“Yes, language workers with SIL.”
“SIL?”
“Summer Institute of Linguistics.”
“Oh.” Im not sure what this means, but it sounds official.
“They came to learn our tribal language and to translate the Bible for us.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“And that's how you got saved?”
She gets a twinkle in her eye now. “The Johnsons saved me when I was a baby.”
“Huh?” I wonder if we're talking about the same thing.
“You see, my father was from Lomokako, but my mother was from another village, and she died when I was born. So my fathers sister cared for me. But my father was killed working in the copper mine, and my aunt no longer wanted to care for me because there was no money.”
I try to take this in. “That must've been hard for you.”
“It is simply what is” she says, “in my country.”
“So what happened then?” I ask.
“The Johnsons took me into their own home.”
“They adopted you?”
“Yes. And they raised me as their own daughter. I have two older brothers: Jeremy and Caleb.”
“But your last name isn't Johnson?”
“They named me Lydia, but I kept my father's family name, Obuti. It was my choice, my way to remain connected to my country.”
“Wow.”
She smiles. “Yes, wow. My parents are very good people. They sent my brothers and me away to college in the United States. But they could afford only two years for each of us. After that, we must get scholarships or earn our own tuition. I want to go to medical school, but it s so expensive. I have some scholarship money left, but I must earh more before I go bade”
“I'm in my second year of college,” I tell her.
“How old are you?”
“I just turned twenty.”
“I am twenty-one, soon to be twenty-two.”
“I thought you were older,” I admit. “You seem very mature.”
She frowns slighdy. “Some of my friends are already in their fourth year of college.”
“But you are going back?”
She looks down at her lap now. “I hope so.”
I suspect something is troubling her, but I hate to be a pest. “Well, I could tell the people in your class really respected you today,” I say, hoping to cheer her up. “You must be a good teacher.”
“I hope so.”
“There you ladies are,” says Dr. Larson as he and Sid come inside to join us.
“Some of the mosquitoes were sneaking in through the screen,” says Sid, pointing to a large red welt on her arm.
“Good that you're taking the antimalarial,” says Dr. Larson.
Then Sid looks at her watch. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she tells him, “but I think we should let you get some rest.”
He nods. “Yes, it seems the older I get, the earlier the morning comes.”
Then Sid calls for a taxi, and we offer Lydia a ride.
“Yes,” says Dr. Larson in a serious tone, more to Lydia than to us. “Women should not go out alone at night.” He firmly shakes his head. “Its not safe. Not at all.”
FIVE
The next morning the phone in our hotel room rings and jf wakes me up out of a sound sleep. Sid must be in the bathroom, so I pick it up and mutter, “Hello.”
“Hello. Is this Maddie?”
“Yes,” I answer groggily.
“This is Lydia Obuti. I'm sorry to bother you, but I got an idea last night.”
I sit up and try to focus. “Yes?”
“It might not be a good idea, but I thought I should tell you.”
“Go ahead.”
“As you know, we're short-handed at the clinic. I thought perhaps you would learn more about AIDS and the problem in our country if you spent some time helping there. Or perhaps you'd just like to talk to the patients. They get so few visitors. It's very lonely for them.”
“But I don't speak pidgin,” I point out.
“A friend from my village is in town this week. He's the language helper to my parents. I called and told him about you and your aunt. I asked if he could help to translate pidgin for you at the clinic, and he agreed. His English isn't as good as mine, but he's understandable.”
“And he doesn't mind helping?”
She sort of laughs. “Lets just say he's willing. And since he's a friend of the family's, maybe he's afraid to say no.”
Okay, I'm not sure what this means, but I tell her I think it sounds like a good way for me to do some research. “Let me ask my aunt first,” I say as Sid emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.
“Ask me what?” she says.
I explain Lydias idea, and Sid thinks it sounds good. “I've got some writing to do this morning anyway,” she says. “Go ahead.” And so I agree to meet Lydias friend Peter Sampala at Saint Luke's at ten.
“This is really a great opportunity,” says Sid as she towels her hair. “You can get some first-person accounts that I can excerpt. That Lydia is really a smart girl.”
I fill Sid in a bit on Lydias history, how she was adopted by the Johnsons. “She wants to go to med school,” I say, “but she has to earn tuition first.”
“Wow, that's got to be a challenge.” Then Sid gets that light-bulb look on her face. “But what if someone partnered with her to support her financially? For instance, my editor, who has no children of his own but has a big heart for Papua New Guinea? What a great way to invest in this country's future.”
“That's a very cool idea.”
“Or maybe my church?” she says. “They're always looking for some new kind of international outreach.” I can see the wheels spinning in her brain as she skims over the room-service menu.
“Maybe my church too,” I suggest. “Maybe our youth group could do some fiind-raisers.”
“Lets have breakfast in the room today.” Sid tosses the menu to me. “I dont feel like getting dressed this morning.”
I order our breakfast and take a shower, and then we discuss Lydias future a bit more while we eat. Strange as it sounds, it seems that Lydias chance of being adopted more than once in her lifetime is becoming a distinct possibility.
“But lets not tell her for a while,” says Sid as she sips her coffee. “Just see how it goes. Besides, I'd like to check some things out back home first.”
“Sure,” I agree. “No sense in getting her hopes up.”
“Well, you should probably head over to the clinic now, Maddie.” She studies me with a concerned look. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Why not?”
“Well, remember how you got kind of sick to your stomach when we were there yesterday?”
“That might ve been from the Malarone,” I point out.
“Speaking of which…” She gets up and goes to her purse for our pills.
“Besides, I was thinking about it,” I say as she gives me a pill. “You know, I grew up on a farm. I've shoveled everything imaginable. I've helped deliver calves and lambs and foals. I've buried dead animals. I don't think being in that clinic should get to me like it seemed to yesterday.”
She nods now. “You're probably right. To be honest, I was feeling a little queasy in Sydney, and that was the second day we took the malaria pills.”
“So,” I proclaim, “that's what I'm going to blame it on.”
“Good for you.”
“It was really bugging me to think that I couldn't handle being around sick people like that,” I admit. “I mean it seems so shallow and selfish. Yesterday I kept thinking, what would Jesus do?”
She smiles sadly. “Heal them?”
“Don't you wish?”
“Well, good luck. And don't forget to take lots of notes.”
I pick up my notebook, then slip it into my bag.
“Let me get you some kinas for the taxi or whatnot,” she says, getting into her purse. “And
do not walk anywhere by yourself, Maddie. Do you understand?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Take my cell phone too.” She hands me her phone and the money. “Don't be afraid to use my phone if you need to. In fact, why don't you give me a call to let me know when you get there and when you're coming back. Do you have the hotel phone number?”
I pick up a piece of notepaper from the desk. “It's on this.”
“Okay.” She looks carefully at me. “Get a bottle of water from the lobby too. Just to have in your bag.”
“Anything else?” I say with impatience. “Should I take a sleeping bag or a survival kit or maybe a handgun?”
“Sorry. But we have to be careful. You are taking me seriously, aren't you?”
I salute her. “Yes ma'am. Of course, ma'am.”
She rolls her eyes. “And only ride in a taxi that you have called for, Maddie. Make sure they know who you are before you get in, and make sure it is a properly marked taxi.”
“I know this already,” I remind her.
“Yeah, yeah.” She waves me away now. “Go on. But do be careful!”
“I promise, I will be extremely careful.”
Then, feeling as if I'm going off to battle, I ride down the elevator and walk into the lobby. Honestly, I find that I'm looking over my shoulder as I go. It's like paranoia is kicking in, and I'm thinking I'm about to be abducted. I tell myself to just chill, but I do follow my aunt's explicit directions. First I go to the concierge and ask him to call me a taxi. Then I go and buy a bottle of water. And a chocolate bar, just in case. Then I go and wait until the taxi pulls up. I don't get in until the driver politely asks if I am Missis Chase. Okay, maybe I'm not a missis, but I've noticed the nationals seem to call all women that. So I say a silent prayer and get in.
At first I feel a slight wave of apprehension when the driver takes a different route than we took yesterday. I'm actually about to say something, but then he turns down a street I recognize, and before I know it, I'm in front of the clinic. Seems he knew a shortcut. So I pay him and thank him and get out. He smiles brightly at me, and not for the first time, I think what a naturally friendly people New Guineans are-and why do we have to be so careful?
But as I'm walking up to the front door of the clinic, I see another New Guinean man. This guy is loitering on the sidewalk and glancing around in a nervous sort of way. He's got a short beard and is wearing a brightly colored shirt, but he seems to be watching me with a litde too much interest. Suddenly I feel pretty uptight. So instead of looking directly at him, I hurry past and go straight into the clinic, practically running it seems. Once Im inside, I can feel my heart pounding, and although its probably just my imagination, I feel that I've just escaped some sort of great peril.
“Missis Chase?” says a male voice behind me. I turn around, expecting to see the friendly taxi driver. Perhaps I left something in his car. But instead it's the man in the bright shirt-the one I've just escaped from. I frown at him.
“I'm sorry. Are you Missis Chase?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously.
“I am Peter Sampala. I am a friend of Lydia Obuti. She told me to meet you here.”
“Oh,” I say in relief. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to run from you like that.”
“No,” he says in a serious tone. “That is good. You should not talk to strangers.”
I smile. “Yes, I know that.”
He looks somewhat relieved but still a bit uneasy. I'm afraid I offended him when I all but ran away from him screaming for help. Still, he seems to understand.
“Have you been here before?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. Lydia works here sometimes, and I have picked her up after, but I have not been inside.”
“Halh” szys one of the nurses that I met yesterday. “Can I help you:
“This is Peter Sampala,” I say, glad that I can remember his last name and hoping I pronounced it correctly. “Lydia Obuti asked me to come-”
“I know. I know,” she interrupts. “You are to talk to patients.” She nods in the direction where someone is yelling. It sounds like the person is calling for help. “I am very busy. You will have to find your own way today.”
“Oh, that's okay,” I start to say, but she is already heading down the hall. I glance back to Peter, who is looking even more uneasy now. “Are you ready?”
He nods, but I can tell by the way he's looking around-his eyes darting down one hallway and then the other-that he doesn't want to be here.
“Do you mind doing this?” I say as I begin to walk down the hall toward the patients' rooms.
He takes a quick breath and looks like he's about to make a run for it. Perhaps he's as frightened of me as I was of him. Or maybe it's something else. I pause by one of the rooms, about to go in, but he hesitates in the hallway. “Do you want to come in?”
He nods again, taking a careful step, then hesitating.
“Does it bother you to be here?” I ask him in a quiet tone.
“Yes. Alitde.”
“I have an idea,” I say. “Lets go out to the courtyard and have a quick talk.” Then I lead him to the exit we used yesterday, going to the same bench where I thought I was going to lose my lunch. “Sit down,” I tell him.
He does, and I sit down beside him. “Look,” I begin, “I was here yesterday, and it made me uncomfortable too.”
He nods as if taking this in.
“And I'm not used to being around sick people either. I think I was a little scared.”
“Sick people are not so bad,” he begins in a quiet tone. “But AIDS…it is bad. Very bad.”
“Oh.”
“People with AIDS…they are not Christian people. Good people do not get this terrible disease. This is Gods judgment on these people because they chose sin and not God. It is bad…bad…”
I consider this. For some reason his thinking rings a bell with me. And then it hits me. I remember something I read in Margaret Mead s book. Sure it happened long ago, but perhaps its still part of the culture here today. People used to believe that if someone did something wrong and refused to confess it, that person or someone close to him would get sick and maybe even die. They thought there was a direct correlation between sin and sickness. Time and again, Margaret Mead actually observed this very thing happening in the village she was visiting. Maybe that's what Peter was concerned about here.
“Do you think that everyone who has AIDS has done something wrong?” I ask, just wanting to be sure that I'm clear.
He nods eagerly. “Yes.”
“And you think they have AIDS because they are bad people?”
Again he nods. “Yes. We all know this to be true.”
“Have you ever discussed this with Lydia?”
“No.” He frowns down at his feet.
I wish Lydia were here. I'm sure she could explain this better than I can. “But do you know that little children get AIDS?”
He just keeps looking at his feet.
“You think its because they sin?”
“It s because of sin. “
“Oh.”
He looks at me nqw. “It is evil, this AIDS. God does not want his people to get this evil sickness. He does not want his people to be near this sin. I should not be here now.”
“Do you believe in Jesus?” I ask.
“Yes!” He nods his head firmly. “I do believe in Jesus.”
“What do you think Jesus would do if he were here? What would he do if he saw these sick people?”
Peter looks down at his feet again.
“I can't make you come inside and talk with the patients,” I tell him. “But maybe you should ask Jesus what he would want you to do.”
He lets out a long sigh but keeps looking down.
“I don't speak pidgin English,” I tell him. “So without your help, I won't be able to hear their stories.”
He's still looking at his feet. And suddenly I remember that I forgot to call Sid and tell her I'm here. I'm su
rprised she hasn't called me, but when I look, I see that the phone is turned off.
“Excuse me,” I tell him. “I need to make a phone call.”
I call Sid and explain the situation.
“Maybe you should just come back,” she says, still sounding worried.
I glance over to where Peter is still sitting on the bench, hiβ head hanging down. “Not yet,” I tell her. “Maybe Peter will come around.”
“Keep me posted.”
I hang up and wait a couple of minutes as I silently pray for God to open Peter s eyes right now. I pray that God will help this confused man to see that many of the people who are sick with AIDS have simply been victims. And perhaps God could show Peter that forgiveness is available to everyone, including those who got AIDS through bad choices. As I pray, I begin to understand what could possibly be one of the problems with this AIDS epidemic: it might be that well-meaning but fearful people like Peter dont understand what's really going on.
SIX
Igo back to Peter and ask him whether he wants to translate for me this morning.
“I believe Jesus would help these people,” Peter says in a sad voice.
I smile. “That's good.”
“But I am still worried.”
“Why?”
He looks up at me with frightened eyes. “I do not want the AIDS sickness. I have a wife and baby back in my village. I do not want to take this sickness to them.”
I nod. This concern is much easier to handle. “You can't catch AIDS from these people, Peter. You won't get it by talking to them. Not even if you touch them.”
“Do you know this for sure?”
“Yes,” I tell him, “I've learned about it in my country.” He still looks uncertain. “Hasn't Lydia told you this?”
He shrugs now. “Maybe.”
“So, do you want to do this with me, Peter? Are you all right?”
“I will try. I will pray for Jesus to be in me.”
I smile at him. “Yes, that's what I'll do too.”
Then he stands up. “I know that Jesus healed people. He touched people with leprosy. That is a bad illness too.”
“Is there leprosy in New Guinea?” I ask as we walk toward the entrance.
“A little. Not so much as the AIDS.”
The first room we go into has three women in it. I think this might be better than a ward, which is overwhelming to me and might really frighten Peter. I go to the woman whose bed is near the window. She is looking outside with a very sad expression. I can see that she is a pretty woman, maybe about my age or even younger, but her face and arms have lots of open sores, which are even more visible due to her skin tone, which is about the color of cocoa.
Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea Page 5
