Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea (17 page)

“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.

L
ater 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.”

“No,” I say quickly. “Why shouldn't you pursue your dreams? You're obviously smart enough to go to med school.” I consider telling her more about our idea for creating a scholarship fund, but after the way her parents reacted, I'm not so sure. I think Sid and I need to discuss it again. We don't want to insult anyone or step over any invisible line. I just wish I understood why they are acting so strangely about this. You'd think parents would be happy to talk about a scholarship for their daughter. Maybe we hurt their pride.

“I guess it's in God's hands,” she says. “He knows what's best. Anyway, for now I'm earning pretty good money and saving most of it. That's good.”

I nod. “That's really good.”

She leans back in the chair and stretches her hands over her head. “But at the moment I'm on holiday. I don't want to even think about work.” / “Holiday?” I say. “Is that like vacation?”

“Yes. I have the whole week off. I'll be here until the Bible dedication next weekend. Then it's back to work on Monday.”

“That's great,” I say. “I'd just assumed you and Peter were going back with us to the airstrip.”

“No. But Peter will drive you back to Aiyura for your flight to…wherever it is you and Sid decide to go.”

“The Sepik actually sounds pretty interesting.”

She nods. “Yes. I haven't been there since I was about ten, but I loved it. I'd love to go back someday.”

“Why don't you?”

She shrugs. “I don't know. I guess I could sometime.”

“Maybe you could come with us,” I suggest. “I mean, if we're really going. It's been so great getting to know you. It'd be cool if you could hang with us awhile longer.”

She seems to consider this. “You know, that would be cool.”

“What would be cool?” says Sid as she comes out to join us.

So I tell Sid about what I just suggested, and she confirms that we've been officially invited to join the Hanovers in Kauani in the Western Sepik region, and she thinks it's a great idea for Lydia to accompany us. “That is, if your parents are okay with it, Lydia. They might've been looking forward to having you home this week.”

Lydia considers this. “Maybe. But if you're really sure you'd like
me to go with you, I can ask them. I dont want to be a party crasher.”

“We would
tove
to have you come with us,” says Sid. “In fact, if you dont mind, we could really use your help. First of all with the language, since our pidgin isn't so hot. But I could also talk to you about the AIDS article I'm working on. It sounds like you've learned a lot while volunteering at Saint Luke's, plus teaching your AIDS-awareness classes. I can tell you'd be a great resource, but I haven't had much of a chance to talk with you about all that.”

“That's true,” says Lydia. “And I'd love to help you in any way I can. I know things won't change in my country without getting more people involved and getting the truth out.”

“If you come with us, you'll have to let me cover your expenses since it will be part of my research for the articlç.” Sid shakes her head. “That is, if I ever figure out exactly how I'm going to write this story.”

Lydias
eyes
light up. “Let me talk to my parents-see what they think of this new development.” She heads back into the house, and I tell Sid about my litde tour of the village and how I got to meet Peter's wife and see their home.

“I missed out on that?” she says with disappointment. “I've been curious about the living conditions for the villagers.”

“I'm sure Mataswai would be happy to show you her house,” I tell her. Then I explain how it reminds me of camping.

“So, do you think you could live like that?” she asks.

“For a week or so,” I say. “But that's about my max for being a happy camper. About seven days and I'm pretty much craving things like indoor plumbing, a good shower, and a comfortable bed.”

After a while Lydia and her parents join us on the porch. Her mom has brought out a pitcher of iced tea and some ginger cookies.

“Lydia said you ve invited her to join you this week,” says her dad in a careful tone. As he sits down across from Sid, he gives his wife a sideways glance. I can tell by her posture that she's uncomfortable about something, and I have an idea that it's us. Still, I wonder why.

“That's very generous of you,” says Mrs. Johnson as she pours a glass of tea and hands it to Sid.

“I hope you don't mind,” says Sid. “I mean, that we invited her. But Lydia was so helpful to us at the AIDS clinic in Port Moresby, and that's really why I'm here. My primary interest is in putting together a good, informative article. And she knows so much about the disease as well as the country and the language-she'd be a great asset.”