Formal Structures: The reliance on informal Wantok networks can discourage the development of formal business structures, such as legal frameworks, accounting systems, and professional management.
• Vulnerability to Exploitation: Informal systems can be exploited by unscrupulous individuals, leading to disputes or financial losses.

C. Balancing the Pros and Cons**

To maximize the benefits of the Wantok system while minimizing its drawbacks, businesses in Melanesia can adopt the following strategies:

• Promote Meritocracy: Ensure that hiring and decision-making are based on skills and qualifications, while still valuing Wantok connections.
• Encourage Inclusivity: Expand networks beyond the Wantok system to include diverse perspectives and opportunities.
• Formalize Business Practices: Develop formal structures and systems to complement informal Wantok networks, ensuring transparency and accountability.
• Foster Innovation: Encourage innovation and adaptability while respecting traditional values and practices.

D. Conclusion

The Wantok system has both positive and negative effects on business in Melanesia. While it provides a strong support network, trust, and access to resources, it can also lead to inefficiencies, nepotism, and limited growth. By striking a balance between traditional values and modern business practices, Melanesian businesses can harness the strengths of the Wantok system while addressing its challenges.

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The Wantok system, a cornerstone of Melanesian societies, is often viewed with a critical eye. Outsiders and even some within the region point to its potential for corruption, nepotism, and hindering individual advancement. However, a closer examination reveals that the Wantok system, at its core, is a powerful social safety net with more advantages than disadvantages in the daily lives of Melanesians.

At its heart, the Wantok system is a reciprocal support network based on kinship, language, or geographical origin. “Wantok” literally translates to “one talk” or “one language,” emphasizing the shared identity that binds people together. This system dictates that individuals have a responsibility to assist their Wantoks in times of need, whether it be providing financial assistance, offering accommodation, or helping with employment.

One of the most significant advantages of the Wantok system is its role as a social safety net. In many Melanesian countries, formal social security systems are weak or non-existent. The Wantok system steps in to fill this void, providing crucial support to those who are unemployed, sick, or facing hardship. This safety net ensures that individuals are not left to fend for themselves in vulnerable situations, fostering a sense of community and shared responsibility. Imagine a family facing a medical emergency; the Wantok system ensures they can access resources and support they wouldn’t otherwise have.

Furthermore, the Wantok system facilitates economic opportunities. While critics argue it can lead to nepotism, it also provides a vital avenue for accessing jobs and resources, particularly for those from rural areas or disadvantaged backgrounds. Wantoks often help each other find employment, start businesses, and navigate complex bureaucratic processes. This can be especially important in countries with high unemployment rates and limited access to formal institutions. The system fosters trust and collaboration, enabling individuals to overcome barriers and improve their livelihoods.

The Wantok system also plays a crucial role in preserving cultural values and traditions. It reinforces the importance of community, reciprocity, and mutual support – values that are deeply embedded in Melanesian cultures. By upholding these values, the Wantok system helps to maintain social cohesion and cultural identity in the face of rapid modernization and globalization. It serves as a reminder of the importance of collective well-being over individual gain.

Of course, the Wantok system is not without its drawbacks. The pressure to provide for Wantoks can be financially straining, especially for those with limited resources. It can also lead to corruption and nepotism in the public sector, as individuals prioritize the needs of their Wantoks over the principles of meritocracy and transparency. These are valid concerns that need to be addressed through good governance and ethical leadership.

However, it is crucial to recognize that these disadvantages are often the result of the system being exploited or manipulated, rather than inherent flaws in the system itself. When practiced ethically and responsibly, the Wantok system can be a powerful force for good.

In conclusion, while criticisms of the Wantok system are valid and should be addressed, it is essential to recognize the significant advantages it provides in the daily lives of Melanesians. It serves as a vital social safety net, facilitates economic opportunities, and preserves cultural values. By focusing on strengthening governance and promoting ethical practices, Melanesian societies can harness the positive aspects of the Wantok system while mitigating its potential drawbacks, ensuring a more equitable and prosperous future for all. The Wantok system, at its best, is a testament to the enduring power of community and the importance of looking out for one another.

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1. Social Cohesion and Support

• Community Bonding: The Wantok system strengthens social ties by fostering a sense of belonging and mutual responsibility among members of the same language group (Wantok).
• Support Network: It provides a robust support system where individuals can rely on their Wantok for help during times of need, such as financial difficulties, illness, or family crises.

2. Economic Assistance

•  Resource Sharing: The system facilitates the sharing of resources, such as food, money, and labor, ensuring that no member of the community is left without basic necessities.
• Employment Opportunities: Wantok connections can help individuals find jobs or secure employment within their community or through extended networks.

3. Conflict Resolution

• Mediation: The Wantok system often includes traditional methods of conflict resolution, where disputes are settled within the community through dialogue and consensus, maintaining harmony.
• Restorative Justice: It emphasizes restorative rather than punitive justice, focusing on reconciliation and the restoration of relationships.

4. Cultural Preservation

• Language and Traditions**: The Wantok system helps preserve indigenous languages, customs, and traditions by reinforcing cultural identity and continuity.
• Oral History**: It serves as a means of passing down oral histories, knowledge, and cultural practices from one generation to the next.

5. Political Influence

• Collective Voice: The system can amplify the collective voice of a community, enabling them to have a stronger influence in local and regional politics.
• Leadership: Traditional leaders within the Wantok system often play crucial roles in governance and decision-making processes.

6. Mobility and Integration

• Urban Adaptation: For those migrating to urban areas, the Wantok system provides a familiar support network, helping them integrate into new environments while maintaining cultural ties.
• Information Sharing: It facilitates the flow of information and news within the community, keeping members informed and connected.

7. Education and Mentorship

• Knowledge Transfer: Elders and experienced members of the Wantok often mentor younger generations, passing on valuable skills, knowledge, and wisdom.
• Educational Support: The community may pool resources to support the education of its members, ensuring that children and youth have access to schooling.

8. Crisis Management

• Disaster Response: In times of natural disasters or emergencies, the Wantok system can mobilize quickly to provide aid and support to affected members.
• Collective Action: The system enables coordinated efforts in rebuilding and recovery, leveraging the collective strength of the community.

9. Spiritual and Emotional Well-being

• Spiritual Support: The Wantok system often includes spiritual and religious practices that provide comfort and a sense of purpose.
• Emotional Security: Knowing that one is part of a supportive community can enhance emotional well-being and reduce feelings of isolation.

10. Sustainable Living

• Environmental Stewardship: Traditional practices within the Wantok system often emphasize sustainable use of natural resources, promoting environmental conservation.
• Community Gardens: Shared agricultural practices and community gardens can ensure food security and sustainable living.

In summary, the Wantok system is deeply embedded in the daily lives of Melanesians, offering a multifaceted support network that enhances social cohesion, economic stability, cultural preservation, and overall well-being.

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Don Kulick and Angela Terrill. A Grammar and Dictionary of Tayap: The Life and Death of a Papuan Language. De Gruyter Mouton, 2019.

The world’s second-largest island after Greenland is threaded with twisting rivers, rainforests, and swamps. Steep peaks and grassy highlands cross the center. For forty thousand years there were no centralized states. People lived by planting taro, banana, sago, and yam, with some hunting and gathering. No colonialism, and not much world-system, until about the last century.

New Guinea—the western half is controlled by Indonesia, the eastern half is the independent nation of Papua New Guinea, and both include outlying islands—is the place for languages. Around eleven million people speak approximately 1,150 of the world’s approximately 7,000 languages. (Three-quarters of both the people and the languages are on the Papua New Guinea side.)

On average, there are ten thousand speakers per language, with just a few in the intensively cultivated, pig-breeding highlands having over forty thousand. Most languages have under three thousand speakers, and hundreds have probably never had more than five hundred. Neighboring languages can be as different from one another as English is from Chinese. Closely and clearly related Austronesian languages, which dominate the Indo-Pacific from Madagascar to Easter Island, have taken root on the coast, but New Guinea’s other eight-hundred-plus “Papuan” languages belong to dozens of radically distinct language families, not to mention “language isolates” with no known relatives. A tentative construct known as Trans-New Guinea appears with its 480 languages to be the world’s third-largest language family, after Austronesian and Niger-Congo (which dominates most of sub-Saharan Africa).

Going by Greenberg’s Diversity Index, which measures the chances that two randomly selected people in a country have different mother tongues, Papua New Guinea is a 98.8 out of 100. Linguist Bill Foley, in The Papuan Languages of New Guinea, imagines how a single community speaking a single language, splitting in two every thousand years, could produce 10¹² languages over the course of forty thousand years. New Guinea is nowhere close to that—there are factors that draw or force communities together, and factors that destroy them—but the order of magnitude is telling. The question shouldn’t be Why is New Guinea so linguistically diverse? but Why do the rest of us sound so much alike?

Like many linguists, I was drawn to New Guinea—not only for its qualitative and quantitative diversity, but also for the fact that so few of its languages have been described in any detail. Ten years ago, at a linguistics summer school in Berkeley, I studied Yélî dnye, a language isolate from Rossel Island, working with cognitive linguist Stephen Levinson and speaker Isidore Yidika, both flown in for the summer. We cut our teeth on the language’s doubly-articulated consonants, the simultaneous soundings of what linguists write as n̪͡m and t̪͡p and call “labial–alveolar” and “labial–postalveolar,” respectively—sounds not known in any other language. We grappled with six diurnal tenses, though the language doesn’t use any fixed anchoring of time. A certain genre of Yélî dnye poetry was reported to have a speech rate far faster than any auctioneer, over nine syllables per second. We didn’t even get into the famous shell money system, noted by John Maynard Keynes, which seems to have its own linguistic register.

Serious linguistic diversity and stable multilingualism were probably once the norm almost everywhere. Today, only places like the Amazon, West Africa, the Himalaya, and parts of the Pacific retain it. I ended up working in the Himalaya, and later New York City, chasing a different kind of linguistic diversity, amazingly compressed, that is now flourishing (but for how long?) in mass immigration destinations like New York, London, Paris, Moscow, Jakarta, Lagos, and Kathmandu.

But New Guinea remained on my radar: a horizon of maximum difference, a test bed for linguistics and for linguists. Elsewhere, linguistic differences usually stem from geographic isolation. But in much of New Guinea the diversity is actually deepest in places where travel is easiest. Instead of using religion, clothing, or food, Papua New Guineans have distinguished themselves above all through language. Call it tribalism or, as linguists do, the “constructive fostering of variegation” through “intentional language change.”

Take the Uisai dialect of Buin, spoken by 1,500 people on Bougainville Island. Like many European languages, all dialects of Buin have “grammatical gender,” a system of sorting nouns into a handful of categories that can be read, at least loosely, as reflecting a thorough gendering of all people, places, and things. But part of what distinguishes Uisai, compared with the other dialects of Buin, is that all genders are flipped, along with the agreement marking in the rest of the sentence. In other words, whatever is masculine for other Buin speakers is feminine in Uisai, and vice versa. No known mechanism of language change could explain this; it could only have been intentional.

People differentiate themselves from others all the time by how they speak—dial up an accent here, use a fancy word there—but lasting, counterintuitive change across all speakers of a language, consciously choosing to differentiate themselves from their neighbors, is rare. A linguist studying the Papuan language Selepet observed a community meeting where it was decided to use the new word bunge for “no” in place of the standard word bia, with the express purpose of sounding different from other Selepet speakers. Another linguist working on the Anem language of New Britain, an island off New Guinea, found that speakers regularly introduced irregular forms, opaque idioms, and elaborate terms as a way of maintaining the boundaries of their linguistic community.

If the purposeful creation of different, obscure, and esoteric language is more common in New Guinea than elsewhere, it may have something to do with wantok—“the idea,” writes the linguist Nick Evans, “that we are on the same wavelength as speakers of our language, and can therefore trust and call upon them.” A language, in a wantok world, extends only as far as the bonds of trust, and if you want to be trusted you need to learn the language. A very New Guinean concept, even if it’s a modern coinage, wantok expresses the traditional role of linguistic solidarity in many of the thousand-plus traditional social systems across the archipelago, each fortified and circumscribed by its own language.

Yet wantok networks have also always cut across linguistic lines to include kin, friends, and other “people one can talk to.” Ironically, the word itself (from “one talk”), despite referring often to highly local units, comes from Tok Pisin, an English-based creole that first formed in the colonial plantation economy of the late 19th century and is now the fast-spreading national language of Papua New Guinea. Indeed, today some have the hope, expressed in the name of the national Tok Pisin newspaper Wantok, that all of Papua New Guinea can come to constitute one giant wantok.

Tayap is a disappearing language of Papua New Guinea, and the Swedish-American linguist Don Kulick (also known for his work on language and sexuality) has written a troubling, accessible account of the language and its speakers, A Death in the Rainforest, based on several periods of fieldwork since the mid-1980s. It’s a book about the decline and fall of a wantok.

Kulick is clear-eyed about his position: “I am a white American/European middle-class male professor writing about largely moneyless (which is not the same as ‘poor’) black villagers who live in a backwater swamp in a faraway Oceanic country.” He doesn’t romanticize the country, the language, the jungle, or himself, an annoying, micro-bribing gatecrasher fired by morbid curiosity about “language death.” He expects his fieldwork recordings to “linger on like ectoplasm, long after the speakers are gone and the language is forgotten.”

Originally an island before the sea around it receded, Gapun, the New Guinean village where Tayap is spoken, was for most of the past few millennia an isolated mountaintop village. Probably as a result, Tayap is a “language isolate” completely unlike any other. Before Kulick, only a few wordlists had been collected in passing by the German missionary Georg Höltzker and the Australian linguist Don Laycock, who advised Kulick to go there and figure out what was happening to the language. The village wasn’t on any map that Kulick could find. Google Maps still doesn’t have it.

In 1985, then a graduate student in anthropology, Kulick met an Aussie who introduced him to another Aussie living in Wewak, the capital of East Sepik Province. This was still three days’ journey from the village. That man’s brother-in-law, an East Sepik local, took him part of the way, to a river landing where Kulick was able to hire an outboard-motor-driven canoe to get him to his destination. One of the men driving the canoe had a distant relative who had married a woman from the village. That family became Kulick’s entrée into the Tayap-speaking world. Six degrees of separation, plus schlepping, like most linguistic fieldwork.

The village, writes Kulick, was “a tiny windless slit in the rainforest . . . surrounded on all sides by massive trees rooted in a vast, seemingly boundless swamp.” Scratch that: if the word “rainforest” evokes an ecotopia, Kulick wants us to know that this particular “jungle” is an “endless expanse of mud” throbbing with clouds of mosquitoes, ill-disposed crocodiles, black leeches, venomous snakes, needly trees, and spiky vines. Not entirely immune to the fieldworker bravado now increasingly out of fashion, Kulick wants us to know that he got malaria five times and dengue twice, had intestinal parasites and gaping sores, et cetera.

Clueless and overwhelmed, like most first-timers “in the field,” Kulick was lucky. The villagers associated him almost immediately with the ghost of a child who had died. This gave him a place in the community, however spectral. The villagers built him a house and would do the same for him on two later visits. His first task was “to catch a language teacher”—no easy matter given how busy the villagers were kept by processing sago, hunting, collecting firewood, getting water, cooking, and taking care of their gardens. His only prospects were elders, of which there were only seven in the village at the time, and ultimately just one that Kulick could really work with.

Over the course of an initial fifteen months, Kulick made the most of this foothold, spending “untold hours with Raya in his rickety little shelter, sometimes working on Tayap but often just hanging out.” Raya, it turned out, was “a well-informed, eager, and catty gossiper, which for an anthropologist is like hitting the mother lode.” Even more, Raya took it upon himself to explain to Kulick how the world works, from the Tayap point of view.

Kulick threw himself into documenting the language, but for the technical details I had to nerd out on A Grammar and Dictionary of Tayap, which Kulick calls with tenured candor “the linguistic equivalent of a meticulously mounted fossil skeleton,” lacking the “nerves,” “spit,” and “spark” of living language. Tayap, like every language properly studied, is a tongue of great intricacy and style, where gender is marked on transitive verbs (Wetet! is “Come!” said to a man, Wetak! is “Come!” said to a woman) and great chains of morphemes form mind-bending words (Tapratkɨŋgɨatɨkɨtakana is “She intends to carry him on her shoulders”). Bored by cosmography and folktales, Kulick thrilled to Tayap’s “impressive lyrical arsenal of vulgarity.” He discovered that the first three words of every Tayap-speaking baby are said to be the same, all equally cranky (okɨ “I’m leaving,” mɨnda “I’m sick of this,” ayata “Stop it”)—which is neither more nor less accurate than the idea that English-speaking babies start out with “mommy” and “daddy.”

At Kulick’s arrival in 1985, about 90 people from a total population of 130 still spoke Tayap. Almost every villager over 25 was still fluent in the language, but Tayap speakers’ traditional multilingualism—most were competent in at least two unrelated local languages—was already plummeting and a decisive shift was well underway to Tok Pisin.

Today, even as the overall population of the village has doubled, the speaker population is under 50, and there is little prospect that anyone will still be speaking the language in the second half of the 21st century. On his most recent visit last year, Kulick found the village virtually abandoned. Across three decades of visits, he charts the process of language loss in painful, longitudinal detail, as few scholars have.

Kulick estimates that Tok Pisin would have first entered the village around 1916, when two local men set out to find white (German) labor recruiters on the coast and ended up working on a distant copra plantation. They came back both with substantial “cargo” (steel knives, machetes, axes, factory cloth, and more) and with Tok Pisin, considered the white man’s language and the key to cargo. This set a pattern, common the world over, where young men are drawn into migrant labor and then return to their area not only with goods but with a new language that is imbued with the same aura. Returning men, writes Kulick, “ordered their sons, nephews, and wives around in Tok Pisin . . . as they had been ordered around in Tok Pisin by white overseers.” Young women in the village, fully picking up the language a generation later, then started to do the same with children. People continued speaking Tayap, but the language now had a prestigious, dangerous rival for the first time.

Germany nominally controlled the northeastern part of New Guinea for a few decades, until Australia seized it during the First World War. Japan, in the Second World War, tried in turn to wrest the territory from Australia’s equally nominal grasp. After a last doomed Japanese campaign sent the entire Tayap-speaking community fleeing into the jungle, seventeen villagers died, representing not only 40 percent of the adult population but a high proportion of the elders who knew the language best.

When the people returned they re-founded the village at the base of the mountain it had been on top of, hoping to sell cash crops to outsiders. In 1948, the first missionary appeared, a Canadian Catholic priest, and the village rapidly converted, with all things Christian happening in Tok Pisin. Later, when halting literacy arrived—Tayap is a traditionally oral language—it came in Tok Pisin and was mainly used by young men to write extravagant love letters to their crushes. (Kulick offered to type letters up on his solar-powered laptop and print them on his portable printer, provided he could keep a copy and quote from them.)

Independence from Australia came in 1975, but in the distant capital Port Moresby there has been little support for, or political representation of, remote communities like the village, which has no schools, roads, hospitals, courts, or police. “From the stone age to the space age” runs the tired cliché about Papua New Guinea’s 20th century history, but for all they lost Tayap speakers ultimately have gotten little in return.

If anything, the garbled, fifth-hand discourse of development also brought disaster. Moses, a fortysomething komiti (village headman), had spent just enough years in the ’70s and ’80s at Catholic mission school and on a copra plantation to crave an abstract idea of “modern living” based on pictures of orderly-looking Australian suburbs. In the 2000s, stirred up by a well-meaning NGO course and slurs from a neighboring village, Moses dreamed of replacing the organic village layout, surrounded by coconut and betel palms and interspersed with mango, soursop, and laulau trees, which the villagers used every day. Finally, in one frenzied, drunken night in 2007, Moses led the villagers in the destruction of their own homes, resulting in a superficially orderly wasteland, where life only grew harder.

Then there was the violence and alcoholism. Guns started going around in the late 1980s, enabling ol raskol, the disgruntled and violent young “rascals” toting them, to raid and loot with impunity. When Kulick visited as a postdoc in 1991, a gang of ol raskol from a neighboring village heard that he was carrying a huge sum of cash. During a singsing, an all-night party thrown by the villagers after they finished building Kulick a new house, the gang descended and ended up killing Kawri, one of the villagers.

When Kulick eventually returned fifteen years later, the threats recurred. Some of Kawri’s relatives wanted blood money, not from the murderers but from the linguist, who had already sent money to Kawri’s father and brothers-in-law. Feeling danger closing in around him again, Kulick played the ultimate First World card: he called a helicopter service to airlift him out.

Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs, and Steel, the publishing sensation of 1997 since pressed on countless undergrads, turned on “Yali’s question,” which derived from Diamond’s encounter with a New Guinean politician. “Why is it that you white people developed so much cargo and brought it to New Guinea, but we black people had little cargo of our own?” Yali asked the anthropologist.

Diamond’s book-length answer is that the global dominance of Eurasian peoples, and the vast material inequalities that have gone with it, can ultimately be explained in terms of environment, climate, and geography, which led to world-conquering weapons, diseases, and technologies. It’s a vision of stark determinism, which risks justifying colonialism and empire while also overlooking economic, institutional, and cultural factors. But it’s hard to deny the continuing force of Yali’s question, and the fact that languages with cargo (and languages derived from them, like Tok Pisin) are taking over.

Between the 1980s and the 2000s, Tayap—one small part of New Guinea’s own immense cultural and linguistic cargo—went from being the natural language of the village to a marked, mocked code increasingly shunned and contested. Parents would discourage and avoid it with their children, but also bemoan their errors when the kids did try to speak. The remaining speakers would squabble over the right word for “rainbow,” with no authority around to decide. Traditions collapsed: the house cult, healing rites, funerary rituals, kinship bonds. Remarkably, some young people in the village continued to have excellent active competence in Tayap, even the ability to tell stories, despite never using the language. But this could only ever be a transitional state.

Tok Pisin, and ultimately English, looked like the way out, the high road to modernity and all the cargo supposed to come with it. Where a language like Tayap used to be associated with a community, a wantok in all its indelible particularity, today it is associated with a seemingly fixed position on the scale of global inequality, which mass media and “education” make plain for all to see. Tayap, like endangered languages almost everywhere, appears at the bottom.

In the ugly scramble to be modern, the village—and the country surrounding it—is becoming like every other place, only poorer and more violent. In the middle of an unprecendented material and epistemic rupture, there is little appetite for difference in and of itself. Whatever made the wantok system work is less and less operative. In some parts of Papua New Guinea, the recent arrival of large-scale extractive industries, especially oil and gas, now is, or should be, bringing the cargo. But it’s the underlying awareness of an absence (of “cargo” or “development”) that has broken the integrity of these places. Among the Tayap older villagers talk of having “grown down”, becoming smaller in every way from their ancestors.

But consider a possibility. With luck or with help or with hustle, a few villagers—maybe aided by their fluency in Tok Pisin or English—make it out to Wewak, the nearest town, or Moresby, or (one can dream) even Sydney. By this point, their Tayap is fading, but they have money, jeans, cell phones, internet, and above all an awareness of the wider world and how to navigate it. The hunger for cargo eases, maybe. The people they meet—it could be their own children—ask them who they are, where they come from. They remember Tayap.

Won’t it be too late? “What the son wishes to forget the grandson wishes to remember,” wrote Marcus Lee Hansen, the historian of U.S. immigration. Thoroughgoing modernization, with a major redistribution of resources to its speakers, may paradoxically be what Tayap needs most. There can be no room for purism. Other languages can be learned strategically—sometimes it’s even better to vault to an international language like English—in a way that ultimately strengthens the mother tongue.

The successful language revitalization movements of the past century—whether Hebrew or Hawaiian, Basque or Breton, Mapuche or Māori—have been anchored in both sovereignty struggles and economic advance. These movements are breaking the link, inherited from colonialism, between their languages and the idea of “backwardness.” Could it work at the level of a single village? For the past several decades, Native American language activists like Jessie Little Doe Baird, with Wôpanâak, and Daryl Baldwin, with Myaamia, have been reviving languages which had no native speakers, starting with their own families and widening the circle from there. Ectoplasm like Kulick’s has come in handy. Instead of “growing down,” they are building wantoks again.

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The Wantok system is a traditional social network that holds great significance in Melanesia, encompassing countries such as Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands, Vanuatu, and Fiji. Wantok, which translates to “one talk” in Tok Pisin, refers to a system of reciprocal relationships based on language, culture, and kinship ties. In this system, individuals are expected to support and assist their Wantoks in times of need, creating a strong sense of community and responsibility.

The Wantok system plays a crucial role in conservation efforts in Melanesia, as it influences how environmental initiatives are perceived and implemented within communities. On one hand, the strong bonds of the Wantok system can be leveraged to promote conservation practices and wildlife preservation. When individuals view themselves as part of a larger network that extends beyond their immediate family, they are more likely to prioritize the well-being of their community and the environment. By engaging Wantoks in conservation projects, organizations can tap into existing social structures and foster collective action towards sustainable practices.

However, the Wantok system can also present challenges to conservation efforts. In some cases, the emphasis on mutual assistance and reciprocity may prioritize short-term economic gains over long-term environmental sustainability. For example, the reliance on natural resources for livelihoods and subsistence may lead to overexploitation and habitat destruction. Additionally, the close-knit nature of Wantok relationships can sometimes hinder the adoption of new conservation practices that are perceived as foreign or disruptive to traditional ways of life.

To effectively navigate the complex relationship between the Wantok system and conservation efforts in Melanesia, it is important to take into account local cultural norms and values. Sustainable practices that align with traditional practices and beliefs are more likely to gain acceptance and support from communities. For example, incorporating traditional ecological knowledge into conservation strategies can enhance the effectiveness and legitimacy of conservation initiatives. Empowering local communities to take ownership of conservation projects and emphasizing the interconnectedness between human well-being and environmental health can also foster a sense of shared responsibility and stewardship.

In conclusion, the Wantok system plays a significant role in shaping conservation efforts in Melanesia. By understanding and engaging with this traditional social network, conservation organizations can leverage existing social structures to promote sustainable practices and wildlife preservation. By incorporating cultural values and traditions into conservation strategies, we can work towards a harmonious balance between environmental protection and community well-being in Melanesia.

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Historically, the wantok system evolved as a way for individuals to secure their social and economic welfare in the absence of a formalized social safety net. In traditional Melanesian societies, where kinship ties were paramount, wantoks provided a source of solidarity and mutual aid that helped people navigate various challenges such as illness, death, and poverty. This concept of reciprocal exchange and obligation forms the basis of the wantok system, where individuals are expected to help their wantoks without expecting immediate repayment.

In practice, the wantok system operates through a complex web of relationships that extend beyond immediate family members. Wantoks can include distant relatives, friends, or even strangers who share a common cultural or linguistic background. This network of support is typically mobilized through informal channels, such as word of mouth or community gatherings, rather than formalized institutions.

One of the key aspects of the wantok system is the expectation of reciprocity. For example, if someone falls ill, their wantoks will come together to provide food, shelter, and financial assistance until the person recovers. In return, the recipient is expected to reciprocate when another wantok is in need. This reciprocal exchange fosters a sense of community cohesion and social solidarity that is essential for maintaining social harmony in Melanesian societies.

However, the wantok system is not without its challenges. One potential issue is the risk of exploitation, where individuals may take advantage of their wantoks’ generosity without offering anything in return. This can create tensions and strain relationships within the community, leading to feelings of resentment and mistrust. Additionally, the expectation of reciprocity can sometimes create dependencies, where individuals rely heavily on their wantoks for support without developing self-reliance skills.

In recent years, the wantok system has come under scrutiny as Melanesian societies undergo rapid socio-economic changes. Globalization, urbanization, and modernization have reshaped traditional social structures, leading to shifts in how wantok relationships are perceived and practiced. Some critics argue that the wantok system may hinder economic development and social progress by reinforcing nepotism and favoritism, particularly in government and business sectors.

Despite these challenges, the wantok system remains a fundamental aspect of Melanesian cultures, embodying values of solidarity, reciprocity, and mutual aid. As these societies navigate the complexities of modernity and globalization, it is crucial to strike a balance between preserving traditional customs and adapting to changing social realities. By understanding the historical roots, cultural significance, and impact of the wantok system, we can appreciate its role in fostering community cohesion while also addressing potential issues of exploitation and dependency.

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Historically, the Wantok System emerged from the traditional kinship networks prevalent in Melanesian cultures. In pre-colonial times, people lived in small, close-knit communities where individuals shared common ancestry, land, and resources. This communal way of living fostered strong bonds among community members, leading to the development of the Wantok System as a mechanism for mutual support and cooperation.

Culturally, the Wantok System is based on the principle of reciprocity and solidarity. In Melanesian societies, individuals are expected to provide assistance and support to their Wantoks in times of need, such as during sickness, bereavement, or economic hardship. This sense of obligation extends to a wide network of kin, friends, and neighbors, creating a web of social relationships that form the basis of community life.

The Wantok System has far-reaching implications for various aspects of society. In economic terms, it plays a crucial role in facilitating trade, entrepreneurship, and resource-sharing within communities. For example, in rural areas where formal banking services are limited, people often rely on their Wantoks for financial assistance, agricultural inputs, or labor exchange. This informal economy helps to fill gaps left by the formal sector and ensures that resources are distributed more equitably among community members.

Moreover, the Wantok System influences decision-making processes at both the individual and community levels. In Melanesian societies, important decisions, such as marriage, land disputes, or communal projects, are often made collectively within the Wantok group. The consensus-building approach reflects the value placed on consultation, consensus, and inclusivity in resolving conflicts and addressing common concerns.

One of the key advantages of the Wantok System is its role in fostering social cohesion, cultural identity, and unity among Melanesian peoples. By promoting a sense of belonging and interconnectedness, this system strengthens community resilience, social capital, and cultural continuity in the face of social, economic, and environmental challenges. In times of crisis, such as natural disasters or political instability, the Wantok System serves as a vital safety net, enabling communities to mobilize resources and support each other in times of need.

In contemporary times, the Wantok System continues to play a prominent role in Melanesian societies, despite the influence of globalization, urbanization, and modernization. While some critics argue that the system may perpetuate dependency, nepotism, or inequality, many Melanesians view it as an essential source of social cohesion, cultural pride, and community resilience. By embracing the values of reciprocity, solidarity, and inclusivity, the Wantok System remains a vibrant expression of Melanesian identity and solidarity in the 21st century.

by Wewo Kotokay

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Kalau Anda pernah mendengar atau mengucapkan kalimat ini,

1. Orang Papua itu bisa
2. Anak-anak Papua itu bisa

asal dikasih kesempatan sedikit, kita/ mereka pasti bisa.

Kontekstualisasi

Kita perlu memahami “konteks” yang ada dalam pikiran, dan konteks yang ada dalam realitas kehidupan, yang melahirkan pernyataan di atas.

Yang pertama, konteks yang ada di luar, dalam realitas kehidupan di West Papua, misalnya orang Papua tidak punya kios atau toko besar-besar, orang Papua kelihatan tinggal miskin dan menderita dan para pendatang kelihatan kaya-raya dan menikmati kehidupan.

Kondisi ini selalu memicu rasa cemburu, yang berakibat rasa “marah” bahkan “dengki” terhadap orang Indonesia yang ada di Tanah Papua. Sikap orang Papua jelas-jelas tidak bersahabat, tidak menerima baik, tidak bahagia melihat orang Indonesia ada di Tanah Papua.

Yang kedua, konteks psikologis di dalam diri orang Papua sendiri bermasalah. Sudah lama orang Papua dicap bermacam-macam: orang kafir, orang zaman batu, orang pemabuk, orang pemalas, orang tidak bisa apa-apa dan sebagainya. Gambar-gambar dengan nama-nama yang merendahkan martabat bangsa Papua ini diucapkan oleh berbagai pihak: pertama-tama oleh gereja mencap OAP orang kafir, zaman batu dan bahkan kanibal.

Kedua, oleh orang LSM Orang Papua dicap miskin, tidak berdaya, selalu dibunuh oleh orang Indonesia, yang harus dibela dan ditolong. LSM menggambar orang Papua di pihak korban, pihak lemah, pihak tidak dapat berbuat apa-apa tanpa bantuan dari luar, terutama oleh LSM yang hadir sebagai pembala masyarakat sipil

Ketiga, oleh berbagai aparatur pemerintah, baik sipil, polisi maupun tentara, yang memberikan nama-nama anek-aneh: bodoh, kolot, zaman batu, teroris, KKB, suku-suku terasing, OPM, dan berbagai nama yang bersifat membedakan Orang Papua dari orang Indonesia.

Dampaknya

Dampaknya orang Papua mendapatkan gambaran diri bahwa ia tidak bisa! Tidak bisa jadi kaya, tidak bisa jadi pintar, tidak bisa mengelola hidup dan kehidupan. Pokoknya tidak bisa apa-apa.

Reaksinya

Reaksinya keluarlah kalimat-kalimat seperti diuraikan dalam pembukaan di atas, yaitu

Orang Papua juga bisa. Anak-anak Papua juga bisa. Asal diberikan bimbingan, dorongan, pendanaan dan dukungan sedikit saja, pasti bisa.

Penutup

Ada masalah mendasar dalam pola pikir orang yang mengucapkan kalimat-kalimat ini.

• Pertama, bahwa orang Papua yang mengatakan kalimat-kalimat ini sendiri jelas-jelas berada pada posisi lemah. Kalau yang masih kuta tidak mungkin mengeluarkan kalimat ini.
• Kedua, bahwa orang Papua yang mengatakan kalimat-kalimat ini pasti selau mencari-cari kesalahan orang atas kekurangan dan kelemahan, kondisi yang dialaminya. Oleh karena itu, belajarlah bertindak, bukan menunjuk jari kepada orang lain, akan tetapi mengintrospeksi diri dan memacu diri.
• Ketiga, yang menjadi masalah sebenarnya bukanlah kesempatan, dukungan, dorongan, pendanaan dan lain-lain, akan tetapi mentalitas budak yang mengeluarkan kata-kata seperti ini-lah yang bermasalah. Oleh karena itu, paculah diri, bersainglah dan maju. Jangan menoleh kiri atau kanan, depan atau belakang. Tunduklah ke bawah, dan angkatlah hati ke atas, dan melaju ke depan. Niscaya tercapai cita-cita kita bersama.

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But Wantokism has also become the largest single impediment to the country’s development.

The Wantok System

Wantoks sitting talking in Koje Village, near Tufi

Think of Papua New Guinea as a patchwork quilt sewn together from almost 1000 traditional societies & ethnic indigenous groups.

Woven in to that quilt are some 850 different languages. Which is one third of the world’s total languages still in use.

There is also one common tongue – Tok Pisin, the lingua franca spoken by the majority in PNG.

So just like Mandarin in China and Bahasa is in Indonesia, Tok Pisin is the common denominator in Papua New Guinea.

It functions across all those languages and traditional societies plus the many different ethnic indigenous groups.

The Wantok System – Tok PisinIn Tok Pisin, wantok means “one talk” – meaning the language of the tribe or clan that a person belongs to. The Wantok system and Wantokism is the traditional welfare system that evolved around that tribe.

In a tribal-based society everything revolves around the relative welfare of the tribe and clan members as a whole. Therefore face-to-face relationships, inter-marriage, kinship and reciprocal exchange are paramount in creating strong ties to keep the tribe together.

Wantokism evolved in PNG as the supporting mechanism for those members less able to looks after themselves. The Wantok system can be thought of as a kind of traditional social safety net that made sure nobody went hungry and everybody had somewhere to live.

It evolved because it was needed and was a good thing! But post-independence PNG is a different place and wantokism has become the lead in the country’s saddlebags. The Wantok system has a significant impact in every area of life in PNG. But particularly so in business and the business of government.

The Wantok System – Payback Time…

Wantoks who gain a position of responsibility are expected to look after their wantoks… Whether that be in their own small business such as a trade store or small workshop, in an existing business, in the Civil Service or as a politician –

In the business community, wantok business people men or women are automatically expected to make significant contribution. Particularly so when traditional obligations, such as compensation or bride price payments, are needed.

Saying no is simply not an option if the business person wants to maintain their position of respect in the community. Which often leads to money being siphoned out of the business to meet the never-ending obligations. In many cases the Wantok system has lead to bankruptcy.

Wantoks who become senior politicians are expected to contribute even larger sums. And there have been numerous cases where the root cause of false accounting on public works programs has been traced to the need to finance these contributions!

The Wantok System – Chinese TraderAt the opposite end of the scale Wantoks working in the retail sector also have an obligation. Basically they are expected are expected to provide goods at large discounts, or even free, to their Wantoks…

Little wonder then that the Chinese have been so successful in small retail in PNG. They staff the till with family members and guard it’s contents carefully

Here is the link to a paper by Bui Mana. The paper eloquently describes the overall situation with wantoks and wantokism in PNG. While here is another excellent paper written by Grant Walton and David Jackson that details the wantok system in Papua New Guinea.

Source: https://indopacificimages.com/

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