Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea (13 page)

Lydia nods. “My brothers helped my dad put that on one year. Before they installed the sheets, Mom and I painted the interior side white. She thought it would reflect more light, which it does. Before that, our house had a thatched palm roof like the rest of the village, and all kinds of things like to live in those roofs. Mom was so happy when we got rid of it. The house stays a lot cleaner. The metal roof also allowed my dad to set up a system to save rainwater for use in our house. It makes more well water available to the village.”

“Very efficient,” says Sid. “Americans should come over here and learn a few things.”

“I doubt most Americans would want to be bothered with the extra work it takes to live like this,” says Lydia. “At least that's the impression I got while I was there. It seems everyone likes things fast and easy.”

I consider this as Lydia gives us the rest of the tour. Although her house is not very large, it seems to have a smart design, and much of it is open, which probably makes it seem bigger than it is. You can tell her parents have put a lot of thought into it.

“What are the floors made of?” I ask. “They feel kind of springy.”

“That's bamboo,” she says. “Just split and laid out like sticks. Not the greatest thing for bare feet, since you can get splinters, but it's tough. And cheap.”

“I really like your house,” I tell Mrs. Johnson when we stop in the kitchen. “It's very homey.”

“Thanks. It seems to suit us.” She's stirring the contents of a large cast-iron pot on the big wood-burning cookstove.

“I'm surprised this stove doesn't make it too hot in here,” I say as I feel the heat radiating from it.

“Sometimes it does,” she admits. “And then I have to open all the windows and get a breeze going through. Or else I'll try to do most of the cooking earlier in the day. But this is our cool season, and its been extra chilly lately.”

“I noticed the temperature change when we got here,” I say. “But it feels good to me. I guess I'm not much of a hot-climate person.”

“I'm not either.” Mrs. Johnson
sets
the spoon down. “Where are you from?”

I tell her that Sid and I are from Washington, and she smiles. “You see, I thought we had something in common. We're from Portland, Oregon. Practically neighbors.”

Lydia helps her mother in the kitchen as if she's done this a thousand times before. The same way I would be doing it if I was at home with my mom. Still, this scene catches me slightly off guard. Mrs. Johnson is very fair with blond hair that's fading to silver. In contrast, Lydias bronze-colored skin and dark, curly hair look very much like the New Guinean girl that she is. And yet they seem to fit together perfectly.

Soon dinner is ready, and we all sit together at a long wooden table that separates the kitchen from the sitting area. It looks handmade from large pieces of wood and appears to have hosted a generation's worth of family meals. Mr. Johnson bows his head and says a prayer, and we begin to eat.

“I hope you like spaghetti with tomato and meat sauce,” says Mrs. Johnson as she passes a big bowl of pasta around.

“I feel like I'm home,” I say happily “This is just the way my mom makes spaghetti.”

“And garlic bread,” says Lydia. “My favorite!”

“This could end up being the best meal we've had in Papua New Guinea,” I cell them.

“That's true,” says Sid. “And we had a very nice dinner just outside of Port Moresby.” Then she describes the fancy seaside restaurant, which the Johnsons have heard of but haven't been able to afford.

Of course, this reminds me of the horrible tour we had afterward, and I think tonight's meal isn't only better but will be much more digestible too.

“How do you get electricity?” I ask, noticing that besides the pretty kerosene lantern in the center of the table, there's an electric overhead light in the kitchen as well.

“We have a diesel generator,” says Mr. Johnson. 'We try not to use it for too much. A few lights, the computer, music-that's about it.”

“The TV and VCR,” Lydia reminds him.

He laughs. “Yes. When the kids were at home, the generator was well used for playing all the videos that people back home sent to us. Sometimes I even made the kids work to earn money to pay for the extra diesel.”

“Yes, you were so hard on us, Dad,” teases Lydia.

“What a way to grow up,” says Sid, “living out here at what seems the end of the earth to the rest of us. What was it like for you and your brothers, Lydia?”

Mrs. Johnson laughs. “That s probably a question you shouldn't ask with her parents present.”

“No, it's okay,” says Lydia thoughtfully. “It was a good way to grow up. God has blessed me with such a wonderftil family.” She smiles at her parents. “We're not perfect. We all know that. But I could not imagine better parents.”

“And we couldn't have been blessed with a better daughter,” says Mrs. Johnson. “We will never stop giving thanks for our litde Lydia.” But as she pats Lydias hand, I think I see a trace of sadness in her eyes. Perhaps it's just that old parental thing about watching your kids grow up. But it's definitely there.

“But we have others to thank too,” says Mr. Johnson. “A lot of people had a hand in raising our kids.”

“How's that?” I ask.

“Well, we homeschooled them out here in the village for quite a while. But when they got to be teenagers, they wanted to go to the base for school.”

“Ukarumpa?” says Sid.

“Yes. They have a very fine high school there. And it's a good way for kids to have a social life that better prepares them for the world at large.”

“Or so we hoped,” says Mrs. Johnson.

Mr. Johnson clears his throat. “Yes. I don't mean to pretend that the mission-base school doesn't have its problems. What high school doesn't?”

“Are you saying that missionary children get into trouble?” asks Sid.

He nods. “Most certainly. Some of them get into quite a bit of trouble.”

“Oh, Jeremy and Caleb weren't that bad, Dad,” says Lydia.

“No, they weren't. But they did sow some wild oats, I'm afraid.”

“At least they didn't go to jail,” says Lydia.

“Thank the Lord,” says Mrs. Johnson. “We can't say that for all the missionary kids.”

“Wow,” I say. “That surprises me.”

“Why?” asks Lydia. “We're not so different from you.”

I sort of laugh. “Well, I know that. But I guess I assumed that having been raised by strong Christian parents…well…you know.” I pause, considering my words. “You seem pretty mature and responsible. More so than most of my friends back home, and they're all about your age.”

She smiles. “Thank you.”

“Lydia is exceptional,” says Mr. Johnson. “We think she was born old and wise.”

Mrs. Johnson nods. “Yes. She was a surprising child. Right from the start. She had these two older brothers to chase after, and it wasn't long before she caught up to them in their studies.”

“We understand that Lydia wants to go to med school,” says Sid.

The room gets quiet now, and I wonder if I overstepped a boundary by sharing this information with my aunt.

“Yes,” says Lydia in a slightly self-conscious way. “I told Maddie about my dream to be a doctor.”

“It's a big dream,” says her dad.

“But not an impossible one,” says Sid.

Mrs. Johnson frowns as she begins to clear the table. I can tell this isn't a subject she's comfortable with. Lydia hops up and helps her mother, and I offer to help too, but they both say no.

“I was wondering,” says Sid to Mr. Johnson, “how you would feel if we were to set up a scholarship fund for Lydia.”

“That's very kind and generous of you,” he says, glancing over our heads to where Lydia and her mom are working in the kitchen. But his expression is troubled now, as if this isn't a comfortable subject for any of them. “Perhaps we can discuss this later.”

“Of course,” says Sid apologetically. “I shouldn't have brought it up at dinner like this. Please, forgive me.”

He waves his hand. “Not a problem.”

“And we have dessert,” announces Lydia. “Mom made an apple pie.

“No way!” I say. “Apple pie? That doesn't seem possible. Where do you get apples in New Guinea?”

“We actually have some species that grow in the highlands,” Mrs. Johnson says as she sets a nicely browned apple pie on the table. “They might not be the same as back home, but we like them.”

“And we have ice cream too,” announces Lydia as she produces a round carton and a scoop.

“I'm impressed,” I admit. “Here we are in the middle of nowhere, and you are making us feel totally at home.”

We limit the conversation to small talk after this. I have a feeling something is going on between Lydia and her parents, something I
can't quite figure out. I know its ridiculous, but I'm thinking about the whole bride-price thing in this country. Surely her parents aren't trying to keep her here so they can marry her oiFfor profit. No, that's too ridiculous. Still…

I
'm surprised at how cool it gets in the evening here. I actually need to put on a sweatshirt to stay warm while we watch an old video. Its called
Groundhog Day
, and I've never seen it before, but its really pretty funny.

“Well, its been a long day,” says Mrs. Johnson about halfway through the movie. “I think I'll call it a night.”

“Me too,” says Mr. Johnson. He winks at Lydia. “I think I remember how this one ends.”

Lydia laughs. “We've only watched it about a dozen times.”

“If anyone wants a hot shower tonight, I'm afraid you'll have to use the bucket,” calls Mrs. Johnson. “Lydia can show you how it works.”

We thank them and say good night. Finally Bill Murray (in the movie) pulls his act together, and the video ends.

“I'm exhausted,” says Sid. “I'm heading for bed too.”

“Does anyone want a shower?” asks Lydia. “It can be busy in there in the morning.”

“I don't mind taking a shower before bed,” I say, imagining how it will be with five adults trying to share one shower tomorrow. “Is it hard to figure out the bucket thing?”

“It's fairly simple,” she says, leading me over to the wood cook-stove, where Mrs. Johnson prepared our ail-American meal. “This is a hot-water heater.” She points to one side of the stove. “See this spigot? The hot water comes from here.”

“Oh.”

“So you get the bucket from the shower, bring it in here, and fill it about half to two-thirds full of hot water, depending on how hot you like it.”

“Right.”

“Then you fill it up the rest of the way with cool water from the shower. Here, I'll show you.” So we retrieve the bucket from the bathroom. Then she pours in hot water, and we take it back and finish filling it. “Does that temperature feel about right?”

I dip my finger in and nod.

“Then we hang it back up here,” she says as she hoists it onto a hook. “When you re ready, you turn the shower nozzle to the left to release the water. And then back to the right to stop it from flowing. Okay?”

“Sounds simple enough.”

She points to a closet. “Towels are in there.”

“Thanks.”

She smiles. “Just remember there's only one gallon of water there. You have to be quick.”

I nod. “Okay. This should be fun.”

“Good night.”

I tell her good night, then hurry to my room to get my pajamas and go back to the bathroom, where I quickly undress, worried that
the water will cool off before I even get into the shower. Then I turn the nozzle like she explained, and out comes some very warm water, which actually feels great. I soap up and am totally enjoying the comforting warmth, since it did get fairly cool this evening. Other than the sunshine during the day and the cookstove at night, the Johnsons' home has no source of heat. Then suddenly—just like that-no more water. I tap the bucket and give it a shake to discover that it s empty. Who knew a gallon of water could disappear so quickly? The problem is I'm still soapy. And I'm getting cold.

I consider going back to the kitchen for another bucket of hot water, but what if someone sees me? How embarrassing. Finally I decide to try out the regular shower. Maybe there's enough solar-heated water to Finish this off. Naturally, the water coming out of the tap is very cool, but I quickly rinse the soap off and get out to towel dry. I am colder than ever as I put on my summer-weight pajamas and hurry to the bedroom. I layer on my sweatshirt, then climb onto the top bunk. Who knew you could get cold like this in Papua New Guinea?

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.