Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea (12 page)

“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.

T
he 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.

“How was the trip?” asks Mrs. Johnson as she takes a bag from Sid.

“Very interesting,” says my aunt. “Quite an experience.”

Peter quickly relays our encounter with the violent men on the road, and Mr. Johnson just shakes his head. “It's probably because of the Mount Hagen Sing-Sing,” he says as he opens a wooden door to the screened porch that wraps around the front part of their house.
“Things can get a little crazy during these celebrations. Some people think its a good excuse for a free-for-all.”

“Or a time to settle old differences,” adds Mrs. Johnson.

“What sort of differences?” asks Sid.

“Oh, the usual things,” says Mr. Johnson. “Thievery, trickery, marital disputes.”

“Sometimes its just an old payback,” says Mrs. Johnson. “Have you heard about paybacks yet?”

“No,” says Sid. “What s a payback?”

“Its the old tribal way of getting retribution,” says Mrs. Johnson. “For instance, if someone from a neighboring tribe accidentally ran over your pig, a payback would be running over their pig to get even.”

“The old eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth,” adds Mr. Johnson.

“But travelers need to be aware of this practice,” says Mrs. Johnson. “If you're ever involved in an accident, the safest thing is to leave the scene immediately.”

“Wouldn't that be a hit-and-run?” I ask.

“Not in these parts,” says Lydia. “When you reached the next town, you'd simply inform the police of what had happened.”

“That's right,” says her dad. “If you stick around, you could be in real danger of retribution.”

“Come inside, come inside,” says Mrs. Johnson, opening the door into the house. “We don't need to dwell on such dismal topics before you're even in the front door.”

“It's okay,” says Sid. “It's very interesting.”

“Well, we certainly don't want to scare you,” says Mr. Johnson. “It's really not all that bad. And as far as the sing-sing goes, you should
know that there are plenty of security guards around here this time of year. They're supposed to be ready for these litde problems.”

Lydia laughs, as if her dads comment isn't meant to be taken too seriously. Then she shows us to a small bedroom that we'll share. “It's my brothers' room,” she explains. “Sorry about the bunk beds, but it's to conserve space.”

“It's just fine,” says Sid as she sets her bag on a chair.

“We can flip for the top bunk,” I add.

“I'll concede it to you,” she says.

“Why are there bars on the windows?” I ask. “I mean, I realize that's the norm in the city, but is it really that unsafe out here too?”

“We've had problems,” Lydia tells us. “Dad put them up about ten years ago. At first we kids hated it. We thought we were in prison. But after a while we got used to it, and now we hardly even notice them.”

“Supper will be ready in about twenty minutes,” calls Mrs. Johnson.

“The bathroom is this way,” says Lydia, taking us around a corner to the back and into a fairly normal-looking bathroom.

“And you have running water too,” observes Sid.

“It's from a well that was dug long before I was born.”

“Does it serve the whole village?”

“Yes. My parents say there was a lot more illness here before the well went in. Just one of the many benefits for villages with missionaries living in their midst.”

“Do the villagers appreciate that?” I ask. I'm curious, because it seems there are a lot of nationals unhappy about life in general.

“Oh yes,” says Lydia. “I think almost everyone here loves my parents and our family.”

“Almost?” I question.

She smiles. “Oh, you know what they say about pleasing all the people all the time.”

“Not possible,” says Sid.

“Right.” Lydia points to a toilet against the back wall. “And we actually have a flushing toilet too,” she explains. “It may seem like no big deal to most Americans, but my family was so happy when it was installed. Some friends of my parents came to visit when we were kids. Their church sent them to put in a septic system for our house.”

“Very modern,” says Sid.

“Yes,” I agree. “Swanky.”

Lydia laughs. “Now that's one I haven't heard before. But the truth is, many missionaries still rely on outhouses.” She points to the shower area, which also looks fairly normal, except there is a bucket with a nozzle on it hanging from a rafter in the high ceiling. “I'll warn you about our hot-water system. For the most part, we rely on a solar unit, but during a cloudy spell, it can get a little chilly. So we sometimes use the bucket shower with hot water from the cookstove. You may have to do that while you're here.”

“I've had bucket showers before,” says Sid, “and it's not too bad once you get the hang of it.”

I notice something long and green scampering atop one of the open beams that run below the high, vaulted ceiling. “What's that?” I ask.

“Just a gecko,” she says. “They're good to have around.”

“He's cute,” I say, going closer for a better look.

“And harmless. Sort of a natural pesticide since they eat bugs.”

Sid points up to the ceiling, which is ridged and painted white. “Is that the corrugated metal roof that we saw from outside?”