Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea (15 page)

The car slows down, and I look up to see a throng of people walking down the middle of the road, blocking our way. Mr. Johnson rolls down his window and calls out in a friendly tone. They turn and look at him curiously, and he calls out something else.

Okay, I'm getting worried now. I've heard about roadblocks, and this certainly looks like one. There are at least twenty of them, mostly men, and I'm thinking that if they wanted, they could easily overtake this vehicle. But then they simply smile and wave, calling back to Mr. Johnson, and its obvious that this is just a friendly encounter. They slowly break apart and allow us to pass by, slappirig the sides of the vehicle as we go. Mr. Johnson calls out what sounds like
thank you
in pidgin and some kind of greeting.

I take in a deep breath, glancing at Sid to see if she was as worried as I was just now. She gives me a little smile, but I can tell it was a bit unsetding to her too. For some reason that actually makes no sense, I feel better.

I
t's almost eleven when we arrive in Mount Hagen. Mr. Johnson pays one kina to park in a field on the edge of town, then we get out and walk toward the sounds of drums, chanting, and singing. Theres energy in the air, and I almost feel like I'm a kid again, like Fm on my way to the circus or the county fair for the first time. People are everywhere. Some in costume hurry over to where the sounds are coming from as if they are late. Others move along more casually. But there are very few white people.

“This is exciting,” I say as we walk along a dusty road.

“It is, isn't it?” says Mr. Johnson. “Even after all these years, I still look forward to this event.”

“People come halfway around the world to see it,” says Lydia.

“I can understand that,” says Sid. “From what I've heard, theres nothing else like it anywhere.”

Soon we re at the edge of the event. Sid goes forward and purchases four tickets, and then Mr. Johnson leads us down to where the performers are dancing. Its an amazing scene of color and motion and sound. I dont think I can take it all in-painted faces and millions of kinds of feathers and shells and colorful vegetation. Every possible sort of adornment and ornament seems to be here. Most are natural,
but there are also things like flattened Coke cans strung together to make a vest, and I notice one man wearing a faux-leopard bra that couldVe originated at Victorias Secret. I try not to laugh, but a bra! I wonder if he knows that it's meant for a woman. Most participants, though, are wearing traditional costumes. And I notice that some of the dance teams are made up of women. Mr. Johnson explains that this wasn't always the case and that the men and women never mix. Its always a male team or a female team.

“Those are Asaro mudmen,” he says, pointing to the tribesmen who are wearing these oversize masks that appear to be made from mud or clay. Their bodies are coated with pale mud, giving them an almost ghostly appearance, except for the expressions on the masks, which are friendly and almost humorous. “There are Chimbu mudmen too.”

The teams take great care to dress alike, of there's no mixing up who is with whom. I notice one dance team painted in black and white to resemble skeletons, and at first it's slightly scary. But Mr. Johnson explains about the tribe they're from and how this is their tradition. It's amazing to be able to walk right up to these people, so strangely dressed, and simply snap their photos. Some even smile, often exposing stained or missing teeth. Others give us their fiercest looks, which I find a little creepy. Then after the picture is taken, they often smile, and I can hardly believe I'm looking at the same person.

All in all, I think these people are just friendly, fun loving, and looking for a good time. More than ever I really like this country. I can understand how Papua New Guinea could grow on a person. Quite honestly, I've never seen brighter, more open smiles than the ones I've witnessed on nationals today. They seem genuine to me.

Some of the performers recognize Mr. Johnson, and after a quick “remember me” introduction, he recognizes them. Some grew up in his village but live in a city now. Some have gone on to school. And amid these rustic and tribal people, I discover there are doctors, lawyers, and other professionals. “Its a celebration of their, culture,” Mr. Johnson tells us after we're introduced to a dentist from Goroka, whose teeth are in great condition. “They're proud of their tribal roots.”

“They should be,” says Sid. “Its a rich heritage. Not many people in this generation can claim anything even slighdy like this.”

Finally we're all getting hungry, and we head back to the Land Rover to have a break and a late lunch. Lydia pulls out a large blanket to spread on the trampled grass, and we all sit down to eat. It's after two now, and the plan is to return for another hour or so before we head back to the village, hopefully before dark.

“I can't believe I've used up almost all of the space on my digital camera,” says Sid as she views some of the shots she's just taken.

“And I'm out of film too,” I say. “I think I took three rolls already.”

“Well, maybe you can put the cameras aside now,” suggests Mr. Johnson. “When we go back, you can just be free to look around, to watch and enjoy the people without the distraction of taking photos.”

“Good idea,” says Sid.

Lydia stretches out along the side of the blanket now, closing her eyes.

“Are you tired, Lydia?” asks her dad in a kind but concerned voice. “Do you want a nap?”

“No, I'm fine.”

“That sounds like a good idea to me,” I say, stretching out in the sun next to Lydia. “Ah, this feels good.”

So we all lie down for a few minutes. Its weird feeling the prickly grass through my thin cotton shirt, hearing the constant background sounds of drumming and chanting, and smelling a mixture of wood smoke and vegetation in the air. Although I know I'm in a totally foreign place right now, there's something about the earthiness here that feels familiar. Maybe it's like our farm. Or maybe it's something more. I'm sure I could never explain it. But it's sort of cool. And it's good to feel this relaxed, like I'm not worried about anything right now, like I know that God really is watching over us and that we re safe in his hands. I take a long deep breath, hold it, and then exhale slowly.

“Well,” says Mr. Johnson, standing up and stretching his arms to the sky, “before we all nod off, I suggest we trek back over to tKe celebration and get in the last of our afternoon.” So we all pull ourselves back to our feet, pack up the picnic things, and head back toward the music.

There we roam around together, watching various miniperformances and clapping and cheering the teams on. Eventually we come across the locals from the Lomokako village, where the Johnsons live, and I'm surprised to see that Peter is among the performers today. He grins at us and shakes his spear, then introduces us to his buddies. After that, they do a short routine, which is really good. I wish I had a video camera so I could take this home to share with my family. Peter's face is painted red and yellow, and Lydia explains that his amazing headdress-a combination of feathers from birds of paradise (the national bird), lorikeets, and parrots-is a family heirloom that
he will one day pass down to his son. It fans out about two feet all around his head and is really spectacular.

“I've never seen so many different kinds of feathers,” I tell her. “Are they all from New Guinea?”

She nods. “We have more than six hundred different species of birds here.”

“Wow, that's amazing. I mean, considering the size of the country.”

“Yes, we're an amazing little country.” She gives me a funny smile. “In oh so many ways.”

It seems we've all lost track of the time, but finally Mr. Johnson tells us that we need to get on the road. “Soon the drinking will begin,” he says in a slightly urgent voice as we begin to wind our way back through the even more boisterous crowd.

Lydia points at a performer staggering between his two buddies, his headdress sitting cockeyed on his head. “Looks like it's already begun for some of them,” she says.

Her dad nods. “We don't want to be here when it starts getting out of hand.”

It's close to five o'clock by the time we're back in the Land Rover and heading out of town. I seriously doubt we can make it back to the village before dark. I wonder if this is a problem. But as we drive the curving mountain road, it seems surprisingly clear of pedestrian traffic. In fact, there is hardly any traffic at all. Hopefully this means everyone is still partying in Mount Hagen.

Even so, I can't help but remember what Mr. Johnson said about the crime rate. I pat my money belt, worried that one of those rascals might've taken it somehow as we were being jostled by the crowd.

“Still there?” asks Sid, looking worried as she pats down her mid-section too.

I laugh. “Yes, but I was thinking about the warnings about passports and money belts getting stolen.”

“Anything missing?” asks Mr. Johnson.

“We seem to be intact,” says Sid. “But it does make me curious. How would you recommend we carry these things?”

“Well, if you're staying in a reliable hotel, you might want to put them in the hotel safe.”

“What about when we're in transit?” she asks.

“I think you're smart to carry a purse,” says Lydia. “But only with a bit of spending money in it. Sort of like a decoy. And use a money belt that's thin enough not to be noticed beneath your clothes. If you're in an area where you feel you really could be at risk, I'd put a credit card in my bra.”

Mr. Johnson laughs now. “Of course, some rascals have been known to take the clothes right off a person's back.”

“You're kidding,” I say.

“I wish I were.”

“Whoa.” I try to imagine how horrible it would feel to be robbed and stripped naked. Of course, this makes me realize there are even worse things that could happen to a person.

“Okay,” says Lydia. “Enough of scaring our guests half to death. You are perfectly safe with us.”

“You don't think we'll encounter any rascals on the road?” I say in a tentative tone.

“I doubt it,” says Mr. Johnson. “I think they're all celebrating in
Mount Hagen. The festival continues into tomorrow. It's too early for them to leave now.”

“And after it ends?” asks Sid.

“Well, then I'd be a little more careful,” he admits. “And I probably wouldn't be out driving after dark either.”

Fortunately, we make it back to the village without a hitch. And I am truly relieved to get out of the vehicle and go back into the Johnsons' house. I'm so amazed by how much I feel at home with these people. More than ever I'm hoping there's a way we can help Lydia to finish her college education. But I don't want to bring it up again. Not after her parents' reaction last night. Maybe Sid will have some ideas.

After another good, ail-American meal of hamburgers and potato salad, Mr. Johnson sits us down for a pidgin lesson. “You can't go traipsing around the country barely able to speak,” he says as he hands us a printed sheet of paper. “This is what I call a traveler's cheat sheet. Sort of like pidgin crib notes.”

I glance down at the paper to see that it has commonly used phrases in pidgin and English, along with their phonetic spelling. Very helpful. And the more we work on it, the simpler it all seems. I think anyone could learn to speak pidgin. Since I already speak fairly good Spanish, maybe I'll be able to say that I'm trilingual by the time I leave New Guinea. Of course, I doubt there's much use for pidgin outside of this country. Still, it's fun to learn.

I
manage to take a proper bucket shower Saturday night, carefully
f
rationing the water so that I can (1) turn on the spigot shower-head and quickly soak my hair and body, (2) turn off the spigot show-erhead while I thoroughly soap my body and then quickly shampoo my hair, (3) then thoroughly rinse, allowing the very warm water to take the chill off. Okay, this means I dont shampoo my hair twice, like I would at home, but I'm going for the natural look here anyway. Ive been letting my curls pretty much go wild, thinking I almost fit in with the locals this way. If I get too hot, I just pull my tangled mop back and secure it on top of my head with a barrette. Not terribly glamorous, but it works. I use Lydias hair dryer but am concerned about pulling too much electricity from the generator and stop after a few minutes.

Everyone seems worn out after a rather long day, and we all turn in early this evening. Before we go to bed, the Johnsons tell us that they usually sleep a little later on Sundays.

“Our day of rest,” says Mr. Johnson.

“Church service is around ten,” says his wife. “Before that, we usually just have a quick, light breakfast.”

“Sounds great,” says Sid. “I'd love to sleep in a little.”

And tonight when I go to bed, Im warm and tired and not the least bit worried about the tribal uprising I imagined last night. How ridiculous.

But I wake up abruptly in the morning. It feels as if the bed is moving, and I'm worried that maybe I weigh too much and I'm going to collapse onto my poor aunt. So I leap out of bed, and to my amazement the bamboo floor is moving too, sort of rocking and rolling, almost like on a ship.