Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea (11 page)

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 asked 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.

“I am a blessed man.”

Just for the sake of contrast, we decide to check out some of the other wards in this hospital. We want to see how they compare to Ward 3B. And while I wouldn't care to be hospitalized in any of them, none have the extremely impoverished conditions of the AIDS ward.

“They can call Ward 3B whatever they like,” says Sid as we're leaving, “but it is definitely the AIDS ward, and patients with AIDS are definitely treated with much less care and respect than the others.”

“They are treated like lepers,” says Peter.

“Exactly,” I agree.

“But Jesus healed the leper,” Peter says as he unlocks the car and opens the passenger door for Sid.

“I wish we could too,” I say.

“Maybe we should pray for them,” says Peter earnesdy, “pray that they would take up their beds and walk!”

“Maybe we should,” I say, although I'm uncertain. I mean I've already been praying for the people we've met. But to pray for them to be physically healed? I don't know if I have that kind of faith. And, okay, that seriously bugs me.

I
think we should check out of this hotel,” says Sid as we go up to our room.

“Check out?” I repeat. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I just think it s time to see more of the country. To write a complete story on New Guinea and its problems, I need to see the bigger picture, and that must extend beyond Port Moresby.”

“You mean we wont come back here after we see Mount Hagen?”

“Exactly. I'd like to get a flight to another part of the country. I want to see how the AIDS epidemic is being handled in a less-populated area.”

I nod. “That makes sense.”

“So are you game for some adventure?”

“Sure, why not?”

“We can always come back here if it doesn't work out,” she says as we go into our room. “But, for now, lets pack everything up and check out.”

So we pack up and carry our luggage downstairs. Sid checks us out, and we eat a quick lunch in the hotel restaurant. Just as we finish, Peter arrives.

“Allready for the big trip?” he asks.

Sid points to our luggage that's sitting next to the concierge desk.

His eyes grow wide. “You're taking all that?”

Sid explains our plan to travel on after the weekend, but Peter still looks a bit concerned. Still, he helps us load our suitcases into the trunk. Then we go to pick up Lydia. Unlike us, she is traveling light. She has only a small duffel bag and her purse. And when she puts the duffel bag in back, she, too, looks concerned.

“That's a lot of luggage,” she says to Sid.

Once again Sid explains our plan.

When we get to the airport, we begin to understand their concern. It turns out that we're flying in a small Cessna plane, and there is a weight limit. Sid learns that our tickets will be charged by the pound, which means that our luggage must be weighed and paid for accordingly. And after it's weighed, we're invited to step on the scales as well. Okay, this is a litde embarrassing, but knowing it's a safety issue, I cooperate.

“The air gets thinner in the highlands,” explains Jim, the pilot. “We need to be careful not to overload the plane. It's too taxing on the engine.”

“How are we doing as far as weight goes?” asks Sid as he punches some numbers into his calculator and waits for the results.

“Were okay,” he finally says. Then he tells her how much the flight will cost, and to our surprise, it's not too bad.

We're loaded into the plane, and before long we're taking off. This is the first time I've flown in a small plane. Will I ever overcome my fear of flying?

The sound of the engine is loud as we gain enough altitude to
assure me that we're not going to get caught in the tall treetops below us. Im amazed at how they resemble overgrown broccoli stalks. I realize Im holding my breath as I look out the window, and I force myself to exhale as I watch everything below us getting smaller. Soon we re out of the city limits, and it looks like nothing but vegetation below- not exactly the sort of terrain you'd pick for an emergency landing. Not that we're going to do that.

Occasionally I spy a brown circle of earth and small round structures peppered about, which I assume are little houses or huts that are part of a village. Sid is sitting up front, next to the pilot, and I can hear him pointing out some sight to her, like a river or something, but the engines so noisy that I can't really make out what he's saying. I just hope he's focusing on his flying and the instrument panel in front of him.

“It's only a short flight,” shouts Lydia, who's sitting beside me. She smiles at me as if she can tell that I'm nervous. “And JAARS pilots are the best in the world.” The plane levels out now, and the roar of the engine diminishes so that I can hear.

“What are 'jars' pilots?” I ask, imagining pilots who fly around in glass bottles.

“It stands for Jungle Aviation and Radio Service,” she tells me. “They provide technical support for SIL.”

I have to think for a moment before I remember that SIL is Summer Institute of Linguistics, the translation organization her adoptive parents work for. Still, I don't really understand the meaning of the name. “Summer Institute of Linguistics sounds like a school to me,” I say. “But didn't you say yolir parents are Bible translators?”

She smiles. “Yes, its confusing to many people. SIL is about linguistic and translation work. The organization is related to Wycliffe Bible Translators.”

“Oh, I have heard of Wycliffe,” I tell her. “I think someone from there spoke at our church once.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” she says. “My parents go to the States every six years for deputation.”

“What s that?”

“Its the way they earn their support. All the translators are self-supported-'faith missionaries/ They can't come into the country to translate without all their financial donations lined up.”

“Oh.”

“I used to feel embarrassed when we went around from church to church,” she tells me. “It felt like begging to me. But then? began to understand that people who areat able to go out and be missionaries really like to partner with those who can. Now I dont feel bad anymore.”

“That makes sense,” I say.

Peter is sitting in the small single seat in the back, but he must be listening to us. “I went to the United States with the Johnsons for one month last time,” he tells me. “I got to speak in the churches too. I told the American people how important translation work is in my country.”

“And he did an excellent job,” adds Lydia. “Giving really went up.

“What did you think of America?” I ask, turning around to see Peters face.

His eyes grow wide as he shakes his head. “It was very, very strange.”

“I remember the first time we took him to a Wal-Mart Super-center,” says Lydia, suppressing laughter. “It was as if we had landed on the moon.”

“Too many things,” he says, “all in one place.”

“I have to admit that I get overwhelmed too,” she says.

“Dont feel bad,” I tell her. “So do I.”

“Really?” She seems surprised. “I thought Americans were used to all that.”

“Well, I grew up in a rural area,” I admit. “My parents are farmers.”

“Farmers?” says Peter from behind me. “Truly?”

So I tell them a little about my faniily s farm, explaining about caring for our livestock and the crops we grow and how everyone in my family helps out. And both Lydia and Peter seem surprised.

“I guess we spend so much time in big cities,” says Lydia, “that we begin to think all Americans live like that.”

“Not me.” I grin at her.

“We'll be landing in Aiyura in about fifteen minutes,” says Jim.

“Aiyura?” I repeat, glancing at Lydia. “I thought we were going to Mount Hagen.”

“Aiyura is the JAARS landing strip,” she explains. “Its in Ukarumpa.”

“Ukarumpa?” I let the strange word bounce off my tongue.

“Yes, that s SILs mission base.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“Well, oddly enough, its like a tiny American city.”

“Huh?” Now Im sorry, but this just sounds weird. A tiny American city way out here in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if they have a Starbucks.

“I guess you'll have to see it to understand.” She laughs. “It seemed more like a city after I'd been in our village for a long time. For you it will probably just seem like a small American town.”

I look out the window to see jagged, tree-covered mountains with patches of white clouds filling the crevices. The terrain looks rugged and foreboding, and it's hard to imagine how there could be a safe, flat place to land anywhere at this elevation. But before long the plane begins to descend, and I see a green field with what must be a landing strip cutting through the center. Before I know it, we're landing. After the plane is solidly on the ground, I remember to breathe again.

“We made it,” says Lydia.

Jim taxis the plane over to a small metal building, and a couple of New Guinean men come over and wait for us to get out.

Peter hugs the men, and they both warmly greet Lydia. The taller one, introduced as Michael, has been sent by her parents to give us a ride to their village. The other one is an old friend who's been doing some translation checking here in Ukarumpa.

Lydia explains that her village is between Ukarumpa and Mount Hagen and that it will take us about two hours to drive there.

“Is it safe to drive these roads?” asks Sid as they load our things into the back of a beat-up yellow Land Rover.

“Depends on how you define
safe,”
I say, remembering what Lydia told me the other day. I wink at Lydia.