Pigs are definitely the thing in Highlands Papua New Guinea. Our walk down hill each morning is punctuated by a variety of snorts and grunts. Pigs of various sizes root around in the grass and roadside ditch each with a rope tied around a leg the other end is staked firmly in the ground. In town one frequently sees somebody walking round with a lik lik pik (baby pig) cradled in their arms like a new born baby. The lik lik pik will be for sale. A version of stop me and buy one. Piks are taken for walks, not far, after all they are for fattening not training. As in many countries animals are not ever really pets, they are kept for their functional use and little sentiment is wasted on them. Piks are not the only animals we pass on our daily walk through town. One hears barking, yelping and howling dogs all day and all night, there are a couple of goats five houses down and this week we passed a young cassowary. I asked where it had come from and was told it was from the bush. I guess it will taste a bit like chicken.

The ancient tradition of eating pig roasted and steamed in hot stones is called a mumu. Travel health guides contain grave warnings about being invited to a mumu. Claim to be a vegetarian is the first advice, carefully select your portion and only eat very well done outside bits if all else fails is the back up position. We came up with our own strategy, hand it on to the neighbours who eat anything. However being invited to a mumu as part of the Baptist Church family was an honour impossible to refuse. When do we come? I asked. Saturday PNG time, it will take all day was the answer. The reason for the mumu was the celebration of the Pastor having finished 7 years of study to gain his Masters Degree in Theology at Goroka Bible College. The awarding body being an American Baptist University.

We had a big workshop to prepare for Monday and really needed the weekend to sort the paperwork. So at 11.00 on Saturday morning we were buried in beneath laptops and printer when we got a phone call from Pastor Umba saying, where were we? Making hasty apologies we pulled ourselves together and headed off downhill carrying the repeatedly requested camera. Thank goodness we arrived in PNG time and missed the slaughter of the five pigs. A large tarpaulin was stretched over a rather muddy piece of ground awash with blood. The pastor's dog was indulging in the unexpected treat. Men were lifting blackened stones from the ashes of a fire by spade and split bamboo and carrying them over to bed of banana leaves. Others were carrying the carcasses to the heap of split bodies. Amid much debate heated stones were tucked between the joints. More banana leaves were laid on top. Buckets of water caused clouds of steam to rise, reminiscent of the embryonic clouds which rise every morning from the mountainside. This was a man thing, a Michael MacIntyre moment.

The women were in small groups chatting and preparing the drum mumu and vegetables over fire wood purchased just opposite from the men at the crossroads who spend their day axe in hand cutting bundles of firewood for sale at a kina a heap. Large pots balanced on two large stones boiled greens in coconut milk or fried spare ribs. Older women, who knew about such things gathered round a large oil drum. Inside were pork joints, great joints which would have done Desperate Dan if only he ate pig. These were packed around with more hot stones and banana leaves. All was layered until the drum was filled. Then carefully wrapping it with yet more banana leaves after having added more water the women finally wrapped the drum in tarpaulin surrounded by their own pea souper. They laughed at me as crying from smoke and steam I tried to take their photograph. Still it pleased the church as I went round taking small groups, all in preparation for a slide show in church the next day.

In the easy no fuss way events happen here, balloons were hung. Somebody had beautifully made a banner celebrating Umba's achievement although I hoped nobody checked out the accuracy of the bible reference.

Leaving the piks to do their best to become edible pork we all decanted into church for a service and many speeches of appreciation. The guest preacher was a fellow graduate. We sung unaccompanied with gusto at the customary half speed, hymns best described as ancient and ancient. Every time we sing in church I expect to see a 1930s missionary emerge from a side door. Until Heather reminds me that the missionary is me, clutching a rough hewn staff, with wide brimmed hat, my trousers tucked into the socks I wear inside my sandals to help me traverse the mud path I cut the perfect figure of an eccentric Englishman adrift in a tropical wilderness. A man out of his time.

Following the service came the time to uncover the mumu. Crowds gathered excitedly around. The half cooked meat was revealed with whoops of delight. Bush knives appeared as from nowhere and the meat was hacked into giant chunks. Five pigs is a lot of meat. It took some time. William one of the stalwarts of the church had written a list, who was a church member and entitled to a portion of mumu. I had never previously met such a level of organization. Over the next hour a mumu was laid on a section of banana leaf covered with a bed of bush vegetables (ferns) on the concrete church floor. Tables were piled high with vegetables, chicken, extra pork, and deep fried spare ribs prepared in the church kitchen and over fires. Yet more people appeared as the food became ready. Prayers were said and we queued up for a giant plateful.

People ate everywhere in true picnic fashion on benches, chairs, the floor and outside. Then the cake was announced. Vivid in colour, enough to send middle class English mothers into spasms of hyper-anxiety, it was propped in its box between two plastic chairs, the two graduates said the fastest prayer ever and jointly cut the cake to huge applause. Umba returned to his table while I wondered which was larger the vast hunk of cake he was holding or the grin on his face. One of the deacons arrived, gave Umba the great one arm Simbu man embrace and then picked up a plastic fork to help him demolish the man size brick of a cake. That was real relaxed fellowship, not a word was spoken as they stuffed massive portions before the other finished the cake.

On the way home up the hill clutching our banana wrapped mumu of pink meat Heather suggested an act of generosity. She felt the refrigerator stripping neighbours would love some extra meat to feed the bottomless pit of 12 pikininis. Two or three hours later a text message of thanks came through and in the morning as far as we could tell there were still 12 pikininis in the neighbouring compound.