Diffusion

by Stan C. Smith

  Streaks of afternoon sunlight painted the forest as the group made their way to the minibus. The day’s activities had reduced the exhausted students’ chatter to occasional comments as they walked. Miranda and Ashley led the way, but Quentin stayed close behind. The two girls were best friends, but their differences had become apparent to Quentin during the trip. Both girls were popular at school, but Quentin now suspected this was due to their combined personalities. Miranda’s syrupy sensitivity acted as a buffer to Ashley’s rough edges and temper. Together, they were balanced, even remarkable. Apart, their peers would probably marginalize them.

  Miranda stepped over a fallen tree and then brushed debris from her pant leg. “I so need a shower. Things are crawling under my clothes.”

  Russ was five meters behind, but he still heard her. “You need help getting them out?”

  “Whatever, Russ.”

  “What does it mean, whatever?” Markus said. But then he stopped walking. His eyes were fixed on the forest ahead.

  Miranda saw them first. “Look, there are people.”

  Four men emerged from the shadows. Markus spoke a greeting in Dani, but the men approached without answering. In Wamena, the town the Americans used for their home base, many Papuans could be seen wearing a combination of traditional dress and items influenced by the 21st century: a pair of shorts, a wristwatch, even a PVC pipe worn as a horim. But the men approaching them now had no ornaments or implements of modern origin.

  Instead of the longer decorative horims seen in Wamena, these men wore short gourds cinched against their abdomens—the functional apparel of active hunters. Brown feathers from the wings of cassowaries fanned out from their headbands. Their noses held ornaments that appeared to be heads of black beetles, the oversized mandibles piercing the septum. Each man held a bow and several long arrows. Disfigured, flaking skin covered most of one man’s legs. Quentin recognized this as Grile, caused by ringworm and easily treated where medical supplies were available. Their bodies were greased from the waist up, something Quentin had only seen in mock battles enacted for tourists.

  The men ignored Markus and focused on the Americans. They began talking to each other. Markus looked at Quentin and shrugged.

  Quentin tried Indonesian. “Selamat. Siapa namanya? Dimana?”

  The men showed no understanding.

  Markus spoke again, this time apparently digging into his knowledge of Papuan languages, and he exchanged some words with them.

  “These men are going to Wamena,” Markus said. “They talk about killing.”

  Quentin’s gut tightened. Papua was an Indonesian province with a history of political injustices and violent resistance by the indigenous Papuans. Bringing students here a few decades ago would have been unthinkable. But tourism was common now, and typically the Papuans were friendly to visitors. “Tell them we don’t want any trouble.”

  One of the tribesmen extended a sinewy hand and grasped Ashley’s dark, curly hair. She tensed. The man rubbed the hair between his fingers, as if judging its coarseness.

  “Ashley, relax,” Miranda said. She smiled and placed her hand on her chest. “My name is Miranda.”

  The man released Ashley’s hair and grasped one of Miranda’s breasts through her shirt. Miranda’s smile transformed into a stricken expression.

  “Miranda meri, don’t be afraid,” Markus said, his voice unusually high. “They will go away soon; you will see.”

  The Papuan turned back to Ashley and reached for her breast, too.

  Ashley blocked with her elbow. “Don’t touch me, asshole!”

  She then wheeled and slapped the man’s face. The Papuan’s head wrenched, and his feathered headdress flipped to the ground.

  The forest clearing became deathly still.

  Ashley stood defiant, her face red and fists clenched. The man recovered from his shock and lunged at her, ranting and pointing his finger. Lindsey was closer than Quentin and threw herself between them.

  The man’s companions suddenly filled the air with feral shrieks. But they were not angry, they were laughing. They hooted wildly, doubling over, dropping their bows and arrows to the ground and pointing at their dishonored companion.

  The man stopped his verbal assault. Slowly, he picked up his headdress. He looked over Lindsey’s shoulder at Ashley and spoke in an even tone, like he was stating a simple fact, perhaps I dropped this hat on purpose. He placed it on his head, restoring some measure of dignity.

  Ashley was now trembling and tears streaked her face.

  When the laughter subsided, Markus exchanged words with the men, and he seemed to relax. “These men will not hurt us,” he said. “Now they understand.”

  “They understand what?” Lindsey said.

  “That you are not from the government. And your students are yangpela, young people. Pikinini. I told them to come to the minibus. We’ll give them food.”

  Still chuckling, the men gathered their weapons and walked away with Markus.

  “Good God, Ashley!” Russ said.

  “Drown in your own vomit, Russ!”

  Russ raised both hands to show he meant no harm.

  Lindsey touched her shoulder. “Are you okay, Ash?”

  “No, I’m not!” She stepped away and stood with her back to them.

  In the awkward silence that followed, Quentin struggled for the right words. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Well, I’d say we’ve learned some valuable things about—”

  Addison interrupted him, “We learned that Ashley’s bitchy temper could get us killed! She’s such an idiot!”

  Addison had typically been a silent, although brooding, observer when the entire group was together, and this outburst seemed to shock everyone. Ashley swung around with rage in her eyes, and Bobby even stepped away from Addison as if seeking a safer distance. The older boys, Roberto and Russ, glanced at each other and then started toward Addison.

  Addison was seemingly unaware he had crossed a line. He continued, “Only a total idiot would hit someone who has a—”

  Lindsey rushed in and clapped a hand over his mouth. “That’s enough, son.” Still covering his mouth, she guided him away from the group toward the minibus.

  Quentin looked around at the remaining students. So much for Addison’s progress with making friends.

  Bobby was watching Quentin and seemed to detect his concern. He smiled, his adolescent blue eyes shining, and Quentin sensed that the boy was trying to reassure him. Bobby had a way of doing such things, which was another reason Quentin liked him. Bobby then turned to Carlos and gave him a shove. “Let’s go, before Markus gives away all our food.”

  The peculiar assembly of travelers sat on the ground near the minibus and shared the food Markus had packed. Markus talked with the Papuans some, but he seemed unwilling to divulge further details about their destination and purpose.

  As the afternoon sun dropped, the kids opened up to the Papuan tribesmen, trying to ask questions about their customs and gesturing wildly to explain their own equally puzzling lives. Russ and Roberto tried in vain to explain that they played in a garage band. The younger boys pantomimed a question about the Mbaiso, the mythical animal of Quentin’s story. The Papuans simply shook their heads. Two of the men suddenly howled with laughter. Miranda had taken their photo and shown them the image on her smartphone’s screen. Only Ashley sat quietly, keeping an eye on the Papuan she had struck. His name, they’d learned, was Pupun.

  Resting on his elbows, Quentin watched. This encounter could have gone a different way. Perhaps those who had criticized this field trip were right; Papua was still occasionally volatile and was too dangerous. But bad things could happen anywhere. And Quentin was compulsively drawn to Papua, by a force he could comprehend but not suppress. If anything, Quentin was self-aware; Lindsey and occasional therapists had made sure of that. He understood his drive to overcome this place, to be a stronger man than his father. Bringing students here without in
cident was his way to conquer the Last Unknown. But perhaps it was going too far.

  Lindsey jabbed his leg with her foot. “Where are you, hon?”

  Quentin half-smiled. “Right here.”

  After finishing the food, the Papuans disappeared into the forest. Everyone piled into the minibus, and they began the three-hour drive to Wamena. Soon the students began dozing off.

  Lindsey said, “What do you suppose Pupun and his friends are up to?”

  Quentin pulled out his smartphone to look at photos. “Maybe they’re the last of a tribe. A disease wiped them out. Those four were immune, and now they’re on a quest to find women—rebuild the tribe.”

  “And they thought they’d recruit Ashley,” Lindsey laughed. “No such luck. They’ve wandered the forest for years, getting slapped by women.”

  Quentin snorted. “Or maybe they’re guardians of a treasure. Their quest for mates continues because they haven’t found any women worthy of it.”

  “More likely they’ve forgotten where they put it. They need help finding it.”

  Quentin ignored this. “Probably gold. The legend of the mountain of gold is true, and they’re guarding it.”

  “Gold is boring. The treasure is a rare flower. When you smell it, you fall in love, then you search until you find your soul mate. That’s Pupun’s quest.”

  “You may be right,” Quentin said. “Pupun had me smell this dried flower he had. Then everything was clear—I had to start my search.”

  Lindsey raised her brows.

  “It took me about three seconds,” he said.

  She slapped his shoulder.

  Russ spoke without opening his eyes. “You guys are teachers, for God’s sake. You’re making me sick.”

  As they descended into the Baliem Valley along the dark waters of the Uwe River, the ice-capped peak of Gunung Trikora hung in the mist to the south. The rugged peaks of the Maoke mountain range extended from the eastern half of the island, the independent country of Papua New Guinea, west to the Bird’s Head peninsula in the Indonesian province of Papua. The Bird’s Head peninsula was where Quentin’s parents had introduced him to the tropics when he was six. They had wanted him to meet the Papuans they thought they knew so well. Quentin dismissed this thought. No point in ruining his mood by dwelling on the past.

  As they entered Wamena, Markus braked sharply, startling Quentin and waking the others. The road was blocked by a group of Papuans.

  “Lauk,” one of them said in greeting. His t-shirt displayed the Morning Star flag.

  “Lauk,” Markus said.

  Speaking pidgin, the Papuan requested donations for the Free Papua Movement. Markus spoke to Quentin, “You should give these men money, tisaman. They will be happy then.”

  Lindsey was already digging in her pack. “Here, Markus. Is a hundred thousand rupiah enough?”

  “Plenty good, misis.” He took the money and handed it over.

  The man glanced at the bill and smiled. “Papua Merdeka!” he said, and waved them on.

  Lindsey said, “Markus, has the OPM been active?”

  “You don’t worry about this, okay misis? There is talk of protests, but tourists are very safe.”

  “What’s the OPM?” Roberto asked.

  Quentin explained, “It stands for Organisesi Papua Merdeka, the Free Papua Movement. Many Papuans want Papua to become an independent country. The OPM are freedom fighters. The flag on that man’s shirt was the Morning Star. It kind of symbolizes their fight for independence. Occasionally in the past there’s been serious trouble in Wamena.”

  Lindsey said, “Is something happening we should know about?”

  “It’s okay, misis. You’ll see.”

  Markus drove to their losmen as the sun slid behind the mountain peaks.

  Two

  The pig whimpered as the Papuan man gripped its hind legs. Another man grabbed the forelegs and pulled, lifting the pig from the ground. A third man then drew back his bow. The squealing pig looked directly at Bobby as the arrow pierced its side. Wide eyes pleaded for help, but Bobby couldn’t move. Suddenly he realized the pig’s cries were in Bahasa, the Indonesian language.

  Bobby gasped and opened his eyes. The squawking continued, but it was only the morning chatter of Tika, the cockatoo in the losmen’s lobby.

  Last night’s pig feast, arranged by Markus, had actually been fun. Butchering the pig had been done in the traditional way, and it had taken three arrows to kill it, but Bobby had been too hungry to let that bother him. While the food cooked, the Papuans had staged a fake battle. That was the best part. They’d painted their bodies with pig grease and soot from the fire, reminding Bobby of the Papuans they’d met in the forest.

  Bobby kicked his sheet off. This was the last day, and Mr. Darnell had promised they could explore on their own. Carlos and Addison were asleep, so he shook their beds.

  Addison sat up, his coiled hair smashed flat on one side. He stumbled to the bathroom.

  Carlos mumbled, “I’m awake already.” He heaved off the bed and started picking through dirty shirts and socks that covered the floor. “You know what I’m buying? One of those necklaces with lizard feet.”

  Bobby considered this. Carlos could probably get away with wearing one of those. It was because of his brother. Everyone liked Roberto. If Carlos wore a lizard-foot necklace, people would say, “Well, he did go to New Guinea with his brother Roberto.” If Bobby wore one, they’d say, “That’s disgusting.”

  Bobby didn’t have much money for souvenirs anyway.

  Addison came out of the bathroom. He had frizzed his hair up with his brush, and now it was like a caramel-colored mop hanging over his freckled face. “If you guys want Indonesian lizard-AIDS, go ahead and buy that crap.”

  Bobby looked at Carlos and rolled his eyes. Addison hadn’t apologized to Ashley for blowing up at her yesterday and was still acting like it had never happened. He was clueless about things like that. Bobby got along with him okay, but Addison hadn’t even wanted to come on this trip. The Darnells had made him, because Addison ‘needed more interaction with his peers.’ Addison was the only kid Bobby knew who played Kembalimo more than he did. This had given them something to talk about, and they sometimes communicated through Kembalimo. But Addison could be a pain.

  They got dressed and went to the lobby, where the group met each morning. They were the first ones there, so they passed the time talking to Tika.

  The older kids, Russ and Roberto, and then the two girls, came dragging in with wild hair and pillow-creased cheeks. Bobby didn’t have any siblings, and during this trip he had learned that older kids would sleep all day if they could.

  Ashley’s long frizzy hair was even wilder than the others’. She said, “Does that bird ever shut up?”

  Bobby considered responding to this by telling them about his dream, but the older kids made him a little nervous. Especially Ashley.

  Roberto yawned and eyed the pack on Carlos’s back. “Where you guys going?”

  “Wherever,” Carlos said. “It’s the only time we got on our own. Wanna come?”

  “Maybe. Russ, you want to run with the twerps?”

  Russ sat in a chair with his head in his arms. “After breakfast, I’m back in bed. You guys got too much energy. It ain’t natural.”

  Bobby paced around, eager for the teachers to show up so they could start the day. He plopped into a chair and pulled out his smartphone to pass the time. Without a local SIM card he had no cellular access, so he used the lobby’s Wi-Fi. He opened Kembalimo and browsed through his list of friends. Most of them were kids his age who spoke other languages, living in places like Brazil, Madagascar, and Bahrain. Kembalimo allowed him to talk to them as naturally as he could if they spoke the same language. Addison’s name was near the top of his friend list. He stared at it for a moment and then tapped it. His screen went blank and then was populated with the 128 symbols of Kembalimo. Using his finger, he moved th
e symbols into groups. Each group contained specific information, because the symbols had gradually been assigned their own meanings as Bobby had played the game repeatedly over the last two years. The message he composed could be roughly translated as: You need to apologize to someone. Bobby tapped Send.

  A few meters away, Addison’s smartphone chirped. He pulled it out and stared at the screen, frowning. He then began shoving things around on his own screen.

  A string of symbols appeared on Bobby’s screen. Addison had composed his message using the same 128 symbols, but Addison’s symbols had different meanings than they did for Bobby. The game translated them into Bobby’s own Kembalimo language, called a lingo. The message said: Someone needs to apologize for almost getting us killed.

  Bobby made eye contact with Addison and tried giving him a disapproving look.

  “You guys are real Kembalimo nerds.” Russ had started pacing and he now stared over Bobby’s shoulder at the smartphone, although there was no way he could understand the message in Bobby’s lingo. “Addison’s right there. You can’t just talk to him?”

  Bobby felt his face flush as all eyes turned to him. Even Ashley was looking at him.

  “It’s just a way to practice,” he said. He shoved his phone back into his pocket. “I usually talk to people in different countries who don’t speak English. We talk about all kinds of stuff.”

  Russ blew out a one-syllable laugh. “You just described the most boring game ever. Answer me this: Can you kill anything in that game, like Nazis or zombies?”

  Bobby’s face grew even warmer. “Actually, it’s not a game. And there’s no—”

  Suddenly the teachers appeared and everyone’s attention shifted away from Bobby.

  “Good morning, scientists!” Mr. Darnell always said that, and like always everyone just groaned and herded to the long breakfast table.