If an outsider were to visit an average village in the South Pacific and spend only a brief time, they might conclude that it is an idyllic life to be envied. In many ways they would be right because time is flexible and things happen slowly. On the way to hang the laundry, one might stop to chat with a neighbour or relative. After breakfast one might read for an hour, or lunch might be followed by a nap. Life is simple and inexpensive: dinner might consist of some taro and a soup of one of the half-wild chickens and spinach. It is cooked over an open fire with wood cut from your nearby forest. One might eat by the light of a solar light or candle. Once a home is built, on-going costs don’t include foreign luxuries like land tax, grid electricity, water bills, or rubbish collection.
But to stop there is to live in fantasy devoid of reality. To hang the laundry demands hand washing for hours at a time down the hill in the river. If it has been raining upstream and the river is dirty, that may not be possible. But because the rain upstream didn’t reach this home, the rainwater in the tank is only for drinking, so clothes washing is skipped until the river runs clean again. With villages small and each person connected in some way, that chat with the neighbour must take into account who they are, how we are related, and how a comment might travel through those connections. One mustn’t offend for fear of dividing village loyalties. While reading after breakfast is certainly an option, he who does not work does not eat, so it is more likely that one will be in the garden early before the day’s heat becomes oppressive. Perhaps the garden is under control, so feeding the pigs is the lucky draw for the day. With a walk of hours each way, tending or harvesting the food from the garden is no small undertaking. Cooking over an open fire has a certain romantic appeal, at least for this author, but to keep it going in the rainy months, most are kept in poorly lit thatch huts. For the predominantly female cooks, this can mean a lifetime of respiratory problems. Sanitation must be mentioned: running water is a luxury few villages enjoy, and those with it rarely have indoor plumbing. At best, there might be a tap in the kitchen. For the many without, large piles of dishes make a daily migration to the aforementioned river to be washed.

This is daily life for a vast number of people, and this author notes that by a wide margin the hardest working in the picture are the grandmothers, mothers, daughters, and granddaughters. The women and girls spend an inordinate portion of each day tending a cooking fire, weeding, harvesting, washing, and cooking meals. When all is said and done, the “idyllic” part of village life might equate to a brief nap after lunch interrupted by the squeal of a child, perhaps related, looking for some love.
And what of the men? Perhaps they’re at work in the garden or the local sawmill. Perhaps they have a job in town or they’re overseas picking fruit to ensure their children get through school. Perhaps they are community or church leaders, often called away to a meeting or event. No doubt whatever occupies them, a great debt of gratitude is owed to their mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters who keep the village in order while they are away.