Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea

by Melody Carlson

  I consider this, realizing that traveling with Sid as she researches her story is probably some of the best education I can get for a career in journalism. I really should be thankful-and I am.

  We enter the low, white building and are met by a nice-looking young woman named Lydia Obuti. Introductions are made, and she informs us that she's a volunteer at the clinic. “Dr. Larson asked me to show you around,” she says in perfect English. She hardly has an accent. “He'll meet with you at four fifteen.”

  “Thank you,” says my aunt. “Are there many volunteers here at the clinic?”

  “Funding is limited,” she tells us as she leads us down the hallway, “so I come over and help out when I can.”

  “Do you work somewhere else too?” asks Sid.

  She nods. “Yes. I work in a government office just a few blocks from here.”

  “It's nice that you take time to volunteer here,” I say.

  She smiles shyly, then nods. “Would you like the tour now?”

  “That sounds perfect,” says Sid.

  So Lydia takes us around the U-shaped building, stopping here and there along the way to help patients who are in need. She refills water pitchers, helps a woman to the bathroom-simple things like that. But as she does these “little” things, I can see true kindness in her expression. I wonder if I would have it in me to do what she's doing. I see the open sores on the patients' hands and faces, the sad and empty looks in their eyes. Although I feel extremely sorry for them, I'm not sure I could pick up a tissue like she is doing just now and wipe a runny nose with such gentleness.

  Apinun, Adibi,” she says to a woman who is sitting in the hallway.

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It's pidgin English or, as scholars say, Neo-Melanesian, and apinun is a greeting. Like afternoon. Adibi is the woman's name.”

  “Apinun, Adibi.” I try it out, and the woman actually smiles up at me and says, “Apinun,” to me. She looks as if she enjoyed hearing her name spoken for the second time.

  “Yes,” says Lydia. “That's right.” And so I try the greeting out on other patients, and they seem to enjoy this tiny bit of attention as well.

  To me this clinic is like a miniature hospital. I think there are only thirty patient rooms total. Everything here seems pretty old-fashioned, almost as if I've stepped onto an old movie set. I don't see much equipment or the kinds of technical tools you expect to find in a regular hospital. Not that I've been in that many hospitals, but I do watch some of the medical shows on television occasionally. And, let me say, this one looks nothing like those. If anything, this place seems pretty stripped down and basic. I also notice that all the rooms and wards appear to be full. I haven't seen even one empty bed. In fact, some of the rooms seem overly full, so it's no wonder that the air in here is stuffy and stale. On top of everything, it's hot. There apparently is no air conditioning, and although the shuttered windows are open and the overhead paddle fans are running, the air feels stagnant to me. And it's starting to get to me.

  Okay, I have to confess that I know enough about AIDS to realize it's not an airborne disease, but just breathing this hospital air is making me feel sicker by the minute. Maybe its the heat or the humidity or the smell of a different country, or maybe it's just me- although I'm a farm girl, and I've smelled just about everything-but it's like I can physically smell the germs in the air. By the time the tour ends and Lydia takes us out into the courtyard to wait for Dr. Larson, I'm about to throw up. I sit down on a cement bench and hang my head between my knees, taking in slow, deep breaths to steady myself.

  “Are you okay?” asks Lydia, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  “Sorry,” I say, looking up at her and feeling ashamed. “I just got lightheaded or something.”

  “It's not easy to see these things,” she tells me.

  Sid nods sadly. “And from what I've heard, this is one of the best AIDS clinics in the country.”

  “We know it's not perfect. But we're proud of it. We do our best.”

  “Everything seemed very clean in there,” I say in what I hope is an optimistic tone. I really don't want to offend Lydia. She's such a sweet and caring person.

  She smiles at me. “Thank you.”

  “I guess I'm not used to being around sick people,” I admit.

  “Get used to it,” my aunt tells me. “This is probably just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Lydia frowns.

  Sid laughs. “Sorry, that's an American saying. It means this is just the beginning of something.”

  “Oh.” Lydia laughs. “I know lots of American sayings, but I don't remember that one, probably because we have no icebergs in New Guinea. You're right; it's a small beginning, but even a small beginning is better than no beginning.”

  I smile to myself. Okay, maybe she doesn't really get the iceberg meaning, or maybe she's just an optimist, but I have to appreciate her positive attitude.

  FOUR

  Hello, ladies,” says a short, white-haired man coming our F J” way with his hand extended.

  “Dr. Larson,” says Lydia happily, “here are our new American friends, Miss Sidney Chase and Miss Maddie Chase.”

  “Please, use our first names,” says my aunt as she shakes the doctor's hand.

  “Welcome to Saint Luke's,” he says with a British accent. “I assume you've had the tour.”

  Sid nods. “Yes, Lydia is a wonderful tour guide.”

  He smiles at Lydia. “Lydia is a wonderful soul.”

  “If you'll excuse me now,” she says shyly.

  “Of course.”

  We thank her, and she heads back into the clinic. As I watch her go inside, I am assaulted with guilt. What is wrong with me? Why can't I be more like her? A Christian should be willing to give and serve like she's doing. And yet I turned into a basket case just now. I'm so pathetic.

  Dr. Larson points to a table and chairs over in the shade. “Shall we take a short break over there?”

  “Sounds good,” says Sid. We go sit with him in the shade, and I must admit that being outside feels a lot better. My breathing seems to be returning to normal. Still, I feel like such a wimp. I try to listen as Sid asks the doctor questions about the clinic. She asks about funding, which seems to come from private donations, partially through the Catholic church that started the clinic, as well as from other donors. More recently, USAID has been helping too.

  “But there are many worthy causes to fund,” he admits. “We are just one small fish in the sea.”

  “What about preventive medicines?” she asks.

  “Too expensive for our limited budgets.”

  She nods. “Yes, so Ive read. How about AIDS-prevention education?”

  “Yes, we are trying to do this. We have classes for young people. We are trying to get into schools, but its not easy. Lydia teaches some of these classes. Perhaps you would like to sit in on one?”

  “Tea?” offers Lydia as she joins us with a tray of tea things and a pitcher of water with lemon slices floating on top. She looks at me. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, thanks,” I tell her. I am so glad to see that pitcher. “Water sounds good.”

  “Are you unwell?” asks Dr. Larson.

  “No,” I say quickly. “I mean, my stomach was a little upset, but I'm not used to being in hospitals.”

  He nods as he studies me. “Are you taking your antimalarial medications?”

  “Yes,” I tell him, “I took a Malarone pill at lunchtime, just before we came here.”

  “That could be part of the reason for nausea,” he says.

  “That's right,” agrees Sid. “It is one of the side effects.”

  “Really?” I feel hopeful.

  “Maybe that's your problem,” she says.

  “I was just telling the ladies about the AIDS-awareness classes,” says Dr. Larson to Lydia. “Do you have one today?”

  “Yes,” says Lydia. “It's at five.”

  I glance at my watch. �
�Just fifteen minutes.”

  “Would you like to come?” she asks me.

  I glance at Sid, and she nods. “That's an excellent idea.”

  “It's an hour long,” Lydia tells my aunt. “We meet in the office where I work, just across the street and down two blocks.”

  “Great,” says Sid. “I'll come over there when Dr. Larson and I are finished here.”

  So Lydia and I walk over to the government building, and she takes me to a room that has chairs set up in rows and a chalkboard in the front. “This is where we have the classes,” she tells me as she puts some printed handouts on the chairs. “Some of the officials weren't too sure about having them here at first. I think they were worried about how it would look, but now they're fully on board.”

  “That's good.”

  She nods. “Yes, people are becoming more aware of the problem. At first everyone thought AIDS was someone else's problem. Soon it will be everyone's problem.”

  I sit down in a chair in the second row and wait as Lydia writes some notes on the chalkboard. I'm guessing she's writing in the pidgin English she told me about, because it makes no sense to me.

  It's 5:05, but besides Lydia and me, the room is empty. “Is anyone coming?” I ask.

  “I hope so.” She smiles at me. “You will soon learn that time is different in our country. Five can mean five fifteen or five thirty to lots of people. I usually begin the class when I think it's time.”

  By five fifteen there are four girls in the back. I'm guessing they're in their teens, but it's hard to say. They look nervous, and every once in a while they start giggling. Lydia just smiles at them. Then a couple of guys arrive. They sit on the opposite side of the room, away from the giggling girls. It's nearly five thirty when several others come in. Again the guys sit on one side and the girls on the other. I'm not sure why this is, but I plan on asking Lydia afterward.

  Now she begins. Of course, she is speaking to the class in pidgin English, but it's interesting to watch her expressions as she gives out information. At times the room is so quiet I can hear people breathing. And then at times the class erupts into laughter. Lydia must be a good teacher.

  Just as I assume the class is coming to an end, Lydia becomes very earnest in the way she's talking to them. It appears that she's telling a personal story-perhaps about a patient at the clinic. And then she even cries. I glance around and see some of the others crying too. I so want to know what she's saying to them. But whatever it is, she seems to be getting through to them. Finally she makes some kind of appeal, and she makes it with urgency. She looks around the room as if waiting for a response, and I notice some of them nodding their heads, then looking down at their laps as if they are uncomfortable. After she says a few more things, the class comes to an end.

  Lydia talks to some of the girls afterward. They seem very interested in what she says, and I think they are asking her questions. She hands out more printed material and thanks them for coming. Then I notice Dr. Larson and Sid coming in the back door.

  “How did it go?” asks Dr. Larson.

  Lydia smiles at him. “Good, I think.”

  I nod in affirmation. “I think it went really well. Lydia seems to be a very good teacher.”

  “Truly?” says Lydia.

  Then I laugh. “Well, I didn't understand a word of it, but it looked like your students appreciated it.”

  She smiles. “That's good.”

  “Thank you,” Sid says to Lydia and Dr. Larson. “You both have been very helpful.”

  “I just wish I knew what you told your class,” I say to Lydia.

  She nods but doesn't offer an explanation.

  “Why don't you all join me for dinner?” says Dr. Larson.

  “Oh, we don't want to trouble you,” my aunt protests, although I can tell she really wants to go.

  “It's no trouble.” He winks at her. “I have a cook at my house. I will ring her and tell her to expect company.” He looks at Lydia now. “You will come too?”

  She looks slightly uncomfortable, as if she's embarrassed.

  “Please,” I say to her, “it will give me a chance to ask you some more questions.”

  She nods. “Okay. Then I will come.”

  Dr. Larson gives Sid his home address, which isn't far from the clinic, and tells us to come at seven. “Is that too soon?” he asks, glancing at his watch.

  “That's perfect,” she says.

  We have just enough time to go back to the hotel and freshen up. We arrive at his place just a few minutes after seven. “Its okay,” I assure Sid as we get out of the taxi in front of an apartment complex. “Island time is always slow.”

  She laughs. “I see you're already figuring things out.”

  As we eat a simple dinner of fish and vegetables, followed by a dessert of fruit and custard, Dr. Larson tells us about himself. He studied tropical medicine in the late fifties and started his practice in New Guinea shortly after that. “I met my wife over here,” he says. “She was from America. She came here as a missionary nurse, and I stole her from the Nazarenes.” He chuckles. “Of course, I quickly put her to work with me here in Port Moresby. We practiced medicine together for more than thirty years, raised our children here, and finally we retired back to England in 1992.”

  “But you came back?” I say as his cook removes our plates.

  “My wife died five years ago. And I discovered I was old and bored, and I missed New Guinea. I had been reading about the growing AIDS crisis, and I decided to come back and see what I could do to help.”

  “He's helped a lot,” says Lydia. “Dr. Larson was instrumental in acquiring Saint Luke's for an AIDS clinic.”

  “The old clinic was about to be demolished,” he tells us. “I thought that was a colossal waste, and I managed to find a few other people who agreed.” He looks up at his cook. “Timi, we'll have our tea on the veranda. “

  Then we go out to a spacious screened porch with comfortable-looking bamboo furniture and a slow-moving paddle fan overhead. “Its nice out here,” I say as I sit on a cushioned chair.

  He nods. “My wife taught me the beauty of a veranda.” He pulls out a pipe. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  No one protests.

  “It s one of my few remaining vices, and I only do it upon occasion,” he tells us as he taps his tobacco into place.

  Dr. Larson and my aunt begin talking AIDS statistics and projections, and I ask Lydia to tell me a little more about her class today.

  “Do you mind if we go inside?” she asks me, discreetly waving her hand against the smoke.

  “Not at all.”

  She excuses us, and we go back into the small living room. “I'm sorry,” she says to me. “I do not tolerate tobacco smoke. It upsets my stomach.”

  “That s okay. Remember how I felt at the clinic today?”

  “Yes. You understand.” Then she tells me about the village she grew up in and how the men would go into a building to smoke and gossip. “I would merely walk by and smell that smoke, and I would feel sick.”

  I ask her more about her village, and she tells me some interesting stories.

  “Where is it located?” I ask.

  “In the highlands. About forty kilometers from Mount Hagen. Do you know where that is?”

  “No,” I admit. “I should look at a map.”

  “They have some very good sing-sing festivals up there. Do you know what they are?”

  “Yes,” I say with enthusiasm. “Sid told me about them. We were hoping we might be able to go to one.”

  “Your timing is perfect,” she says. “The largest sing-sing in the country is next weekend. Maybe you and your aunt would like to go with my friend and me. We'll be heading out on Friday.”

  “Is it safe to drive the roads?”

  She smiles as she considers this. “How would you define safeT

  I shrug, “I'm not sure.”

  “I am a Christian,” she says in a firm voice. “I must believe that my God is wa
tching over me. There is no other way to live.”

  I smile at her. “I'm a Christian too. And I'm trying to believe the same thing. But sometimes I get worried.”

  She nods. “We all do. But don't worry too much, because I'm not offering you a ride in a car up to the highlands. That's not even possible from here. We would have to fly.”

  “Oh.” !

  “But let me check on some things first.”

  Then I ask her about her AIDS class. “I'm so curious about what you told them today. It seemed to get their attention.”

  “I usually start with basic information,” she explains. “That's what I write on the chalkboard. I explain how many people in our country are infected right now and how many more will be infected by next year. I want them to understand that the numbers are increasing. I want them to know that everyone should be concerned. Then I talk about how AIDS is most commonly spread-and I speak openly to them. I tell them about sexual contact and how the virus goes directly from one person to another. I also tell them how to protect themselves by using condoms. But I tell them that the only sure way to prevent AIDS is by abstinence.”

  ? nod. “Do they understand?”

  “Yes. But it is not always possible. Some of the women are married to men who are not faithful. And some of them are sex workers and don't use any precautions. And some of them have no choice; some of them have been raped, at times by more than one person.”

  “I've heard about this.”

  She sighs. “It's very sad.”

  “How have you learned so much about this?” I ask.

  She just shrugs, then changes the subject, telling me about where she grew up in the highlands. She smiles as if she's imagining it. “It's a beautiful place with lush green trees and a rushing river. My village is called Lomokako.”

  “And how do you speak such good English?” I ask.

  “A family from America came to my village long ago.”

  “Americans live in your village?”

  She nods. “The Johnson family came to Lomokako when I was a baby. I believe God sent them to save me.”

  “They were missionaries?”