Now my problem is that I'm wide awake. Taking a cold shower at night isn't exactly relaxing. And as I lie here, still shivering, I can hear what sounds like drumming. At first I think it's simply my over-active imagination, but then I strain to listen and realize, no, it's really drums. It sounds like tribal drums. Occasionally I hear shouts, or maybe it's chanting. I wonder if anyone else in the house is aware of this and whether it's a normal occurrence or something we should be concerned about.
Okay, I know it's crazy, but as I lay there in the dark, I envision tribesmen who are painted up and dancing around the fire, maybe the same guys who tried to rob us on the road earlier today, and I imagine they are planning to come here and get us. Sure, there are bars on the windows, but the rest of this house doesn't seem all that secure. I mean, it's only wood and bamboo. And now, instead of simply being wide awake and cold, I am wide awake, scared, and cold.
“Sid?” I whisper urgendy. But she doesn't answer, and I can hear the even sound of breathing that tells me she's probably asleep. I'm sure everyone's asleep. I should be asleep. But what if this is not just my imagination? What if we really are in some kind of danger? I've heard and read such strange stories about New Guinea lately. How can anyone be certain of their safety in a place like this? What am I doing here?
Then I remember what Lydia told me, how she has learned to trust God for her safety. And so, in an attempt to follow her brave example, I begin to pray. I ask God to keep us safe and to help me not to be so frightened. I also ask him to bless our day tomorrow. And finally, I ask him to help us help Lydia. If she really wants to go to med school, I pray that God will show us a way to get her there-and a way to help her parents adjust to this possibility.
I wake up to more strange sounds. Only now it's daylight, and the sounds seem to be from animals. I think perhaps birds.
“It's about time you woke up,” says Sid, who is already dressed. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
“Sorry,” I mumble as I crawl out of bed. “What time is it anyway?”
“It's only seven, but Mr. Johnson wants to get an early start to Mount Hagen.”
“I had a hard time getting to sleep last night,” I tell her, explaining about the cold shower and the drumming.
“Poor Maddie.” She chuckles as she leaves the room.
I hurry to get ready, then go out to see an enticing breakfast spread on the big table and everyone just sitting down. “Sorry I'm late,” I say, slipping into a chair.
“Sid told us about your cold shower last night,” says Mrs. Johnson. “I'm so sorry.”
“I didnt realize how quickly one bucket of water can go,” I admit. “Im sure that wont happen again.”
“And then the drumming kept you awake?” asks Mr. Johnson.
“Yes,” I say, grateful that he seems to know what I'm talking about. “Is that normal?”
He laughs. “For this time of year it is. The village fellows were practicing for the competition today. They left for Mount Hagen about an hour before daybreak.”
“Oh.” I nod, feeling even sillier now. “So that's what it was.”
Then Mr. Johnson bows his head and blesses the food, and we all dig in.
“Is everyone going to the sing-sing?” asks Sid.
“Not me,” says Mrs. Johnson. “I've seen enough sing-sings to last a lifetime.”
“I always go,” admits Mr. Johnson with a twinkle in his eye. “You just never know what'U happen there.”
“That's for sure,” says his wife. “Tell them about last year.”
So he launches into a story about how there was an actual battle. “It didn't start until after dark,” he says. “Usually we don't stay that long, but we had friends from the States who were staying at the hotel there, and they invited us to join them for dinner. Anyway, We were just getting ready to leave when we heard lots of yelling outside. We went to see what was going on. I asked a man on the sidelines, and he said it had started with some young boys just sort of play fighting, you know, and then some women had gotten into it, using real weapons like knives and razors. Finally the men got involved, and they brought out real guns.”
“Oh my,” says Sid. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Yes.” He nods. “Unfortunately, three people were killed, and many others were injured.”
“That's just one more reason I dont plan to go this year,” says Mrs. Johnson as she passes a plate of pancakes my way.
“Its not always that bad,” says Mr. Johnson, “especially since they've changed how the prizes are awarded.”
“How's that?” asks Sid as she pours syrup.
“Well, a few years back they would give cash prizes to the teams who took first, second, and third place, and so on.”
“Yes,” says Mrs. Johnson. “But imagine how angry a team might be if they thought they deserved first prize. Fights often erupted following the competition. It could get very ugly. Soon the tourists were afraid to come.”
“So they revamped things,” continues Mr. Johnson. “Now, as usual, the prize money is collected from the spectators, but it's equally distributed among all the contestants. Everyone is a winner.” He smiles. “Consequently, lots less fighting.”
“But even so, you never know.” Mrs. Johnson looks at us. “Things can happen. You girls must be especially careful. Stay together. And, Lydia, if you insist on going today, make sure you stay with your father at all times. Do not become separated from the group.”
“Yes, Mom, you've already given me this lecture several times.”
“I know.” She makes what seems a forced smile. “I just want you to be safe. All of you.”
“There are several ways to see the show,” explains Mr. Johnson. “You can stay on the sidelines and see quite a bit. Or, if you want the full experience, you can buy the pricey tickets and go down and walk around with the dancers.”
“Really?” Sid looks Surprised. “You can go right down among them?”
“Yes. It's really quite an experience.”
“And it's safe?” asks Sid.
“Yes,” says Mr. Johnson. “It's during the day, and everyone is mostly focused on performing. And they like having their pictures taken.”
“Not like in the old days,” says Mrs. Johnson. “We used to hear stories about how nationals would get angry if you took their photo. They thought you were trying to steal their spirits.”
“Times have changed.” Mr. Johnson sighs.
“I think it ci be fun to go down with the dancers,” I say. “Is it very expensive?”
“It's about thirty U.S. dollars per person,” he says. “A little steep for our budget.”
“How about if we treat?” suggests Sid. “I mean, if that's okay with everyone. I'm sure it would make both Maddie and me feel safer if we could all stay together.”
“Its fine with me,” says Mr. Johnson. “Although Im sure you two would be perfecdy safe if you just stayed together.”
“Well, I'd feel better if you and Lydia joined us.”
So it seems to be setded. We'll all be down amid the dancers today, getting the full experience. I'm really looking forward to it. Mrs. Johnson has prepared a picnic lunch, and the plan is to be home in time for a late dinner. Once again she warns us to be careful as we tell her good-bye.
“Don't worry, Mom,” says Lydia. “God is watching over us.”
Mrs. Johnson frowns slighdy, then nods. “Yes, I know.” She waves from the porch, and we pile back into the Land Rover.
“How do the other people from the village get there?” I ask.
“There's a shared village truck,” he explains. “The competitors took that over early this morning. Some have already walked there. Some will go by bus. We'll probably see a fair number of walkers on the road today, hoping to catch a ride.”
He's right. The closer we get to Mount Hagen, the more we see people walking. Some are wearing costumes, which are amazingly bright and colorful. Some just have on regular clothes. Most of the women carry large string
bags, almost like fishnet. The straps on the bags are worn over the tops of their heads, and the bags, which look fiill and heavy, hang down to the middle of their backs.
“What do the women carry in those bags?” I ask.
“Those are bilums,” says Lydia from where she's sitting in front with her dad. “They carry all sorts of things. Food, clothes, even babies.”
“Babies?”
“Yes, they pad them with clothes and things, then nestle them in. I imagine its a fairly comfortable ride.”
“But they must get heavy,” I say.
“New Guinean women are strong,” says Mr. Johnson in a slightly sad tone. “They're very hard workers and are used to carrying a load.”
“Does that mean the men dont work so hard?” I ask.
Lydia laughs and rolls her eyes.
“Well, I'm sure the men think they work hard enough,” says her dad, “but the truth is, its the women who do most of the work. They work in the gardens, planting and harvesting; they take care of the children, fix all the meals. Basically they take care of the family.”
“What do the men do?”
“Oh, they hunt sometimes. And they build the houses, although the women help with that too. And some men will go out and get jobs to support their family. Sometimes you 11 have a very industrious man who supports a number of families back in the village. But that's not the norm.”
“What sort of jobs do they get?”
“There's not a lot for the untrained worker up here in the highlands. Of course, there's always mining. That's pretty hard work, although the pay is relatively good. The problem is that many of our people aren't used to having that much money, and a lot of the men tend to waste it. There's a growing alcohol problem here. That's really taken a toll on families in the highlands.”
“And the lowlands too,” adds Lydia.
“Thats too bad.”
“So what would you say is the main industry in New Guinea?” asks Sid. “What brings in the most income for the nationals? Is it mining? coffee plantations? tea?”
“To be honest, its probably crime,” says Mr. Johnson sadly.
“Seriously?”
“You'd be amazed at how many villages are supported by criminal activity,” says Mr. Johnson. “And many people think its completely acceptable-well, as long as they're not the victims. The criminals are called rascah, and they are everywhere.”
“What about the police?” asks Sid. “Do they try to crack down on them?”
“Unfortunately, the police can be part of the problem. Many are as morally corrupt as the rascals.”
“Many are even worse,” says Lydia in a solemn voice.
“Yes.” Her dad nods sadly. “Its true.”
“So it really is a widespread problem then?” Sid asks.
“Very much so.” He sighs. “I suppose that makes the rascals feel even more validated for their lives of crime. Some probably consider themselves to be a Robin Hood.”
“Stealing from the rich to feed the poor?” I say.
“Yes. It's justifiable to them.”
“And some feel the need to protect themselves from the police,” Lydia points out. “They have their own tribal gang of rascals, are fully armed, and think nothing of engaging with any form of police or security that invades their territory.”
“And what do the police do?” asks Sid.
“Look away, keep a safe distance.” Mr. Johnson just shakes his head.
“So what sorts of crimes do they make the most profit from?” asks Sid.
“Well, you had your own close brush with carjacking. They steal a car and sell it to a village. That's just one way rascals capitalize on crime. Trust me, there are many more. By the way, has anyone warned you about passport thefts?”
“The USAID woman in Australia told us to be careful,” says Sid. “She suggested we keep them on our person at all times, in our money belts.”
Lydia laughs. “Thats the first place the rascals look.”
“Really?”
“Unfortunately,” says Mr. Johnson, “we hear more cases of tourists being robbed than almost anything. The rascals assume the tourists are wealthy, and by New Guinean standards, they are. Plus, they're usually carrying money, credit cards, and passports. Their desire for money is obvious, but they also know how to use the plastic. And lately they've even come up with a clever use for passports.”
“What's that?”
“After they steal them-and they do usually look in the money belt first-they sell the documents to someone who has a connection with a passport seller in Port Moresby.”
“So the passports are eventually resold?”
“Yes, usually to the original owner.”
“What?”
Lydia laughs. “Yes. So, if by chance your passports are stolen, which we hope isn't the case, all you need to do is find out who's selling passports in Port Moresby that week, contact them, and see if they have yours.”
“They usually go for anywhere between fifty and five hundred kina, depending on how desperate or determined the customer might be. If you're firm with them and don't get them angry at you, you might get off for less.”
“That is so bizarre,” I say.
“Why wouldn't the tourist who's been robbed simply call the police if they discover someone with their passport?” asks Sid. “Why don't they tell the police to get it back for them so they don't have to pay for it?”
“By the time the police got there, if they even came, the passport seller would be long gone, and you'd probably never see your passport again. Most tourists figure out, sooner or later, that it's not worth it.”
“Talk about your Catch-22.”
“Yep.” His expression is grim. “Things have sure changed a lot during the time we've been in New Guinea.”
“How long is that?” asks my aunt.
“Brenda and I first came over just a few months before Independence, back in 1975.”
“So you were here for Independence?” I say. I've read a little about how this country declared itself independent several decades ago. “What was that like?”
“Surprisingly, it went off quietly. There were some small snags but nothing like what the Australians expected as they were making their big getaway. Of course, their gloomy predictions played out later. At the time, everything was totally new to us. Brenda and I came here straight out of jungle camp. We really didn't know what to expect. And we were ready for anything.”
“Jungle camp?”
He laughs. “Yes, I know that sounds strange. But its the last stage of training for translators. Sort of like boot camp, to see whether or not you can survive out in the bush. We'd already gone through SIL school together in Dallas. That was where we met, actually. We'd both just graduated from college, and God had called us both to translation syork. We got married shortly after the first year of translation school.”
“So you ve been translating for more than thirty years?” I say in astonishment. “Wow, that's real commitment.”
“Well, when God calls you to do something, what can you say?”
“And you've been with the Lomokako people the whole time?” asks Sid.
“No. We actually started out in a village that another couple had been working in. They had to leave because of the wife's health problems. That village was on the Sepik River.”
“Where's that?” I ask.
“Not too far from here as the crow flies. It's on the north side of the island, opposite of Port Moresby If you have time, it's an area well worth seeing. Anyway, Brenda and I started out there. We didn't have kids yet, and we were ripe for an adventure. But we quickly discovered it wasn't easy to pick up where someone else had left off. And the villagers didn't fully trust us, especially at first. They liked the other translators, and I think they blamed us for their leaving. Anyway, we finished up the New Testament in about nine years and asked to be transferred to the highlands for a new assignment.”
“Do you like the highlands bett
er?” I ask, thinking that if I lived in this country, this is where I'd want to be.
“Yes. We really felt called to this part of the country. In some ways its more rugged and less civilized, but we like it.”
“So how long have you been in this village?”
“We came here in 1986. The boys were about two and four. Young enough that they think of this as their first home.” He turns and looks at Lydia. “And we got here just in time to get our daughter.”
The car slows down, and I look up to see a throng of people walking down the middle of the road, blocking our way. Mr. Johnson rolls down his window and calls out in a friendly tone. They turn and look at him curiously, and he calls out something else.
Okay, I'm getting worried now. I've heard about roadblocks, and this certainly looks like one. There are at least twenty of them, mostly men, and I'm thinking that if they wanted, they could easily overtake this vehicle. But then they simply smile and wave, calling back to Mr. Johnson, and its obvious that this is just a friendly encounter. They slowly break apart and allow us to pass by, slappirig the sides of the vehicle as we go. Mr. Johnson calls out what sounds like thank you in pidgin and some kind of greeting.
I take in a deep breath, glancing at Sid to see if she was as worried as I was just now. She gives me a little smile, but I can tell it was a bit unsetding to her too. For some reason that actually makes no sense, I feel better.
THIRTEEN
It's almost eleven when we arrive in Mount Hagen. Mr. Johnson pays one kina to park in a field on the edge of town, then we get out and walk toward the sounds of drums, chanting, and singing. Theres energy in the air, and I almost feel like I'm a kid again, like Fm on my way to the circus or the county fair for the first time. People are everywhere. Some in costume hurry over to where the sounds are coming from as if they are late. Others move along more casually. But there are very few white people.
“This is exciting,” I say as we walk along a dusty road.
Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea Page 11
