Travel Reference
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walls on all sides. Nevertheless, considering that I could as easily die from flying as from
climbing, I choose the mode of travel less dependent on the Lord. My climbing supplies, at
least, are under my control.
My gear in tow, I wave goodbye to the men at the airstrip and head up the dirt road. Nigel
suggested a climb he'd done himself—over a mountain to a village called Bimin—and he
said I would need a guide for the steepest part. At least I can walk alone as far as Kweptana,
and en route, I can overnight at a vacant mission house, to which Nigel has lent me a key.
Theroadmeandersupwardthroughwell-keptgardens,high-canopiedforests,andswirling
mists. When occasionally I meet people walking toward Tekin, they shake my hand warmly
and advise me I'm too fat to make it to Bimin, which I find oddly reassuring. Since nobody
expects me to reach Bimin anyway, I reason, there'll be no shame in turning around if I lose
my nerve. I smile and thank the people and walk on.
After several hours, I spot the mission house, its corrugated-iron roof shimmering like a
silverspiderwebinthelastraysofthesun.It'sasteepclimbdownfromtheroad,ascramble
over several fences of sharp stakes built to keep pigs out of people's sweet potatoes. You
can't walk anywhere in Papua New Guinea without risking impalement.
A few paces short of the padlocked door, darkness falls. Fumbling through all eight pock-
ets of my safari suit, I chide myself for forgetting that there is no dusk on the equator—no
graceperiodwithkindlylibrariansannouncing,“Wewillcloseinfifteenminutes,”whileyou
gather up your scattered papers. Here the lights get cut off without warning, and you'd better
know where you put your flashlight and your key.
Onceinside,Iflickaroundtheweakbeamofmyflashlighttorevealawoodstove,arough-
hewn table, cabinets, six drawers. I set about ransacking the drawers for a candle.
There'saknockatthedoor,andIhopeitwillbethecaretaker,cometohelpmefindthings.
Instead, it's an old peddler. Eyeing me from beneath the visor of his baseball cap, he holds
out a peculiar object: a yard-long stick with a sharp-edged stone disk fastened to one end.
When I ask what it is, he says in Pidgin, “An instrument for killing people.” I tell him I don't
think I'll be needing one.
Theweapondoesn'tsurpriseme.UntiltheirconversiontoChristianity about10yearsago,
some of the peoples of Sandaun practiced warfare and some were cannibals, so it stands to
reason that they might have old weapons they want to sell. Still, after the peddler leaves and
I crawl into my sleeping bag, I can't help wondering what a bumble-footed woman like me,
a woman terrified of heights, is doing here. I can't help wondering if I've come to the wrong
place. If I've once more lost the red line.
I left America, odd as it may seem, because of something I saw in a dream—a map of the
world with a red line, like the ones in-flight magazines use to indicate air routes, advancing
slowly across the Pacific Ocean toward Asia. After I woke up, too soon to see where the line
would stop, I started the journey, flying from country to country—Thailand, Indonesia, the
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