Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea (6 page)

No one protests.

“It s one of my few remaining vices, and I only do it upon occasion,” he tells us as he taps his tobacco into place.

Dr. Larson and my aunt begin talking AIDS statistics and projections, and I ask Lydia to tell me a little more about her class today.

“Do you mind if we go inside?” she asks me, discreetly waving her hand against the smoke.

“Not at all.”

She excuses us, and we go back into the small living room. “I'm sorry,” she says to me. “I do not tolerate tobacco smoke. It upsets my stomach.”

“That s okay. Remember how I felt at the clinic today?”

“Yes. You understand.” Then she tells me about the village she grew up in and how the men would go into a building to smoke and gossip. “I would merely walk by and smell that smoke, and I would feel sick.”

I ask her more about her village, and she tells me some interesting stories.

“Where is it located?” I ask.

“In the highlands. About forty kilometers from Mount Hagen. Do you know where that is?”

“No,” I admit. “I should look at a map.”

“They have some very good sing-sing festivals up there. Do you know what they are?”

“Yes,” I say with enthusiasm. “Sid told me about them. We were hoping we might be able to go to one.”

“Your timing is perfect,” she says. “The largest sing-sing in the country is next weekend. Maybe you and your aunt would like to go with my friend and me. We'll be heading out on Friday.”

“Is it safe to drive the roads?”

She smiles as she considers this. “How would you define
safeT

I shrug, “I'm not sure.”

“I am a Christian,” she says in a firm voice. “I must believe that my God is watching over me. There is no other way to live.”

I smile at her. “I'm a Christian too. And I'm trying to believe the same thing. But sometimes I get worried.”

She nods. “We all do. But don't worry too much, because I'm not offering you a ride in a car up to the highlands. That's not even possible from here. We would have to fly.”

“Oh.”
^!

“But let me check on some things first.”

Then I ask her about her AIDS class. “I'm so curious about what you told them today. It seemed to get their attention.”

“I usually start with basic information,” she explains. “That's what I write on the chalkboard. I explain how many people in our country are infected right now and how many more will be infected
by next year. I want them to understand that the numbers are increasing. I want them to know that everyone should be concerned. Then I talk about how AIDS is most commonly spread-and I speak openly to them. I tell them about sexual contact and how the virus goes directly from one person to another. I also tell them how to protect themselves by using condoms. But I tell them that the only sure way to prevent AIDS is by abstinence.”

? nod. “Do they understand?”

“Yes. But it is not always possible. Some of the women are married to men who are not faithful. And some of them are sex workers and don't use any precautions. And some of them have no choice; some of them have been raped, at times by more than one person.”

“I've heard about this.”

She sighs. “It's very sad.”

“How have you learned so much about this?” I ask.

She just shrugs, then changes the subject, telling me about where she grew up in the highlands. She smiles as if she's imagining it. “It's a beautiful place with lush green trees and a rushing river. My village is called Lomokako.”

“And how do you speak such good English?” I ask.

“A family from America came to my village long ago.”

“Americans live in your village?”

She nods. “The Johnson family came to Lomokako when I was a baby. I believe God sent them to save me.”

“They were missionaries?”

“Yes, language workers with SIL.”

“SIL?”

“Summer Institute of Linguistics.”

“Oh.” Im not sure what this means, but it sounds official.

“They came to learn our tribal language and to translate the Bible for us.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And that's how you got saved?”

She gets a twinkle in her eye now. “The Johnsons saved me when I was a baby.”

“Huh?” I wonder if we're talking about the same thing.

“You see, my father was from Lomokako, but my mother was from another village, and she died when I was born. So my fathers sister cared for me. But my father was killed working in the copper mine, and my aunt no longer wanted to care for me because there was no money.”

I try to take this in. “That must've been hard for you.”

“It is simply what
is”
she says, “in my country.”

“So what happened then?” I ask.

“The Johnsons took me into their own home.”

“They adopted you?”

“Yes. And they raised me as their own daughter. I have two older brothers: Jeremy and Caleb.”

“But your last name isn't Johnson?”

“They named me Lydia, but I kept my father's family name, Obuti. It was my choice, my way to remain connected to my country.”

“Wow.”

She smiles. “Yes,
wow.
My parents are very good people. They
sent my brothers and me away to college in the United States. But they could afford only two years for each of us. After that, we must get scholarships or earn our own tuition. I want to go to medical school, but it s so expensive. I have some scholarship money left, but I must earh more before I go bade”

“I'm in my second year of college,” I tell her.

“How old are you?”

“I just turned twenty.”

“I am twenty-one, soon to be twenty-two.”

“I thought you were older,” I admit. “You seem very mature.”

She frowns slighdy. “Some of my friends are already in their fourth year of college.”

“But you are going back?”

She looks down at her lap now. “I hope so.”

I suspect something is troubling her, but I hate to be a pest. “Well, I could tell the people in your class really respected you today,” I say, hoping to cheer her up. “You must be a good teacher.”

“I hope so.”

“There you ladies are,” says Dr. Larson as he and Sid come inside to join us.

“Some of the mosquitoes were sneaking in through the screen,” says Sid, pointing to a large red welt on her arm.

“Good that you're taking the antimalarial,” says Dr. Larson.

Then Sid looks at her watch. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she tells him, “but I think we should let you get some rest.”

He nods. “Yes, it seems the older I get, the earlier the morning comes.”

Then Sid calls for a taxi, and we offer Lydia a ride.

“Yes,” says Dr. Larson in a serious tone, more to Lydia than to us. “Women should
not
go out alone at night.” He firmly shakes his head. “Its not safe. Not at all.”

T
he next morning the phone in our hotel room rings and
jf
wakes me up out of a sound sleep. Sid must be in the bathroom, so I pick it up and mutter, “Hello.”

“Hello. Is this Maddie?”

“Yes,” I answer groggily.

“This is Lydia Obuti. I'm sorry to bother you, but I got an idea last night.”

I sit up and try to focus. “Yes?”

“It might not be a good idea, but I thought I should tell you.”

“Go ahead.”

“As you know, we're short-handed at the clinic. I thought perhaps you would learn more about AIDS and the problem in our country if you spent some time helping there. Or perhaps you'd just like to talk to the patients. They get so few visitors. It's very lonely for them.”

“But I don't speak pidgin,” I point out.

“A friend from my village is in town this week. He's the language helper to my parents. I called and told him about you and your aunt. I asked if he could help to translate pidgin for you at the clinic, and he agreed. His English isn't as good as mine, but he's understandable.”

“And he doesn't mind helping?”

She sort of laughs. “Lets just say he's willing. And since he's a friend of the family's, maybe he's afraid to say no.”

Okay, I'm not sure what this means, but I tell her I think it sounds like a good way for me to do some research. “Let me ask my aunt first,” I say as Sid emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.

“Ask me what?” she says.

I explain Lydias idea, and Sid thinks it sounds good. “I've got some writing to do this morning anyway,” she says. “Go ahead.” And so I agree to meet Lydias friend Peter Sampala at Saint Luke's at ten.

“This is really a great opportunity,” says Sid as she towels her hair. “You can get some first-person accounts that I can excerpt. That Lydia is really a smart girl.”

I fill Sid in a bit on Lydias history, how she was adopted by the Johnsons. “She wants to go to med school,” I say, “but she has to earn tuition first.”

“Wow, that's got to be a challenge.” Then Sid gets that light-bulb look on her face. “But what if someone partnered with her to support her financially? For instance, my editor, who has no children of his own but has a big heart for Papua New Guinea? What a great way to invest in this country's future.”

“That's a very cool idea.”

“Or maybe my church?” she says. “They're always looking for some new kind of international outreach.” I can see the wheels spinning in her brain as she skims over the room-service menu.

“Maybe my church too,” I suggest. “Maybe our youth group could do some fiind-raisers.”

“Lets have breakfast in the room today.” Sid tosses the menu to me. “I dont feel like getting dressed this morning.”

I order our breakfast and take a shower, and then we discuss Lydias future a bit more while we eat. Strange as it sounds, it seems that Lydias chance of being adopted more than once in her lifetime is becoming a distinct possibility.

“But lets not tell her for a while,” says Sid as she sips her coffee. “Just see how it goes. Besides, I'd like to check some things out back home first.”

“Sure,” I agree. “No sense in getting her hopes up.”

“Well, you should probably head over to the clinic now, Maddie.” She studies me with a concerned look. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Why not?”

“Well, remember how you got kind of sick to your stomach when we were there yesterday?”

“That might ve been from the Malarone,” I point out.

“Speaking of which…” She gets up and goes to her purse for our pills.

“Besides, I was thinking about it,” I say as she gives me a pill. “You know, I grew up on a farm. I've shoveled everything imaginable. I've helped deliver calves and lambs and foals. I've buried dead animals. I don't think being in that clinic should get to me like it seemed to yesterday.”

She nods now. “You're probably right. To be honest, I was feeling a little queasy in Sydney, and that was the second day we took the malaria pills.”

“So,” I proclaim, “that's what I'm going to blame it on.”

“Good for you.”

“It was really bugging me to think that I couldn't handle being around sick people like that,” I admit. “I mean it seems so shallow and selfish. Yesterday I kept thinking, what would Jesus do?”

She smiles sadly. “Heal them?”

“Don't you wish?”

“Well, good luck. And don't forget to take lots of notes.”

I pick up my notebook, then slip it into my bag.

“Let me get you some kinas for the taxi or whatnot,” she says, getting into her purse. “And do not walk anywhere by yourself, Maddie. Do you understand?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Take my cell phone too.” She hands me her phone and the money. “Don't be afraid to use my phone if you need to. In fact, why don't you give me a call to let me know when you get there and when you're coming back. Do you have the hotel phone number?”

I pick up a piece of notepaper from the desk. “It's on this.”

“Okay.” She looks carefully at me. “Get a bottle of water from the lobby too. Just to have in your bag.”

“Anything else?” I say with impatience. “Should I take a sleeping bag or a survival kit or maybe a handgun?”

“Sorry. But we have to be careful. You are taking me seriously, aren't you?”

I salute her. “Yes ma'am. Of course, ma'am.”

She rolls her
eyes.
“And only ride in a taxi that you have called for,
Maddie. Make sure they know who you are before you get in, and make sure it is a properly marked taxi.”

“I know this already,” I remind her.

“Yeah, yeah.” She waves me away now. “Go on. But do be careful!”

“I promise, I will be extremely careful.”

Then, feeling as if I'm going off to battle, I ride down the elevator and walk into the lobby. Honestly, I find that I'm looking over my shoulder as I go. It's like paranoia is kicking in, and I'm thinking I'm about to be abducted. I tell myself to just chill, but I do follow my aunt's explicit directions. First I go to the concierge and ask him to call me a taxi. Then I go and buy a bottle of water. And a chocolate bar, just in case. Then I go and wait until the taxi pulls up. I don't get in until the driver politely asks if I am Missis Chase. Okay, maybe I'm not a
missis
, but I've noticed the nationals seem to call all women that. So I say a silent prayer and get in.

At first I feel a slight wave of apprehension when the driver takes a different route than we took yesterday. I'm actually about to say something, but then he turns down a street I recognize, and before I know it, I'm in front of the clinic. Seems he knew a shortcut. So I pay him and thank him and get out. He smiles brightly at me, and not for the first time, I think what a naturally friendly people New Guineans are-and why do we have to be so careful?

But as I'm walking up to the front door of the clinic, I see another New Guinean man. This guy is loitering on the sidewalk and glancing around in a nervous sort of way. He's got a short beard and is wearing a brightly colored shirt, but he seems to be watching me with
a litde too much interest. Suddenly I feel pretty uptight. So instead of looking directly at him, I hurry past and go straight into the clinic, practically running it seems. Once Im inside, I can feel my heart pounding, and although its probably just my imagination, I feel that I've just escaped some sort of great peril.