Notes from a Spinning Planet—Papua New Guinea (20 page)

Sid gulps. “That puts me way over the hill.”

Donna makes a face. “Hey, we know how you feel. But those numbers only apply to the locals. And they're actually better now than they were, say, thirty years ago. It has to do with nutrition and medicine-you know, the basics.”

Then Sid explains what brought us to New Guinea and about the article she s working on. “So, how is it out here?” she asks. “Do you ever see any incidents of AIDS?”

“Do we see it?” repeats Donna as if she's considering her answer. “We're pretty sure we've seen it. At least we suspected it. But it's not something people will talk about openly. We felt certain that one of our villagers had contracted the disease, and there was plenty of gossip regarding his infidelities. But even when Tom took him aside and had a private conversation, the man denied everything. Of course, we all knew he'd been downriver a lot, visiting other villages, and the rumor was that he had several women friends. He'd bragged about it to some of the men, who then reported it to Tom.”

“What happened to him?” asks Sid.

“He just got sicker and sicker and eventually died of what was called pneumonia, but I'm fairly certain it was simply a complication of AIDS.”

“What about his wife?” I ask.

“She died recently, just a couple of years after his death. Similar thing: deteriorating health, open sores, finally what appeared to be pneumonia. Naturally, there was some gossip about it going around the village at the time. But the assumption was that someone had worked poison on her.”

“What does that mean?” asks Sid.

“The practice is tied in with spiritual beliefs that date back to their ancestors hundreds of years ago. Even the strongest Christians in our village still have a hard time getting completely away from the pull of those beliefs-the ancient ties are strong. But people in our village started saying that the wife mustVe worked poison on her husband after finding out about his infidelities. This was their explanation for how he died. And for revenge, his spirit had returned from the dead to work poison on her. A payback. End of story.”

“In a way, that s true,” I say. Of course, now they all look at me like I'm nuts. “I mean, the husband did sort of work poison on his wife by infecting her with HIV.”

“I never thought of it quite like that,” says Donna. “But it does make sense.”

“She's exactly right,” says Lydia in a serious tone. “HIV is a very real form of poison.” She pauses as if really considering this theory. “If you think about it, my people have been talking about
poison
, fearing
poison
, even prophetically predicting
poison
for generations, and now it's as if it's arrived in the form of HIV-and that
poison
is spreading like wildfire.”

“That's so weird,” says Donna. “But I think you've hit the nail on the head, Lydia.”

“What a great angle for my story,” says Sid as she writes down more notes. “I mean, it's tragic and horrible, but connecting AIDS, even metaphorically, with the old form of spirit poison, that's profound.” She holds up her already-filled small notebook. “Oh, I wish I'd brought my laptop along.”

“We have more paper,” offers Donna, quickly getting up and
going over to a desk. She pulls out a tablet and hands it to Sid. “Here, write that down before we forget what we were talking about. In the meantime, I'd better start dinner.”

“Would you like some help?” I Stand up.

“Yes,” says Lydia. “I can help too.”

“No,” says Sid suddenly. “Let Maddie help. I need you to come over here and talk to me about this some more, Lydia. I think you've got some amazing insights that the rest of us might be missing.”

“Thanks,” Donna says to me. “I'd love some help.”

As I cut up a pineapple, I try not to feel too dismissed by my aunt just now. I mean it's totally cool that Lydia has made this poison connection with AIDS. But, in all fairness, I brought it up first Okay, I tell myself, don't be so childish. It doesn't matter who thought of it first. The important thing is that Sid has a great angle for her article now. What difference does it make if she credits Lydia with this instead of me? In other words, get over it, Maddie! Grow up!

D
o you ever feel as if you're in fishbowl up here?” asks Sid after dinner. We're sitting in the living room area, and it's dark out now. What was a beautiful view of river, sky, and palm trees earlier is now a sea of black.

“I think it bothered us at first,” admits Donna, “but we got used to it.”

“And living out in the open like this seems to reassure our neighbors,” says Tom. “Shows them we're not up to something.”

“Of course, the bedrooms have more privacy,” says Donna. “The screens don't start until five feet up. So people outside might be able to see your head if they happened to be standing in the right spot, but that's about it. And the openness helps to keep the air flowing through and allows it to cool down in here at night.”

“Do you think the people watch you?” I ask as I try to peer through the screen, still seeing nothing but inky darkness.

“Not usually,” says Tom. Then he chuckles. “But since we have guests, it's possible.”

Sid tells them a bit more about her job as a journalist and the project she's working on now. And Tom tells her about a couple of AIDS cases he's heard about here in the Sepik River region. “I don't think it's
common,” he says, “but I have to admit being surprised that it made it here at all. Of course, infidelity is an issue in this culture. Certainly not as bad as in the States, since I've heard that nearly half of American marriages are affected by it. Here it's more the exception, but we do have at least two cases in our village right now. In fact, some of the worst fights we've seen have been between women who aren't happy sharing the same man.”

“Yes,” says Donna, “it can get ugly. The goal of the jealous wife is usually to deform the other woman's face.”

“So when we see a woman with scars on her face.

“Yes, it can mean that she's been the
other
woman.”

“Or sihiply accused of being her,” adds Tom.

Then Sid tells Tom about the theory of AIDS being like poison, and he listens with interest, nodding and taking it in.

“I can see the correlation,” he says. “Poison in this culture is related to someone who's done something bad or is associated with someone who's done something bad. And it results in sickness and sometimes even death.”

Sid grabs the tablet and starts taking notes again. “So clarify this for me, please. Does that mean a person who believes a spirit has worked poison on him, as you say, will get physically ill?”

“Yes, it's rather mysterious. Some experts think it's totally psychosomatic and that because a person believes he's been poisoned, he will exhibit the symptoms. Others think that the affected person probably already had a virus or infection, but combine that with the poison theory, and he is rendered even more vulnerable.”

“And there have been some strange stories,” says Lydia. “A man in
our village had been out walking at night. He said a spirit accosted him and put arrows in his feet. And when his swollen, aching feet were examined, there were actual slivers of bamboo or wood that had to be removed. He got a terrible infection, and my parents eventually had him flown out to get more medical treatment.”

“You don't suppose he simply walked on something like thorns, do you?” asks Sid.

“I don't know.” Lydia shakes her head. “I wasn't very old at the time, but I do remember being spooked by it.”

“We've had similar stories here,” says Donna. “It sort of defies scientific explanation. Of course, the way the stories get told and retold, it's hard to say what's really true sometimes.”

“But connecting AIDS with poison is an interesting way of looking at it,” says Tom. “And it might be a way to educate people in this country, to make them respect that AIDS is a very real thing. If nothing else, it's a good attention getter.”

“Well, it does give an interesting twist to my article,” says Sid. “I'm so glad that Lydia helped us to make this connection.”

Lydia looks a bit uncomfortable now, and I wonder if she feels bad for taking all the credit for this idea. But then she says she's tired and wants to turn in. Donna has already shown us where we'll be sleeping. Sid and I are sharing what was their daughter's room. And Lydia gets a small room with a bunk that doubles as an office.

We visit for another hour, but it seems we're all pretty weary, and before long we call it a night. The bathroom facilities are a bit more primitive here. They have only a bucket shower. But, as Donna pointed out, at least they have an indoor toilet now. Apparently that wasn't
always the case. And they still have the outhouse for emergencies, although she warned me that snakes or spiders could be out there and I should “be careful.” I'm thinking it'll have to be a major emergency for me to ever use the outhouse, thank you very much.

“I've never slept under a mosquito net before,” I tell Sid. “How about you?”

“Oh, sure,” she says as she pulls up the net and crawls into bed.

“Its kind of cool.”

“Yeah,” she says sleepily. “Just don't forget to tuck it in securely around the mattress in the morning. Otherwise, you might go to bed and find that something has sneaked in. Donna told me that once in a while a snake will slip into the house, and her son, Aaron, found one in his bed one night.”

“That's a lovely thought,” I say, going around the entire bed to check that my net is tucked in on all sides. It looks secure. Then I glance at the light that's on the table between our two beds. “How do you turn off the light once you're in bed?”

She sort of laughs. “You turn it off
first?
she says. “Then get in bed.”

“Oh.” So I turn off the light and then stumble around in the darkness trying to get into my mosquito netting. It's a trick to get it tucked back around the mattress so that nothing can sneak in during the night. That comment about the snake in the bed was pretty unnerving.

I lie there in the darkness, and before long I can tell that Sid's asleep. But I'm having a litde problem. It's like I'm afraid to stretch my feet to the foot of the bed because I keep imagining a snake down
there. I mean, how do I know this mosquito netting has been securely tucked around this bed for however long since someone last slept here? What if it has been open and a snake slithered in? The image of a sleeping snake curled at the end of my bed is so creepy that I'm sure I wont be able to go to sleep now. Still, I hate getting out and turning on the light and making noise. I timidly stretch one foot down a few more inches, holding my breath and expecting some serpentlike thing to sink its sharp teeth into my toe. Then I pull my foot back up and curl into a ball. I know this is perfectly ridiculous. There's probably not a snake in my bed. And yet I cannot shake that image.

Finally I can stand it no longer. I pull the mosquito netting out and leap out of my bed and turn on the light.

“What's wrong?” demands Sid, blinking in the bright light. “Another earthquake?”

“I'm sorry,” I tell her. “I thought something was in my bed.”

“Oh.”

So I pull back the top sheet and lightweight blanket and carefully examine every square inch of the bed. I poke around and eVen look under the bottom sheet and in the pillowcase.

“Anything there?” she asks sleepily.

“No,” I admit as I start putting my bed back together and retucking the netting into place.

“Think you can sleep now?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say as I turn off the light. “Sorry about that.”

She just makes a groaning sound and rolls over. Still, I'm glad I checked. Now I can relax and sleep in peace. And before long I hear Sid's even breathing that tells me she has gone back to sleep. Hopefully,
she wont remember my paranoia in the morning. I take a deep breath and roll over on my side so that I'm facing the wall where the screen begins partway up. But I see the weirdest thing! In fact, Im pretty sure I'm hallucinating. I sit up and blink my eyes as I look out the upper screen at what appear to be hundreds of tiny lights, slightly flickering. What is going on? I clear my throat, hoping I'll wake Sid again. But she just keeps sleeping. I blink again and look at the lights, wondering if it's some kind of alien spaceship out there, hovering behind the house. Then I remember how this house is built on an old burial ground, and I wonder if there really are some unhappy spirits gathering tonight. I know it's crazy, and I know my imagination needs to settle down, but I cannot for the life of me figure out what is going on outside. It's so strange.

I don't know how long I sit there in bed, afraid to move, afraid to say anything, just staring at these lights. And I begin to wonder if they're hypnotizing me, getting me into their power. Maybe they'll work poison on me and I'll get sick and die in the morning. Finally I can't stand it, and I'm afraid I'm going to scream. But instead, I close my eyes and begin to pray. I beg God to protect mefrom whatever this thing is, even if it's just my own overactive imagination. I sit there and pray for a long time. I'm about to open my eyes again to see if that weird phenomenon is still there, but I don't. I decide that I don't want to know. Instead, I will focus on God. I will imagine his protection wrapping around me just like this mosquito net. And then I make myself lie down. I take a deep breath, and I remind myself of the Bible verse that says to take every thought captive to Jesus. And
that's what I do. Only by the grace of God I'm sure, I finally go to sleep and do not wake up until morning.

Sid is already up, her bed neatly made and the mosquito net securely in place. I can hear voices in the house, and I know I must look like the lazy one. So I hurry and get up and dress in the only other outfit I have to wear, since we packed ultralight. Then I pull my hair back into a ponytail and go out to where they're just setting the table for breakfast.

“Sorry I slept in,” I say.

“No worries,” says Donna. “I'm glad you slept well.”

I consider this, remembering what I saw last night or what I think I saw, and try to decide whether I want to risk sounding totally ridiculous by mentioning it. Finally I decide,
What does it matter if I look ridicuhus?