Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea Page 8

  “I have my cell phone,” says Sid. “Could we call the police?”

  He laughs, but not in a happy way. “That's the last thing that woman needs.”

  “Yes,” says Sid. “I've read of the corruption.'5

  “They're trying to clamp down on it,” he says, “but in cases like this, well, many policemen would be on the side of the woman's abusers.”

  “I assume women don't get a lot of respect here,” says Sid.

  “That's a huge part of this problem,” he admits.

  “Look at that,” I say as I see a litde girl being dragged behind a house by a man. She is kicking and screaming, but no one seems to notice.

  “I'll bet that's not her father,” says Sid angrily.

  “Families don't tend to stick together in these parts,” says Mr. Osterman. He sighs as if he is tired.

  I feel tears coming down my cheeks now. I want to scream at him, to tell him this is enough. More than enough! He should do something. But he continues to drive through a more commercial section of town. There are signs suggesting all sorts of things that might be purchased inside the seedy-looking buildings. He points out more women who are obviously sex workers, along with more men who are obviously on the lookout for some action. The whole thing utterly disgusts me, and I actually get worried that I could throw up all over Mr. Osterman's tidy backseat. Finally he turns onto a street that seems a little more respectable.

  “I'm sorry to shock you like that,” he says, “but I figure if you want to be responsible journalists, you should see the whole picture. Ugly as it is.”

  “That was ugly/' says Sid. She sounds as disgusted as I feel.

  “Sickening,” I add.

  “Yes. Even though IVe seen it a lot, I never get used to it. I hope I never will.”

  “What's the answer?” asks Sid as Mr. Osterman drives toward the center of town, which suddenly seems much cleaner than the first time I saw it.

  “That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” he says. “The sad thing is that it wasn't always like this. Back in the early eighties, this country seemed to be making real progress. There were improvements in health care. More schools were opening. Papua New Guinea's future seemed bright.”

  “What made it change? Was it just the Western influence?” Sid asks sadly. “I've heard that the Hollywood factor-movies and TV- has taken its toll on morality. And that alcoholism has skyrocketed due to persuasive marketing campaigns. I can't help but think this country was better off without those things.”

  “You know, that's an easy assumption and not entirely wrong. But it's more than that. I think you hit on it earlier when you commented on the treatment of women here. Historically speaking, women have not had a lot of respect. For generations, wife beating has been a perfectly acceptable practice.”

  “But what about the way they value their young women and charge a bride price for them?” I ask. “That would seem like they respect them a little.”

  “Think about it, Maddie,” he says. “How would you feel if you could be sold to the highest bidder?”

  “Yeah, I guess that wouldn't be too cool.”

  “Then take it a step further,” he says. “What if your family sold you to the highest bidder and your new husband took you back to his village and beat you up? And then what if you went home to your family with broken bones and missing teeth and they got mad at you and told you to return to your husband?”

  “I'd want to kill someone.”

  “But if you were the woman and you killed your abusive husband, even in self-defense, you would end up in jail, and depending on the jail, you could be in a worse situation there.”

  “Man, that's so unfair.”

  “So if you think about how women have been treated, how they've been devalued for hundreds of years, well, it all adds up to a real disaster.” He pulls up in front of our hotel now. “I'm sorry if I depressed you nice ladies.”

  “That's okay,” says Sid. “It was educational.”

  “And dinner was great,” I add, although the nicenessf dinner is lost on me now.

  “You've got my card,” he tells Sid. “Stay in touch.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “I might have some more questions.”

  “And I'd like to see your article when it's finished.”

  She nods and closes the door, and then we slowly walk back into the hotel. I can tell that we're both dragging now. It's like our little tour has totally bummed us out.

  “Sorry about that,” Sid tells me as we walk through the lobby.

  “It's not your fault.”

  “I shouldn't have taken you tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, it was dangerous driving through that part of town at night.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But you don't think Mr. Osterman would have taken us someplace where we were in real danger, do you?”

  “I think he's become a litde callous to some of this.”

  “What a horrible job,” I say as I push the elevator button.

  “I'm sure it gets depressing. However, he does seem to really care about the country, and I think he does a good job of allocating funding to helpful programs. Still, it can't be easy, especially for someone without faith.”

  I'm thinking it's depressing for someone with faith. I mean, where is God when all this is happening? Can't he do something? Why do these people have to suffer so much? Just because they're poor? It all seems so wrong. So totally wrong!

  NINE

  Once again we're awakened by an early morning phone call. mS It's a little past seven when Sid picks it up.

  “Sure, that would be great, Peter,” she says sleepily. “Yes, we can easily be ready by ten. Thank you so much.”

  She hangs up the phone and turns to me. “Peter expects to finish up at the printers before ten, and Lydia suggested he take us to see how AIDS patients are treated in the city hospital, which isn't too far from here.” She shakes her head. “From what I've heard from Dr. Larson, we shouldn't expect much.”

  So we get our showers, then head downstairs for breakfast.

  “Dr. Larson said that the city hospital has an AIDS ward, but they're not allowed to call it that.”

  “Why not?”

  “The stigma. Apparently they'd have no patients if it was labeled the AIDS ward. People don't like to admit they really do have AIDS.”

  I nod. “Yes, I got a taste ofthat yesterday. So sad.”

  We finish breakfast and go to the lobby to wait for Peter. He seems to be in a cheerful mood, humming as he drives us through town. I'm not sure if this is because of his positive experience helping the AIDS patients yesterday or because he's simply eager to go home today. Maybe a combination of both.

  “I have something for you,” he says as he parks in a lot by the large hospital. “To help you to understand pidgin.”

  As we get out of the car, he gives us both little booklets that say Tok Pisin on the front.

  “What does Tok Pisin mean?” I ask.

  ” Tok means language.' Tok Pisin is pidgin English' or 'Neo-Melanesian.' Tok pies means 'the language of your people.' Your tok pies is English. My tok pies is Lomokakon.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maybe you will have time to learn some words as we travel today.”

  “Thank you,” says Sid. “This will be helpful.”

  “Lydia said we must go to Ward 3B,” announces Peter as we come to the entrance of the hospital.

  Once inside, Sid asks for directions. The receptionist gives us a slightly perplexed look but tells us how to find the ward. I immediately get the feeling that this hospital isn't nearly as clean or orderly as Saint Luke's. But it gets far worse when we reach Ward 3B.

  “Look,” says Sid in a quiet tone, nodding to a brown box at the nurses' station next to the Ward 3B entrance. On the side of this cardboard box, handwritten in black, bold letters, are the words “Death Certificates.” Inside I see a stack of official-looking forms all ready to be used, as if they need
to keep these documents handy. Chilling.

  Sid talks to an English-speaking nurse, and the woman nods, but her expression is apathetic. “Feel free to have a look,” she says in a flat British accent, turning back to a clipboard where she's writing something down.

  We walk into Ward 3B, and I'm instandy hit by the stench, followed by a strong wave of nausea. Malarone or not, I think this place could make anyone feel sick. I notice that Peter has a mixture of disgust and dismay on his face, and Sid looks totally appalled. I see bedpans that need emptying and all sorts of medical garbage just lying around. It's as if no one really cares. And the expressions on the patients' faces convey nothing but dejection and hopelessness. I'm not sure I can handle this. But I remind myself of what my dad likes to say to me when I'm faced with a particularly gross task in the barn. “Buck up, Maddie. Get in, get it over with, get out.”

  I'm startled to see a woman wearing street clothes curled up on the floor beneath a hospital bed. Her head is resting on a small blue suitcase. The man in the bed above her looks half-dead. The woman doesn't look much better.

  “Hello,” says a short Asian man in a white medical jacket. “I'm Dr. Sing. This is my floor. Can I help you?”

  Sid quickly explains why we're here, and Dr. Sing does not look the least bit pleased.

  “This is not an AIDS ward,” he's quick to point out.

  “But the patients here do have AIDS?” persists Sid.

  “Some of them are being treated for HIV/AIDS.”

  “Is this ward typical of the conditions in the rest of this hospital?” she asks.

  He frowns. “These people would be on the street if they weren't here. We do what we can to help. They are all terminal.”

  “I'm not here to criticize your facility,” says Sid in a gentler tone. “If anything, I hope that telling the world what s going on in this country, the proportions of this epidemic, will help to change things.”

  A tiny flicker of interest crosses his face. “We do need more funding, more medicine, more and better-trained health workers.”

  She nods. “Yes, we can see that.”

  Then he frowns again. “But no one seems to listen to our cry.”

  “And you need better AIDS-awareness education,” she adds.

  “Yes, of course. But its not easy. Its never easy.” He glances over his shoulder. “I'm sorry, but I have calls to make.”

  “Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

  He bows slightly and leaves the ward.

  Sid looks down at the woman on the floor now. We seem to have disturbed her, and she slowly scoots out from beneath the bed. She looks at us warily as she slips her bare feet into worn rubber flip-flops.

  “Please, Peter, ask the woman why she was sleeping under the bed,” Sid says quickly.

  Peter speaks to the woman in a kind voice, and although she seems embarrassed, she does answer him.

  “She says the man in the bed is her husband, and she is here to take care of him.”

  “Ask her if she s willing to talk to us,” says Sid. “Tell her we will pay her for her time if she will answer some questions.”

  Peter speaks to her again, and her countenance instantly changes. She is smiling and nodding now. Happy, it seems, to earn some money. Not surprising, since I've heard the average daily wage in this country equals about a dollar.

  “Ask her if she would mind leaving the ward so we can go somewhere else to sit down and talk,” says Sid.

  Peter speaks to her again, and she peers closely at the motionless man, putting her head close to his face, maybe to determine if he s breathing. Satisfied, she says something to Peter and nods at us.

  “Her name is Abu Piliki,” he tells us. “Her village is on the coast, about thirty kilometers north of Port Moresby.”

  I'm so relieved to leave this ward behind. I was trying to be strong, but I dont think I've ever seen or smelled anything so disgustingly horrible-far worse than the smells of farm animals. I ask Sid if there's a place we could sit outside to talk, and she tells me to go find out. So I hurry over to the nurses' station and ask the British nurse with the clipboard. She gives me some quick directions, and I take our little group down the elevator to the first floor and then on to the cafeteria, where I spot a small terrace off to one side.

  “Ask Abu if she's hungry,” Sid says to Peter as we enter the cafeteria.

  Peter asks, and she nods eagerly. So we get her some food and some tea for Peter and soft drinks for Sid and me, then we go out side, where I feel like I can breathe again. I inhale deeply, hoping to rid my lungs of the foul air that has filled them. Sure, there is diesel exhaust as well as city smells out here, but it's so much better than Ward 3B. /

  Sid waits for Abu to eat, which she does quickly. Then Sid begins to question her, starting with why she was sleeping under her husband's bed just now. Through Peter, Abu explains that family members must leave their homes to come and care for patients. It seems the hospital doesn't have enough workers, so without family to fill in the gap, patients would suffer even more.

  “She says her husband will starve if she does not bring him food each day,” Peter tells us.

  “Doesn't the hospital provide food?” I ask.

  He translates, and she shakes her head, holding up her hands dramatically as she says, “Nogat, nogat!” which I know means “no.”

  “Ask her if her husband has AIDS,” says Sid. I just naturally assumed that was the case, but I realize it hasn't been brought up.

  Abu seems reluctant to answer at first, but Peter presses her, and finally she admits that he does indeed have AIDS. Peter asks her another question, and now she seems even more embarrassed. She looks away. But he asks her again, and then she nods.

  “She has AIDS too,” he tells us.

  “Ask her why she is so embarrassed to tell us this,” says Sid.

  Peter speaks to her in a very gende tone now, and although she looks uncomfortable, she finally begins to speak. As she does, Peter translates.

  “She has seen people beaten to death or even buried alive in her village,” he says, “just because they had AIDS. It is a sickness that brings great shame. Many believe the sickness comes from evil spirits and that people who get AIDS are being punished for bad deeds.” He looks at me now. “Remember what I told you yesterday? I believed AIDS was evil too.” He looks down at his empty teacup, then back up at us. “I do not believe that now.”

  We also find out that Abu has two small children. Her mother is taking care of them. No one in her village knows that her husband is being treated for AIDS. They think he has hepatitis. She has not had her children tested for AIDS. Sid asks why not, and Abu tells us she is afraid. They are too young. What would she do if they tested positive? She can't afford medicine.

  Finally Sid seems satisfied, and she pays Abu twenty kina for talking to us. Abu clutches the money, tears streaming down her face as she thanks us over and over. Then she says she must return to her husband. But before she goes, I ask Peter if I can ask her one more question, and she agrees.

  “Ask Abu if she loves her husband,” I say, and Peter looks slightly surprised by this.

  “What kind of love do you mean?” he asks me.

  Okay, now I'm not sure how to explain what seems an obvious question, and my hesitation seems to embarrass him a bit.

  “Do you mean respectful love?” he asks, to clarify.

  “Yes,” I say quickly, grateful for any help.

  So he asks Abu this final question, and now she seems just as stumped as Peter was. Finally she speaks, slowly, as if she's carefully considering each word. Peter nods as if he understands her meaning, and then he translates for us. “She says her husband is a good man. He has been good to her and their two young sons. When he was well, he was a fisherman. He does not beat her. She is sorry he is sick. She will be sad if he dies.”

  “Thank you,” I say to both Peter and Abu.

  Abu thanks us again, then leaves.

  “I shouldn't have as
ked her that,” I admit as soon as Abu has gone back into the cafeteria. “Im sorry.”

  “It was an excellent question,” Sid assures me. “I wish I'd thought to ask it myself.”

  “Really?”

  “It was a hard question,” says Peter.

  “Why is that?” asks Sid.

  “In pidgin English the only word for 'love' is bel i gut.”

  “And what exactly does that mean?” persists Sid.

  “It means a good feeling in the belly' “

  I consider this. “That's kind of like love, a good feeling inside.”

  “Yes, in pidgin, bel i gut is used for all kinds of love. But it does not say everything.” He pauses as if thinking of a way to explain. “In my tok pies, my tribal language, there are many words for love,” he continues. “There is love for parents, which is like respect and honor. There is love for children, which is like caring for them. There is love for brothers and sisters, which is the samç as love for a friend. And love for things like good food or a beautiful bird-that word means to take delight in something, like laughter.”

  “What about the word for love between husbands and wives?” asks Sid. “Is there a word for that?”

  “There is the word for, uh, 'copulation,' “ he says, looking aside as if he is uncomfortable.

  “But not another word for love?” persists Sid. “What about love for God? Is there a word for that?”

  His eyes light up now. “No, there is no tok pies word for that kind of love either. That was a problem in my translation work with the Johnsons. We used a few tribal words to make the meaning of Gods love clear.”

  “What about your wife?” I ask Peter. “Do you love her?”

  He smiles. “Oh yes. Very much.”

  “But you dont have a word for that kind of love. What would you say to her?”

  He looks embarrassed again. “Oh, we do not speak like that to one another. Not with words. But I know that it is right. I know the Bible says, husband, love your wife.”

  “And you do that?” I ask.

  “Yes.” His eyes light up. “I do that.”

  “Your wife is a blessed woman,” I tell him.