Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea (16 page)

“What's going on?” I yell, waking my aunt, who somehow has managed to peacefully sleep through this horrifying experience.

“What?” she says sleepily. “What's wrong?”

“The house!” I gasp, still feeling a slight tremor beneath my feet. “It's moving. Can't you feel it?”

“Huh?” She sort of blinks.

Then it stops. Just like that. “I woke up, and the bed was moving,” I say. “Then I got out, and the floor was moving too. I think the whole house was moving.”

She sighs. “You must've had a dream, Maddie.”

“It was real,” I protest. “I felt it.”

“It's not even seven,” she says groggily. “Go back to bed, silly girl.”

There's no way I can go back to sleep now. I know the house was moving. I felt it. Something seems very wrong here, and I plan on finding out what it is. I quickly dress and go out into the quiet house. But no one is up, and everything looks just as it did when we went to bed last night. I pace a bit, tiptoeing about as I peek out the louvered glass windows to see if anyone is out and about yet.

I notice that the sky looks cloudy today, the kind of foreboding
clouds that are dark and heavy and seem to loom close to the ground. The village is peacefiil, and other than some stray pigs, which Lydia told me are pretty much left to come and go as they please, no one is stirring. I hear a rooster crow and wonder if that means it s time for people to start getting up. But everything remains still and sleepy. Besides the ticking of the clock, its very quiet here. I begin to think that Sid was right. I mustVe dreamed the whole thing.

“You're up early,” says Lydia as she emerges from her room wearing a plaid flannel bathrobe.

“My bed was shaking,” I tell her. “And I got up, and the floor was shaking too. Sid didn't even feel it, but I know it was for real.”

She sort of laughs, then nods. “Yes, it was for real. It was an earthquake.”

“An
earthquake?
My eyes widen. “Seriously? We just had an earthquake?”

She nods as she sits on the couch, pulling her legs up under her.

“Are we in any danger?”

“I dont think so.”

“Aren't you even a little bit scared?”

“No. We have them all the time.”

“All the time?”
How is she not horrified by this?

“Well, not
all
the time. But we have a lot of them. My brothers and I used to feel like earthquakes were scheduled for Saturday mornings, because for a while it seemed they
only
happened on Saturday mornings. Naturally, it was a day we wanted to sleep in, so I guess we noticed it more. Maybe earthquakes have switched to Sundays now.”

“That's so weird,” I say. “I've never felt an earthquake before.”

“Dont you have them in the Pacific Northwest?” she asks. “I thought I'd heard you have active volcanoes up there.”

“Well, we do have some active volcanoes. Mount St. Helens blew its top twenty-some-odd years ago, before I was born. And the mountain still rumbles, and scientists are always watching. But I've never actually felt an earthquake before.” I smile. “Hey, that's pretty cool. I can go home and tell people that I survived an earthquake in Papua New Guinea.”

“We actually had a really bad earthquake here in 1998,” she says, “on the north coast. It was followed by a horrible tsunami.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Thousands died, and thousands more were left homeless.”

“I don't remember even hearing about it.”

“News about Papua New Guinea doesn't usually make the headlines around the globe. And, of course, our little tsunami wasn't anything compared to the one in the Indian Ocean in 2004. That was incredibly devastating.”

“Still, with thousands of people being killed, you'd think that would make the news in a big way.”

Lydia shrugs. “Maybe it did. Maybe you just didn't notice. I mean, you were still a kid in 1998.1 remember I was about thirteen, and it was the first year I lived in a children's home and went to school on base. Everyone there was so upset when it happened. I was really scared too. I actually thought it was going to be the end of the world for everyone.” She sort of laughs. “Anyway, they let us go home to stay with our parents for a while and be reassured that it wasn't really the end of life as we knew it. Then it was back to business as usual.”

“Was it hard living away from home when you were so young?” I ask her. Okay, I can only imagine how I would ve felt under those same circumstances. Good grief, I haven't even left home to go to school yet, and I'm twenty! Its kind of embarrassing.

She nods. “Yes, it was hard at first. But I had my brothers. We were in the same children's home. Having them there was almost like being at home. Of course, they were teenagers by then and already had their friends and activities. But it helped knowing they were there. Especially if anyone gave me a problem.”

“Who would give you a problem?”

“Oh, you know how kids can be. Oddly enough, I became the minority at school on basé. Almost all the other kids were white.”

“Wow, that must ve been weird.”

“It was. But it helped me to understand how my family feels out here in the village where they're the minority.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I've felt sort of like that myself, just being in New Guinea. The pale faces kind of stick out.”

“The funny thing was, I think I'd started to forget that I was New Guinean. Not that I thought I was white exactly, but I knew I was different from the rest of the kids in our village. I suppose I thought of myself as American, you know, since my family was American. But when I got to Ukarumpa, some of the kids at school made sure I knew I was different from them too. I guess I wasn't sure exactly where I fit in.”

“That seems odd,” I say. “I mean, since the kids had come here with their families to be missionaries to New Guinean people. I'd think they'd be more loving and kind and open-minded.”

She laughs quietly. “Keep in mind that its the parents who came here to be missionaries. The kids just get dragged along for the ride. Or, like my brothers, they're born here. Either way, it s not really their choice.”

“So do you think kids resent having missionary parents?”

“No, I don't think so. Not for the most part anyway. But you always have a few who act out. Just like anywhere else. And I suppose it didn't help matters that I was a fairly competitive kid. More than ever, I wanted to prove myself, and I guess I was sort of a show-off sometimes.”

“I can't imagine you being a show-off,” I admit. “You seem like such a mature and well-grounded person to me.”

She smiles. “Thanks. I hope I've grown up a little over the years. Back then, I felt the need to show the others that I was as good as they were, that I could keep up. And as I got older, it got worse. I felt like I had to be better than my peers. I had to get the best grades, be the best at soccer or whatever activity I was interested in at the time. And, naturally, that made some kids-especially a certain couple of girls whose parents lived on base-target me.”

“I've known girls like that too.”

She smiles. “See, there really isn't anything new under the sun, is there?”

“Did you have some good friends too?” I ask, suddenly worried that poor, sweet Lydia might've been shunned by everyone.

“Oh yes, of course. I had some wonderful friends who I'm still very close to. We stay in touch through e-mail, and we hope to have a reunion in a few years. I miss them.”

“I thought I heard voices,” says Mr. Johnson as he enters the room. “What got you girls up so early this morning?”

“The earthquake woke Maddie.” Lydia rises from her spot on the sofa and goes into the kitchen.

He chuckles. “I guess we forgot to warn you about earthquakes. We get them occasionally. Nothing to be overly concerned about. Well, unless the house starts to cave in. In that case, make a fast break for the wide open spaces outside.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He wads up some paper and places kindling in the cookstove. “The worst time for earthquakes, at least up here in the highlands, is during the rainy season.”

“Whys that?” I ask.

“Mud slides.” He lights the match and steps back. “They can be lethal. Whole villages have been buried. Not a single survivor.”

I shudder. “That's horrible.”

He nods. “So just be glad you're here during the dry season.”

“Does that mean it doesn't rain?” I ask, glancing outside at the thick gray clouds.

He laughs. “No. It always rains. It just rains less. Sometimes we'll have several days without rain. In fact, it's been pretty dry lately.”

“I'll make the coffee,” says Lydia, filling the pot from the sink.

“And it does look like we're in for some rain today,” he observes. “Too bad for the sing-sing festivities. But the locals are used to it. Hopefully, it won't make the road too bad for the travelers. It's not unusual to have a wreck or two when the sing-sing ends anyway. Just another reason we were smart to go on the first day of the celebration.
Pity the poor tourist who has a wreck and doesn't have the wits to get out of there before payback time.”

“There sure are a lot of things to be concerned with around here,” I say as Mr. Johnson puts some bigger pieces of wood on the fire. “Earthquakes, mud slides, paybacks, crime, diseases-”

“And we haven't told you about the snakes yet.”

“Snakes?” I feel a shiver down my spine.

“Oh, Dad,” scolds Lydia. “Give her a break. The poor girl just survived an earthquake, for Pete's sake.”

This makes him laugh, and for the moment I'm spared hearing about the snakes. Great!

Soon everyone is up, and I make Mr. Johnson inform my aunt that we really did experience an earthquake this morning.

“I thought she was just dreaming,” says Sid as she sips her coffee. “I didn't feel a thing.”

“The top bunk usually feels it the most,” says Mrs. Johnson. “I think it must sway more up there.”

“Yes,” agrees Lydia. “That was Caleb's bed, and he was always complaining about feeling earthquakes that the rest of us missed.”

“Of course, Jeremy used to worry that the top bunk was going to collapse and fall on him someday,” adds Mr. Johnson as he sets a plate of fresh fruit on the table. “Especially as Caleb got bigger.”

“I had that exact same thought myself,” I admit. “I was afraid I was going to crush my aunt.” I nod to her. “One of the reasons I jumped out of bed. You should thank me, Sid.”

She smiles. “Thank you very much.”

After breakfast is finished and cleaned up, we head over to the villäge
church, which is just off to the far side of the little round houses. It s starting to rain as we enter the long, rectangular structure that is their church. The floor is made of cement, and a palm-thatched roof is supported by rough columns of wood, but there are no walls, no windows, no doors. The structure is completely open. About thirty people are already seated, filling the rows of rough-hewn benches- the men and boys on one side, women and small children on the other. I suspect that this separation of the sexes must be a cultural thing, but I make a mental note to ask Lydia about it later.

“Air conditioned,” I whisper to her as we sit on one of the back benches.

Lydia smiles. “Yes. öods air conditioning.”

More people trickle in, taking their spots on the benches, and finally a man steps up to the front and begins to tune a slightly beat-up guitar. Then he starts to lead us in singing. I'm impressed with the enthusiasm of the congregation as they join in, but it quickly becomes clear that they dont know how to stay on key very well. In fact, it sounds more like chanting than singing. And when he plays a song I actually recognize, I'm even more aware of how different their musical style is from what Im used to. And yet it's so amazing, so authentic, so heartfelt, I think.

For a long while, I just stand there, letting it all soak in: the rain, which is pouring down from the sloped roof; the low, nasal, yet rhythmic sound of the chanted hymns and songs; the open-air church; the slightly out-of-tune guitar. Then it hits me. I am in the highlands of Papua New Guinea, worshiping God with sincere believers. And I can't think of any word to describe how I feel right now besides
awestruck.
I am in awe of God and in awe of these people he created. It blows my mind.

I know with certainty that their singing/chanting is a thing of immense beauty to God. In some ways I think this sort of worship must be even more beautiful than the fanciest church with the biggest pipe organ and the most talented choir. At least it is to me, and I suspect God agrees. Not that God makes comparisons like we humans tend to do, but if he did…

After quite a long stint of singing/chanting, another man goes to the front to speak. Lydia whispers to me that he'll be preaching in tok pies. Consequently, Sid and I are the only ones here who don't understand. But the young man preaches with such passion and enthusiasm that I almost feel like I know what he's saying. Anyway, whatever it is, he seems genuine, and the people listening seem eager to hear, nodding and even murmuring at times. Its all pretty impressive. And it gives me great hope for a country I'd originally misjudged.

It's still raining, and I notice the water is pooling up around the perimeter of the church. It's a good thing the floor in here is built up of cement, because it's the only thing remaining dry. But as I notice this, I notice something else too, something that I think is a litde weird. I wonder if I'm the only one who
sees
it. There are frogs hopping around on the cement floor, underneath the benches and around people's bare feet. They're fairly big frogs too, about two to three inches in diameter, I'm guessing. I glance over at Lydia, but her eyes are straight forward, focused on the speaker. I glance over at Sid, who's on the other side of Lydia, but she too seems oblivious. Suddenly I remember; he plague of the frogs on Egypt. Hopefully, God isn't trying
to send us some kind of message. Then I recall what I've heard about animals sensing a natural disaster like an earthquake or tsunami, and I start to feel more seriously concerned.

Now, unlike my opinion on snakes, it's not that I'm afraid of or even dislike frogs. I am, after all, a farm girl. But all these hopping critters are becoming more and more unsettling. I want to know why they're here. And I'm surprised that not even the children seem to notice them or care. Then I see one particularly large frog just sitting there, looking straight toward the pulpit as if he's listening and taking it all in. It makes me want to laugh. But I control myself since it seems the preacher is at a serious part of his sermon, and I'd hate to spoil it for everyone. But at last, when the final prayer and song are finished, I ask Lydia what's going on here.