“I can't imagine you being a show-off,” I admit. “You seem like such a mature and well-grounded person to me.”
She smiles. “Thanks. I hope I've grown up a little over the years. Back then, I felt the need to show the others that I was as good as they were, that I could keep up. And as I got older, it got worse. I felt like I had to be better than my peers. I had to get the best grades, be the best at soccer or whatever activity I was interested in at the time. And, naturally, that made some kids-especially a certain couple of girls whose parents lived on base-target me.”
“I've known girls like that too.”
She smiles. “See, there really isn't anything new under the sun, is there?”
“Did you have some good friends too?” I ask, suddenly worried that poor, sweet Lydia might've been shunned by everyone.
“Oh yes, of course. I had some wonderful friends who I'm still very close to. We stay in touch through e-mail, and we hope to have a reunion in a few years. I miss them.”
“I thought I heard voices,” says Mr. Johnson as he enters the room. “What got you girls up so early this morning?”
“The earthquake woke Maddie.” Lydia rises from her spot on the sofa and goes into the kitchen.
He chuckles. “I guess we forgot to warn you about earthquakes. We get them occasionally. Nothing to be overly concerned about. Well, unless the house starts to cave in. In that case, make a fast break for the wide open spaces outside.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He wads up some paper and places kindling in the cookstove. “The worst time for earthquakes, at least up here in the highlands, is during the rainy season.”
“Whys that?” I ask.
“Mud slides.” He lights the match and steps back. “They can be lethal. Whole villages have been buried. Not a single survivor.”
I shudder. “That's horrible.”
He nods. “So just be glad you're here during the dry season.”
“Does that mean it doesn't rain?” I ask, glancing outside at the thick gray clouds.
He laughs. “No. It always rains. It just rains less. Sometimes we'll have several days without rain. In fact, it's been pretty dry lately.”
“I'll make the coffee,” says Lydia, filling the pot from the sink.
“And it does look like we're in for some rain today,” he observes. “Too bad for the sing-sing festivities. But the locals are used to it. Hopefully, it won't make the road too bad for the travelers. It's not unusual to have a wreck or two when the sing-sing ends anyway. Just another reason we were smart to go on the first day of the celebration. Pity the poor tourist who has a wreck and doesn't have the wits to get out of there before payback time.”
“There sure are a lot of things to be concerned with around here,” I say as Mr. Johnson puts some bigger pieces of wood on the fire. “Earthquakes, mud slides, paybacks, crime, diseases-”
“And we haven't told you about the snakes yet.”
“Snakes?” I feel a shiver down my spine.
“Oh, Dad,” scolds Lydia. “Give her a break. The poor girl just survived an earthquake, for Pete's sake.”
This makes him laugh, and for the moment I'm spared hearing about the snakes. Great!
Soon everyone is up, and I make Mr. Johnson inform my aunt that we really did experience an earthquake this morning.
“I thought she was just dreaming,” says Sid as she sips her coffee. “I didn't feel a thing.”
“The top bunk usually feels it the most,” says Mrs. Johnson. “I think it must sway more up there.”
“Yes,” agrees Lydia. “That was Caleb's bed, and he was always complaining about feeling earthquakes that the rest of us missed.”
“Of course, Jeremy used to worry that the top bunk was going to collapse and fall on him someday,” adds Mr. Johnson as he sets a plate of fresh fruit on the table. “Especially as Caleb got bigger.”
“I had that exact same thought myself,” I admit. “I was afraid I was going to crush my aunt.” I nod to her. “One of the reasons I jumped out of bed. You should thank me, Sid.”
She smiles. “Thank you very much.”
After breakfast is finished and cleaned up, we head over to the villäge church, which is just off to the far side of the little round houses. It s starting to rain as we enter the long, rectangular structure that is their church. The floor is made of cement, and a palm-thatched roof is supported by rough columns of wood, but there are no walls, no windows, no doors. The structure is completely open. About thirty people are already seated, filling the rows of rough-hewn benches- the men and boys on one side, women and small children on the other. I suspect that this separation of the sexes must be a cultural thing, but I make a mental note to ask Lydia about it later.
“Air conditioned,” I whisper to her as we sit on one of the back benches.
Lydia smiles. “Yes. öods air conditioning.”
More people trickle in, taking their spots on the benches, and finally a man steps up to the front and begins to tune a slightly beat-up guitar. Then he starts to lead us in singing. I'm impressed with the enthusiasm of the congregation as they join in, but it quickly becomes clear that they dont know how to stay on key very well. In fact, it sounds more like chanting than singing. And when he plays a song I actually recognize, I'm even more aware of how different their musical style is from what Im used to. And yet it's so amazing, so authentic, so heartfelt, I think.
For a long while, I just stand there, letting it all soak in: the rain, which is pouring down from the sloped roof; the low, nasal, yet rhythmic sound of the chanted hymns and songs; the open-air church; the slightly out-of-tune guitar. Then it hits me. I am in the highlands of Papua New Guinea, worshiping God with sincere believers. And I can't think of any word to describe how I feel right now besides awestruck. I am in awe of God and in awe of these people he created. It blows my mind.
I know with certainty that their singing/chanting is a thing of immense beauty to God. In some ways I think this sort of worship must be even more beautiful than the fanciest church with the biggest pipe organ and the most talented choir. At least it is to me, and I suspect God agrees. Not that God makes comparisons like we humans tend to do, but if he did…
After quite a long stint of singing/chanting, another man goes to the front to speak. Lydia whispers to me that he'll be preaching in tok pies. Consequently, Sid and I are the only ones here who don't understand. But the young man preaches with such passion and enthusiasm that I almost feel like I know what he's saying. Anyway, whatever it is, he seems genuine, and the people listening seem eager to hear, nodding and even murmuring at times. Its all pretty impressive. And it gives me great hope for a country I'd originally misjudged.
It's still raining, and I notice the water is pooling up around the perimeter of the church. It's a good thing the floor in here is built up of cement, because it's the only thing remaining dry. But as I notice this, I notice something else too, something that I think is a litde weird. I wonder if I'm the only one who sees it. There are frogs hopping around on the cement floor, underneath the benches and around people's bare feet. They're fairly big frogs too, about two to three inches in diameter, I'm guessing. I glance over at Lydia, but her eyes are straight forward, focused on the speaker. I glance over at Sid, who's on the other side of Lydia, but she too seems oblivious. Suddenly I remember; he plague of the frogs on Egypt. Hopefully, God isn't trying to send us some kind of message. Then I recall what I've heard about animals sensing a natural disaster like an earthquake or tsunami, and I start to feel more seriously concerned.
Now, unlike my opinion on snakes, it's not that I'm afraid of or even dislike frogs. I am, after all, a farm girl. But all these hopping critters are becoming more and more unsettling. I want to know why they're here. And I'm surprised that not even the children seem to notice them or care. Then I see one particularly large frog just sitting there, looking straight toward the pulpit as if he's listening and taking it all in. It makes me want to laugh.
But I control myself since it seems the preacher is at a serious part of his sermon, and I'd hate to spoil it for everyone. But at last, when the final prayer and song are finished, I ask Lydia what's going on here.
“So, are these frogs here to worship or what?” I say.
She laughs. “No, they're just coming in out of the rain.”
“I thought frogs liked water.”
She nods to where the land surrounding the church is starting to resemble a large muddy pond. “I think they get overwhelmed sometimes.”
I have to laugh. “So when frogs get overwhelmed, they come to church? That makes sense.”
“Yes. People should follow their example.”
And I think Lydia is right. People should follow their example.
FIFTEEN
Later that afternoon Sid asks Mr. and Mrs. Johnson what part of the country they'd recommend we see during the following week.
“Well, if it were me, I'd go to the Sepik,” says Mr. Johnson. “It's a fascinating region. And Western Sepik is the best.” He pulls out a map and begins to show us how a river winds along the northern part of Papua New Guinea. “It's similar to the Amazon in ways. Very remote. You'll even see crocodiles.”
“Crocodiles?” I say with interest.
“Yes. The village we worked in had some incredible crocodile hunters. One time they actually caught a saltwater croc. Somehow it made it inland about a hundred miles. It was sixteen feet long.”
“Sixteen feet?” I try to imagine this, and Mr. Johnson actually gets up and shows us about how long that would be.
“Wow,” I say. “That sounds pretty exciting.”
“I could arrange for you to visit Kauani,” he says.
“Is that in Hawaii?” I ask, immediately knowing it's probably not.
“That's our old village in the Sepik,” says Mrs. Johnson.
“Our good friends Tom and Donna Hanover are working there now. They picked up right where we left off.”
“Really?” says Sid with interest. “Do you think they'd want visitors?”
Mrs. Johnson laughs. “Are you kidding? They'd love visitors. Tom and Donna are some of the most hospitable translators in the country. Their kids are back in the States going to college now, and I know they get lonely at times.”
“I'll go see if I can get them on the radio,” says Mr. Johnson suddenly. “And I'll check with JAARS too. See if they can get you a flight out there.”
“Thanks!” says Sid. “That would be fantastic.”
While Sid and the Johnsons are working out the travel details, Lydia points out that the sun is shining. “We could take a walk,” she says.
“That sounds great,” I agree. “I'd like to get a better look at your village.”
“And I know that Peter would love for you to pieet his wife and daughter,” she says as we head outside. “He's still at the sing-sing. I think he makes a point to stay there to ensure that his male friends don't end up in some sort of trouble.” She chuckles.
“His wife didn't go with him?”
Lydia shakes her head. “No, she's pregnant, and I think her due date's not too far off.”
So we walk around the village, and Lydia introduces me to so many people that I soon lose track of the names. Some of the villagers are still at the sing-sing, but the older people and young children are here. Everyone is very friendly, and their smiles are so bright and sweet that their whole faces light up.
“I wish I could see inside a house,” I tell Lydia. “I'm curious what they're like.”
“We'll see what we can do,” she says as ye go up to a house that's close to the church and seems a little nicer than some of the others. Or maybe it's just newer.
“This is Peter's wife,” says Lydia as we approach a smiling woman sitting in the doorway of this house. She has on a faded-print, smock-style dress, and her hands rest on top of her rounded belly. Lydia told me these garments are called men dresses, and they seem to be the most popular fashion among the village women. Designed to accommodate a body's changes through pregnancy and into old age, they look comfortable.
“Mataswai,” says Lydia, “this is my friend Maddie. She's a friend of Peter's too.”
Mataswai stands up, takes my hand, and gives it a warm squeeze. “I am happy to know you.”
“You speak English?”
“Liklik”
I think about this. “Little?”
Lydia nods. “That's right.”
A tiny girl suddenly appears from behind Mataswai. “Thees ees my daughter, Hannah,” says her mother. “Say hallo, Hannah.” But the little girl ducks her head behind her mother.
“Hello, Hannah,” I call out.
Then Lydia says something to Mataswai in tok pies. First Mataswai hesitates, and then she puts her hand over her mouth. Then she nods. “Yesa, eet's all right. Come een. Come een.” Then she steps back into her house and waves us inside.
It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light. The floor, not unlike the one in the Johnson home, is made of springy bamboo and sits less than a foot off the ground. In the center of the house is a fire pit with softly glowing red embers. It smells smoky in here but not in a bad way. It reminds me of that camping scent, the way your sweatshirt might smell after you ve stood in front of a camp-fire for several nights.
There isn't any furniture to speak of in here. Just a very low wooden table near the fire, which I assume Mataswai uses as a kitchen since there are some metal pots and bowls and cooking things there. There are mats and blankets on the floor on the opposite side, and I'm guessing that's used as a sleeping area. The whole house is about twelve feet wide. Very cozy. Once again I'm reminded of camping. It feels sort of like the old canvas tent Dad used to haul out when we went up to the lake for a weekend of fishing. Only we didn't have a campfire inside. That would've been too dangerous.
“How does the smoke get out?” I ask, noticing there isn't a chimney.
Lydia points to a small hole in the center of the roof. “There.”
“What about the rain?”
“It's not much of a problem. They're used to it.'?
“Very nice,” I say to Mataswai. “And it's warm in here.”
“Warm.” She nods, rubbing her hands over the fire. “Yesa. Eet's warm.”
Lydia points to something in the fire. “May I show it to Maddie?”
Mataswai nods, and Lydia removes a green bundle and slowly unwraps it until I see what looks like some kind of root that s the color of ashes.
“Its taro,” she says. “Its related to a sweet potato. Very starchy and bland.”
“Is it good?” I ask Mataswai.
“Yes. Eet s good.” Then she motions with her hand, like she wants me to sample some for myself. “Kaikaim”
“Go ahead,” says Lydia. “It might be your only chance to taste kaukau”
“Kaukau?”
“Pidgin for 'sweet potato.' Go ahead and try it.”
“Are you sure?” I look at her, uncertain whether I want to or not. It s one thing to sample Guinness in Ireland, where at least I can be sure it s been bottled hygienically.
“It wont hurt you,” promises Lydia.
So I break off a small piece and put it in my mouth and chew. It sort of has the texture of a yam, a very fibrous yam, but the flavor makes me think of what an old sock might taste like. Even so, I swallow it and force a smile and thank Mataswai for her generosity.
Lydia giggles and then rewraps the kaukau and sticks it back on the edge of the coals. She, too, thanks Mataswai, then says something in tok pies that makes Mataswai cover her mouth and giggle also.
“Thank you for showing me your home, Mataswai,” I say, smiling at the little brown feet I see dancing behind her mother.
She smiles and nods back. “You are welcome.”
“God bless you and your new baby,” I say, pointing to her round stomach.
She nods and pats her belly and giggles again.
Then Lydia thanks her, and just as
were about to leave, little Hannah peeks her head out from where she's been lurking behind her mother and with a big smile says, “Hallo!”
“Hello, Hannah,” I say. “And good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” she calls back, happily waving.
“I'm surprised that Mataswai speaks English,” I say as we walk through the village. “Is that common?”
“Because Peter's a translation assistant, he's learned English from my parents. And, naturally, he's taught it to his wife and child. If they should ever need to get jobs outside of the village, it would be very useful to know English.”
“So they are actually trilingual,” I say as we head back to Lydias house.
“That's right,” she says. “Tok pies, pidgin, and English.”
“And I'm barely bilingual,” I admit. “I mean I've had four years of Spanish, but I'm not sure how well I'd get along in a Spanish-speaking country.”
“I know five languages,” says Lydia as we walk onto her screened porch and sit down.
“Seriously?”
“Actually, if I really wanted to stretch things, I could say six. When I was little, my brothers taught me some Kauani. I probably wouldn't last very long among people who were fluent in it. But my German and French aren't too bad. Then there's tok pies and pidgin and English, which makes five.”
“Wow, I'm impressed.”
She laughs. “Don't be. A lot of people in translation are like this. But it does help me with my job. When you're working for the government, it's a real plus knowing other languages. If I wasn't so interested in medicine, I'd probably consider doing something with languages. But most of all I just want to be a doctor. I don't think there's anything I'd rather do than help people to get well.”
“Did you ever consider nursing?”
She sort of turns her nose up now. Then she laughs. “I'm sorry. That probably seems very snooty. And I do have great respect for nurses, but I always wanted to reach higher than that. And so far, all the classes I've taken in college have been aimed toward premed.” She sighs. “I suppose I could go for my nursing degree, though.”
Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea Page 13
