Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea

by Melody Carlson

  “I am a blessed man.”

  Just for the sake of contrast, we decide to check out some of the other wards in this hospital. We want to see how they compare to Ward 3B. And while I wouldn't care to be hospitalized in any of them, none have the extremely impoverished conditions of the AIDS ward.

  “They can call Ward 3B whatever they like,” says Sid as we're leaving, “but it is definitely the AIDS ward, and patients with AIDS are definitely treated with much less care and respect than the others.”

  “They are treated like lepers,” says Peter.

  “Exactly,” I agree.

  “But Jesus healed the leper,” Peter says as he unlocks the car and opens the passenger door for Sid.

  “I wish we could too,” I say.

  “Maybe we should pray for them,” says Peter earnesdy, “pray that they would take up their beds and walk!”

  “Maybe we should,” I say, although I'm uncertain. I mean I've already been praying for the people we've met. But to pray for them to be physically healed? I don't know if I have that kind of faith. And, okay, that seriously bugs me.

  TEN

  I think we should check out of this hotel,” says Sid as we go up to our room.

  “Check out?” I repeat. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I just think it s time to see more of the country. To write a complete story on New Guinea and its problems, I need to see the bigger picture, and that must extend beyond Port Moresby.”

  “You mean we wont come back here after we see Mount Hagen?”

  “Exactly. I'd like to get a flight to another part of the country. I want to see how the AIDS epidemic is being handled in a less-populated area.”

  I nod. “That makes sense.”

  “So are you game for some adventure?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “We can always come back here if it doesn't work out,” she says as we go into our room. “But, for now, lets pack everything up and check out.”

  So we pack up and carry our luggage downstairs. Sid checks us out, and we eat a quick lunch in the hotel restaurant. Just as we finish, Peter arrives.

  “Allready for the big trip?” he asks.

  Sid points to our luggage that's sitting next to the concierge desk.

  His eyes grow wide. “You're taking all that?”

  Sid explains our plan to travel on after the weekend, but Peter still looks a bit concerned. Still, he helps us load our suitcases into the trunk. Then we go to pick up Lydia. Unlike us, she is traveling light. She has only a small duffel bag and her purse. And when she puts the duffel bag in back, she, too, looks concerned.

  “That's a lot of luggage,” she says to Sid.

  Once again Sid explains our plan.

  When we get to the airport, we begin to understand their concern. It turns out that we're flying in a small Cessna plane, and there is a weight limit. Sid learns that our tickets will be charged by the pound, which means that our luggage must be weighed and paid for accordingly. And after it's weighed, we're invited to step on the scales as well. Okay, this is a litde embarrassing, but knowing it's a safety issue, I cooperate.

  “The air gets thinner in the highlands,” explains Jim, the pilot. “We need to be careful not to overload the plane. It's too taxing on the engine.”

  “How are we doing as far as weight goes?” asks Sid as he punches some numbers into his calculator and waits for the results.

  “Were okay,” he finally says. Then he tells her how much the flight will cost, and to our surprise, it's not too bad.

  We're loaded into the plane, and before long we're taking off. This is the first time I've flown in a small plane. Will I ever overcome my fear of flying?

  The sound of the engine is loud as we gain enough altitude to assure me that we're not going to get caught in the tall treetops below us. Im amazed at how they resemble overgrown broccoli stalks. I realize Im holding my breath as I look out the window, and I force myself to exhale as I watch everything below us getting smaller. Soon we re out of the city limits, and it looks like nothing but vegetation below- not exactly the sort of terrain you'd pick for an emergency landing. Not that we're going to do that.

  Occasionally I spy a brown circle of earth and small round structures peppered about, which I assume are little houses or huts that are part of a village. Sid is sitting up front, next to the pilot, and I can hear him pointing out some sight to her, like a river or something, but the engines so noisy that I can't really make out what he's saying. I just hope he's focusing on his flying and the instrument panel in front of him.

  “It's only a short flight,” shouts Lydia, who's sitting beside me. She smiles at me as if she can tell that I'm nervous. “And JAARS pilots are the best in the world.” The plane levels out now, and the roar of the engine diminishes so that I can hear.

  “What are 'jars' pilots?” I ask, imagining pilots who fly around in glass bottles.

  “It stands for Jungle Aviation and Radio Service,” she tells me. “They provide technical support for SIL.”

  I have to think for a moment before I remember that SIL is Summer Institute of Linguistics, the translation organization her adoptive parents work for. Still, I don't really understand the meaning of the name. “Summer Institute of Linguistics sounds like a school to me,” I say. “But didn't you say yolir parents are Bible translators?”

  She smiles. “Yes, its confusing to many people. SIL is about linguistic and translation work. The organization is related to Wycliffe Bible Translators.”

  “Oh, I have heard of Wycliffe,” I tell her. “I think someone from there spoke at our church once.”

  “I wouldn't be surprised,” she says. “My parents go to the States every six years for deputation.”

  “What s that?”

  “Its the way they earn their support. All the translators are self-supported-'faith missionaries/ They can't come into the country to translate without all their financial donations lined up.”

  “Oh.”

  “I used to feel embarrassed when we went around from church to church,” she tells me. “It felt like begging to me. But then? began to understand that people who areat able to go out and be missionaries really like to partner with those who can. Now I dont feel bad anymore.”

  “That makes sense,” I say.

  Peter is sitting in the small single seat in the back, but he must be listening to us. “I went to the United States with the Johnsons for one month last time,” he tells me. “I got to speak in the churches too. I told the American people how important translation work is in my country.”

  “And he did an excellent job,” adds Lydia. “Giving really went up.

  “What did you think of America?” I ask, turning around to see Peters face.

  His eyes grow wide as he shakes his head. “It was very, very strange.”

  “I remember the first time we took him to a Wal-Mart Super-center,” says Lydia, suppressing laughter. “It was as if we had landed on the moon.”

  “Too many things,” he says, “all in one place.”

  “I have to admit that I get overwhelmed too,” she says.

  “Dont feel bad,” I tell her. “So do I.”

  “Really?” She seems surprised. “I thought Americans were used to all that.”

  “Well, I grew up in a rural area,” I admit. “My parents are farmers.”

  “Farmers?” says Peter from behind me. “Truly?”

  So I tell them a little about my faniily s farm, explaining about caring for our livestock and the crops we grow and how everyone in my family helps out. And both Lydia and Peter seem surprised.

  “I guess we spend so much time in big cities,” says Lydia, “that we begin to think all Americans live like that.”

  “Not me.” I grin at her.

  “We'll be landing in Aiyura in about fifteen minutes,” says Jim.

  “Aiyura?” I repeat, glancing at Lydia. “I thought we were going to Mount Hagen.”

  “Aiyura is the JAARS la
nding strip,” she explains. “Its in Ukarumpa.”

  “Ukarumpa?” I let the strange word bounce off my tongue.

  “Yes, that s SILs mission base.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “Well, oddly enough, its like a tiny American city.”

  “Huh?” Now Im sorry, but this just sounds weird. A tiny American city way out here in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if they have a Starbucks.

  “I guess you'll have to see it to understand.” She laughs. “It seemed more like a city after I'd been in our village for a long time. For you it will probably just seem like a small American town.”

  I look out the window to see jagged, tree-covered mountains with patches of white clouds filling the crevices. The terrain looks rugged and foreboding, and it's hard to imagine how there could be a safe, flat place to land anywhere at this elevation. But before long the plane begins to descend, and I see a green field with what must be a landing strip cutting through the center. Before I know it, we're landing. After the plane is solidly on the ground, I remember to breathe again.

  “We made it,” says Lydia.

  Jim taxis the plane over to a small metal building, and a couple of New Guinean men come over and wait for us to get out.

  Peter hugs the men, and they both warmly greet Lydia. The taller one, introduced as Michael, has been sent by her parents to give us a ride to their village. The other one is an old friend who's been doing some translation checking here in Ukarumpa.

  Lydia explains that her village is between Ukarumpa and Mount Hagen and that it will take us about two hours to drive there.

  “Is it safe to drive these roads?” asks Sid as they load our things into the back of a beat-up yellow Land Rover.

  “Depends on how you define safe,” I say, remembering what Lydia told me the other day. I wink at Lydia.

  “God will watch over us.” Lydia tosses her duffel bag in. “He always does.”

  “We should be in Lomokako before sundown,” Michael tells us as he starts the engine. He and Peter are in front, and Sid and Lydia and I are in back.

  “I'd like to see Ukarumpa sometime,” I say as he begins to drive.

  “Perhaps you can schedule time here before you go to your next stop,” suggests Lydia.

  “Do you think it will be difficult to get a flight somewhere after the weekend?” Sid asks.

  “It could be tricky to get out of Mount Hagen right after the big sing-sing,” says Lydia. “It's a fairly large tourist attraction that draws people from all over the world. But my parents could radio JAARS and see what flights are available for next week. Do you know where you want to go?”

  Sid laughs. “That's just it. We don't know. Maybe your parents will have some recommendations.”

  I'm surprised Lydia is able to sleep as we drive along the uneven and curvy mountain road. But her head is back, and she appears to be resting soundly. Consequently, Sid and I, on either side of her, remain quiet as we look out our windows. I wish I'd known I was going to be on the cliff side. I feel my heart jumping into my throat again and again as we careen around sharp corners that seem to drop off into nowhere. At times I'm not even sure all four tires are on the road. In the front seat, Michael and Peter chatter away obliviously. I'm guessing they're using their tribal language, because I'm not hearing words like long or turnus or hik, which seem to pop up in almost every sentence in pidgin. This reminds me of the little blue Tok Pisin booklet that Peter gave us. I dig it out of my purse, and in hopes of distracting myself from a heart attack, I attempt to read it, starting with the pronunciation guide, which seems fairly straightforward.

  There are only two prepositions: bilong (pronounced belong), which means “of” or “for,” and long, which means everything else. That explains why I hear that word so much. Yu means “you,” and mi means “me.” But you can combine them to include others by saying yupeh, which is like “you guys,” or mipeloy which is like “us.” At least I think that's what it means. Verbs are simple. Go means “go.” Stop means “stay.” So I'm trying to put together my first pidgin sentence, in my head anyway, since I'm not ready to try it out loud just yet. Mi go. Okay, that's pretty basic, but it's a start. Yumigo. I study a list of commonly used words and see if I can string something together that sounds a bit more intelligent.

  bagarap(im)-broken, to break down

  bolus-airplane

  bikpeh-big

  haus-house

  kaikai-food, eat

  kamap-arrive, become

  kisim-get

  man-man

  manmeri-people

  meri-woman

  Papa God-God

  pikinini-child

  raus(im)-get out

  sapos(im)-if

  save-know

  slip-sleep, live

  stap(im)-be, stay

  tasol-only

  Finally I come up with something. I practice it in my head a few times, hoping that I've got it right and that I'll be able to say it when we arrive in Lydias village. This is it: Mi stop long haus bilong Lydia. This should mean “I will stay at Lydias house.” At least I hope so. I try some more. Yumi slip long haus bihng Lydia. That should mean “We will sleep at Lydias house.” And I think if I replace slip with kaikaim, it means we'll eat at Lydias house. At least I hope we'll eat. I'm already starting to get hungry.

  It feels like we've been driving forever, but finally the Land Rover slows down, and I'm thinking maybe we're there. But when I look up, I notice four men standing on the road, and the expressions on their faces do not look good. My heart starts to race, and I immediately envision the possibility of a carjacking, a kidnapping, possibly even a rape. All this flashes through my mind faster than the speed of light. And I suddenly feel the reality of how far we are out in the middle of nowhere. Literally the ends of the earth. I'm fairly certain Sid's cell phone wont work up here.

  Peter puts his window down a bit and yells something at the men. They yell back, shaking fists and sticks. Then Michael puts down his window partway and yells something. Again they yell back. By now Lydia has jerked awake, and she looks out to see what's going on. At first she seems frightened too, but then she closes her eyes, and her lips begin to move, and I'm sure she's praying. I see Sid following her lead, so I close my eyes and pray too.

  Then the Land Rover is moving again. Michael steps so hard on the gas that our heads whip back, but when I look to see what's happening, we are whizzing past the four angry men. I hear a loud thud as one of the sticks whacks the back of the vehicle.

  “Sorry about that,” says Lydia, leaning back with a sigh. “But we'll soon be home.”

  “Who were those men?” asks Sid.

  “They were from another village,” says Lydia. “Not a friendly village either.”

  “That seemed obvious.”

  “What were they saying to you, Peter?” asks Sid.

  “They wanted the car,” he tells us.

  “To steal it?” asks Sid.

  “Yes.” His tone is weary. “They are fools.”

  “Well, I'm glad you didn't give the car to them,” I say. This makes Michael and Peter laugh.

  “No,” says Peter. “Just because they ask does not mean we must give.”

  I think about how Jesus said to give a man your coat when he asks for your shirt, but I have no idea how that would apply in this situation. Mostly I am hugely relieved that Michael and Peter didn't give them the Land Rover.

  “Hey, I learned some pidgin while you were asleep,” I tell Lydia, eager for something to change the subject.

  “You did?”

  “Yes, let me see if I can remember. Okay. Mi stap long haus bilong Lydia.”

  She claps her hands. “Very good!”

  “What does it mean?” demands my aunt.

  “I will stay at Lydias house,” I proclaim. Sid insists I teach it to her, and then Lydia steps in and teaches us some more simple sentences. We learn to ask for directions and how much something costs and lots of little
things. I just hope I can remember them.

  “Pidgin is a lot easier than I thought,” says Sid as she studies her Tok Pisin booklet.

  “Yes,” says Lydia. “If you can get people to speak slowly and clearly, its not too hard. The problem is that they get going too fast, and you 11 probably get lost.”

  “It is the same in your country,” says Peter from the front seat. “I speak good English, but people talk too fast, and I am lost.”

  “But we're not lost now,” says Lydia, happily pointing off to the right. “There is our village, right down this road. Welcome to Lomo-kako!” Michael turns off the main road onto a narrow dirt road that leads through some tall trees. It finally opens up into an area of packed dirt that's a bit smaller than the infield of a baseball diamond. Around the perimeters of this area are small, roundish, brown houses with palm-thatched roofs that have narrow plumes of smoke coming out of the centers. The houses are built slightly off the ground with doors that face the open area, where children and animals are playing. Diverted by our arrival, most of the children run over to see who has come.

  I notice how the women, sitting in front of the open doorways, look up at us. They appear to be working on things. Perhaps their evening meals or maybe some kind of handiwork, but they all smile and wave. Some stand and come over, shooing the children back as the Land Rover parks by a brown structure that's set slighdy back and is much larger and squarer than the others.

  “We are home!” says Lydia.

  ELEVEN

  The first thing I notice as we get out of the Land Rover is that j[ its colder up here. I take a deep breath and feel a sense of relief that we're at a much higher elevation than Port Moresby. The air not only feels cooler but cleaner, and it seems the vegetation is different. I like it.

  An older couple comes out to greet us, and I assume these are Lydias parents because they both immediately embrace her. Introductions are made, then we gather our things and follow the Johnsons to the largest wooden building, which turns out to be their house. In a way, the Johnsons remind me of my own parents. They're about the same age as mine and are just regular-looking folks who seem genuinely friendly. To my surprised relief, I feel unexpectedly at home with them.