Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea Page 7

  “I am glad too.”

  “And I'm glad I caught you before you left,” she says. “I told Maddie about the Mount Hagen Sing-Sing.”

  His eyes light up. “Do you and your aunt want to see it?”

  “We would love to see it.”

  “I will fly to the highlands tomorrow,” he says. “The JAARS flight is not full. So you and your aunt can come, if you want.”

  “I'm going too,” says Lydia.

  “Yes, of course.” He nods, then turns to me. “Lydia is like my own niece. Her parents have been so good to me and my family.”

  She smiles. “Yes, we are all like family. And you should see his little girl, Hannah. She is adorable.”

  He frowns. “Do not remind me. I am missing her too much already.”

  “One more day,” says Lydia, “and you will see her.”

  Just then I notice my aunt and Dr. Larson coming our way. I wave to Sid, and when she joins us, I tell her about this great opportunity to go to the Mount Hagen Sing-Sing with Peter and Lydia.

  “You cant miss that,” says Dr. Larson. “Its the biggest festival of the year. You re very fortunate to be here during August.”

  “We'd love to go,” says Sid. “But do you think we'll be able to get hotel accommodations at this late date?”

  “No,” says Lydia with a twinkle in her eye. “The hotels will probably be fully booked. But I think I can find you a place to stay.”

  “Really?” Sid looks a little unsure, as if she's imagining herself sleeping on the dirt floor of a hut.

  “My parents have room in their house. My brothers are both in the States right now. You can come and stay with us.”

  “Thank you,” says Sid. “That's so generous.”

  “You won't be sorry,” says Dr. Larson. “I've gone dozens of times, and it's one of the few events that preserves some of the true flavors of this country.” He chuckles. “Make sure you take a camera and lots of film.”

  “Would you like to join us, Dr. Larson?” offers Lydia.

  “No, no.” He shakes his head. “I fear I'm getting too old for such adventures.”

  We try to argue this point, and then, laughing, he excuses himself for an appointment.

  “What time is the flight, Peter?” asks Lydia.

  “Not until one. I have to take care of some tasks in the morning,” he says. He glances at us. “I am here to do work for Lydias parents.”

  “How's the printing coming along?” asks Lydia.

  “Good,” he says.

  “It's my parents' New Testament for our village,” Lydia explains. “They finished their translation in March and then spent the next two months checking it. It's being printed here in Port Moresby this very week. That's why Peter is here. He's making sure it all comes together just right.”

  “How exciting,” says Sid.

  “Yes,” agrees Lydia. “They're planning a dedication celebration for the weekend after this. That is, if the New Testaments are on schedule.”

  “Everything looks good for that,” says Peter.

  So we agree that Peter will pick up Sid and me at the hotel tomorrow, and then we'll swing by Lydias apartment.

  “I have a borrowed car here,” Peter says to Sid and me. “Do you want a ride back to your hotel now?”

  “That would be great,” says Sid.

  “I better go do my visiting before some of the patients get impatient.” Lydia smiles and waves good-bye. Then we follow Peter out to his car, which he tells us belongs to some friends of Lydias parents. “They are very generous with the car,” he explains as we get into the old Toyota. “Many translators use it while they are in Port Moresby.”

  “Its a lot better than riding in a taxi,” says Sid as she gets into the front seat.

  “Yes.” He nods. “I was concerned for your niece this morning, Missis Chase. The taxi driver was too friendly with her.”

  “Really?” I ask from the backseat. “How do you know that?”

  “I can tell by his face.” Peters voice grows more serious. “Women from other countries do not always know what is right for our people. What you might think is friendliness, a young man might think is… something else. “

  “See,” says Sid, “that's just what I was trying to get across to you, Maddie. You're a pretty young woman, and if you smile at some young man, he might interpret that as a come-on.”

  Okay, now I'm feeling embarrassed. No way was I trying to come on to the taxi driver. Or anyone else.

  “Best to be careful,” warns Peter. “Watch out for strangers.”

  “Thank you,” says Sid. “That's exactly what I've been trying to make Maddie understand.”

  Well, fine. I lean back into the seat, feeling like a five-year-old who's just been reprimanded.

  “My people do not understand Americans,” Peter continues. I lean forward now, interested in what he's telling us. “American movies and television tell my people that Americans have no morals, that they do not have Christian values.”

  “But that's not true,” I point out.

  “I know this,” he says. “I know this because I have the Johnsons. They show me by the way they live that Americans are not wicked.”

  “But New Guineans think Americans are wicked?” asks Sid.

  “Yes, I am sorry to say this is true.” He shakes his head as he pulls up to our hotel. “The trouble is that many people in my country want to act like these wicked Americans more than they want to act like Jesus. It is not good.”

  “No,” says Sid, “it is not good.”

  We thank Peter for the ride and tell him that we'll see him tomorrow, then go into the hotel.

  “It's sad, isn't it?” I say as we wait for the elevator.

  She nods. “Yes. In some ways I suppose that Americans and Western culture in general could be blamed for a lot of the problems in this country.”

  “Like the AIDS epidemic?”

  “Yes.” The elevator bell rings, the door opens, and two Caucasian businessmen walk out.

  I remember how Margaret Mead compared the New Guineans to children, but I don't say this as we ride up. Even so I'm curious. It seems quite likely that white people came in here and sort of took over, perhaps even took unfair advantage.

  “It's the same old story.” Sid sighs. “Colonialism in third-world countries initially brings benefits like medicine, education, economic development, Christianity…but for every good thing, a lot of bad stuff seems to be dragged along as well. Things like exposure to immorality, alcohol and drugs, crime, greed…”

  “Does it ever make you wonder whether it's worth it or not?” I say as we get out of the elevator.

  “That's the great global question,” she says as she unlocks the door to our room. “You answer that one, and you might be able to rule the world, Maddie.”

  “Or get permanently kicked out.”

  We both laugh as we go into our room.

  “Let's have a little rest,” says Sid as she kicks off her shoes and turns on the big overhead paddle fan, our form of air conditioning. “Kind of regroup and go over our notes. And then we have a guy from USAID who wants to take us to dinner and give us a little tour this evening.”

  So I go over my notes from interviews, filling in some things I didn't have time to write down. Then I use Sid's computer to enter my stories. I feel really good about the information I gathered today. I think she should find some material that will be useful to her article.

  Before I turn off the computer, I go online to check my e-mail. Still nothing from Ryan. Now I'm starting to get really worried. I wonder if I said something to offend him before I left. He'd pretended to be jealous of me for getting to take this trip with Sid, and, naturally, I played it up some. But it all seemed to be just good fun. Now I'm not so sure. I hope everything is okay with him.

  EIGHT

  Mr. Osterman meets us in the hotel lobby at five thirty. He's an older man, not as old as Dr. Larson, but I'm guessing he might be close to sixty. Even so, I
can't help but notice that he's being extra nice to my aunt as he helps her into the car. I also notice that he's not wearing a wedding band. Of course, this reminds me of good old Ian, back in Ireland, and I want to tell Mr. Osterman to take a number and get in line. Naturally, I dont do this. Although I do remember my aunt s little speech to me this afternoon about leading guys on. Yeah, right. Okay, I realize this is different. Mr. Osterman isn't a New Guinean, and my aunt's not leading him on, but I can still give her a hard time later just for fun.

  Sid fills him in on what we've seen and done so far, which really isn't much, but then, we've been here less than two days.

  “Maddie did some wonderful research over at Saint Luke's today,” she's saying now, and my ears perk up.

  “What sort of research?” he asks as he takes a road that seems to lead away from the city.

  “She's been interviewing patients with AIDS. I just started reading over some of your notes, Maddie,” she calls back to me, “while you were in the shower. And they were very impressive. You've made some really good observations, and I can't wait to incorporate them into my article.”

  “Thanks.” I can't help but feel pleased. Who knew?

  Sid turns back to Mr. Osterman now. “Its like Maddie is putting a human face on this disease. Making it real and personal.”

  “That's super,” he says. “So much of what we read about the AIDS crisis is simply statistics and dismal forecasts. We hardly ever get to hear the personal side of the tragedy.”

  “Exactly,” says Sid. “And I think a lot of Americans can't relate to third-world countries in the first place. It's almost like they're hearing about aliens from another planet.”

  “Planet Poverty,” he says.

  “That's it,” says Sid. “Americans don't understand poverty like this.”

  “And yet we're the most generous country in the world,” says Mr. Osterman. “So many programs are funded by U.S. dollars-whether it's charitable donations or government grants.”

  “I think a lot of it is guilt giving,” says Sid.

  He nods. “Yes, it seems that people open their purses faster than they open their hearts.”

  “Well, perhaps we can help open their tyts.”

  “Good for you.”

  Then we drive along quiedy for a couple of minutes, and I realize we're in a totally different area. It's not as if it's uninhabited, but there's more countryside, more greenery. I feel myself beginning to relax a little.

  “We can put down the windows now,” he says. “I don't like driving through the city with them down. Thank goodness for air conditioning.”

  “Hey, this is pretty out here,” I say as he turns down a road that's bordered by a stretch of beach and palm trees. “Lots nicer than downtown.”

  “You haven't been out of the city yet?” he asks.

  “No,” Sid admits “But we do have big plans for the weekend.” Then she tells him about the Mount Hagen Sing-Sing. “And we just found out this is a once-a-year thing.”

  “You really got lucky in planning this trip.”

  “I like to think that God is watching out for us.”

  He doesn't respond to Sid's comment, but I sense by his silence that he's not too into God.

  “We're going to a seaside restaurant tonight,” he says as he pulls into an unpaved parking lot that merges onto the beach. “The reason we left early was so we could catch the sunset. I suppose you've already noticed how quickly the sun goes down this close to the equator.”

  “Yes,” says Sid as we get out of the car. “We're from the Northwest, where it doesn't go down until nine this time of year.”

  “Well, you can expect it to rise and set at six year round in this country.”

  I try to imagine what that would be like as we walk up a ramp that leads into a bamboo-sided building that's built on tall stilts and sits out over the water. So different from what I'm used to-so weird.

  “This is a gorgeous location.” Sid pauses to look at the water and palms and blue sky. “I feel like we've left the city far behind.”

  “Sometimes you need a break.” He opens die door. “Especially in our line of work/'

  We go into a high-ceilinged, spacious room with the ever-present, slow-moving paddle fans overhead. Around the room are small tables with white tablecloths. One whole wall is wide open to the water and has a screened-in deck with more tables. Mr. Osterman speaks to one of the staff, and we're taken out to the deck and seated at a table along the edge.

  “This is awesome,” I tell him.

  “Their food is awesome too,” he says. “Lets go check it out.”

  Then he takes us over to a table where uncooked seafood and steaks are displayed on ice.

  “Do they serve the food raw?” I ask quietly.

  Mr. Osterman chuckles. “No, but they do let you pick out your entrée and tell them how you like it cooked.”

  “Cool.”

  He laughs. “Yes, cool for now, but nice and hot when they serve it.”

  Probably because I'm a farm girl at heart or possibly because I've had a lot offish this past week, I go for the steak, medium rare. Then we quickly return to the table just in time to see the sun dipping down into clouds on the horizon of die ocean. The sky turns pink and coral and is very beautiful.

  “I wish I'd brought a camera,” says Sid.

  I suddenly remember. “I did.” I pull it out of my bag and hand it to Mr. Osterman, who takes a couple of shots of Sid and me with the gorgeous sunset behind us.

  Its kind of a relief that we dont talk much about the AIDS crisis during dinner. I'm starting to feel a little overwhelmed and depressed by all that Ive seen so far. I mean, it s cool what happened with Mary and Peter today, but at the same time, its also sad. I think I want to escape. Of course, then I realize that people like Mary and Manoa and Pilada cant escape it, ever.

  I try to distract myself by looking at the scenery outside. The water reflects the dying light in the sky, and a long canoe with a motor on the back slowly putters past. I wonder if they've been fishing. Sid and our host chat congenially, talking about people they discover they both know. Then he tells her how he got involved in USAID about twenty years ago, and she tells him a little about her career as a journalist. I dont pay too much attention; it s like I get to play the child for now. Sometimes its nice to be a little oblivious.

  After we finish an amazing meal, the best I've had since the Hawaiian luau, we re too stuffed to try any of the tempting dessert concoctions of tropical fruit, pastry, and cream. After we leave the restaurant and get back into the car, Mr. Osterman explains about the little tour he's going to give us on our way back to the hotel. “It's the seamy side of life in Port Moresby,” he says, “but it will help you to get a visual of what s going on around here: the poverty, the conditions in general, and possibly why the AIDS epidemic seems to have no end in sight.”

  The car is quiet as he drives back toward the populated area. He takes a different route this time. We pass clusters of huts that are composed of a variety of materials, including pieces of scrap metal, cardboard, palm branches, and seemingly whatever was at hand. Dirty children and animals run about unsupervised, and the overall impression is one of extreme poverty and squalor. Its no wonder disease spreads so easily in this deprived environment.

  “Clean water is a real problem around here,” he says, “and there's no form of sanitation.”

  “Isn't that the situation all over this country?” asks Sid.

  “Yes, but as you can imagine, it's greatly intensified in densely populated areas like this. Everyone is at a much higher risk here, not only for AIDS, but diseases like malaria, tuberculosis, and typhoid as well.”

  “It's sad that the things these people need are so basic,” says Sid. “Water, food, medicine.”

  I can tell we're in the city limits now. Housing, if you can call it that, is denser, and people seem to be everywhere. I suppose I can't blame them for wanting to be outside when it's still so hot in the eveni
ng. Although I suppose they must be used to these temperatures.

  “As we get closer to the city,” he begins, “remember that we cannot stop the car or get out for any reason. We must keep the windows up and avoid direct eye contact with anyone who looks at the car.” He clears his throat. “I must warn you it's quite likely you will see things that will upset and perhaps even repulse you tonight. And since I assume you're Christians, your instinct might be to get out and help. Dont even think about it. There's nothing you can do. You would only endanger everyone involved if you attempted such a thing. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “Certainly,” says Sid.

  “Yes,” I say quietly.

  We drive by more clusters of housing. Men, women, children, and dogs mill about the streets, some sitting, some standing, some walking. But they all look a litde lost. I wonder what makes them want to live here. And as we drive past, I can see they are looking at us. We're not the typical travelers through here. They probably think we are rich. Compared to them, we are.

  “Why does anyone want to live here?” I ask.

  “They come, thinking they'll find opportunity, jobs, a better life.”

  “But they don't?”

  “Look around you,” he says. “Does it look like it?”

  “It looks like hell on earth to me,” says Sid.

  “Up ahead,” he says, “that woman in the purple dress. Watch what's happening.”

  We look, and it's obvious she's a sex worker. Her clothing, for one thing, is a giveaway, and also we see a couple of men talking to her in a way that suggests it's not a normal conversation, especially in a country where men and women usually sit on opposite sides of a room. But then she sees our car and gets a hopeful look, like she thinks the driver may be looking for what she has to sell. She's clearly disappointed to discover he's not alone. At the same moment, one of the men grabs her by the hair, pulling her toward him in a suggestive way. The other man grabs her by the arms, and although she struggles, it's clear she is overpowered. I gasp at what I'm sure is about to happen.

  “There's nothing we can do,” says Mr. Osterman, almost as if reading my thoughts.