Travel Reference
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“You arrived,” he laughs, then announces in Pidgin to the crowd that I need someone pa-
tient. “Patient,” he says again. “The lady is very fat. She needs someone to carry her back-
pack and lead her by the hand.” I nod. What else can I do?
After the crowd confers, they push five giggling girls in my direction, all about 10 years
old. I stare at them. Their faces hidden in their hands, all I can see are the tops of their close-
cropped Afros, their toothpick legs, their tiny, bare feet showing beneath the ragged hems of
their dresses, cloth so worn it's the same sepia shade as the patches of flesh, a match that at
first keeps me from noticing the many tears in the fabric.
“No,” I object. “Five is too many.” I can't afford to hire all of them.
“The girls live in Bimin and are returning there anyway,” Pius replies in English. “They
want to share this job.”
Thinkingtodiscouragethem,Ioffertopayonlyfivekina(aboutfiveU.S.dollars)adayin
wages, a mere pittance when divided five ways, but the girls actually look pleased. The deal
is struck.
Almostimmediately,Ibegintoregrethiringthem.Myfivenewemployees,notbeingfully
grown,areonlyaboutfourfeettall.Tostrapmyheavybackpackontooneofthosefrail-look-
ing creatures would, I fear, be child abuse.
Pius, however, laughs at my concern. “In these parts,” he says, “girls learn from an early
agetohaulhugeloadsoffirewood.Yourpackisnoheavierthantheburdensthesegirlscarry
every day.”
Still Iworry.When Iask the girls in Pidgin where Ican refill my canteen, they squeal with
laughter and run off the soccer field and hide. Finally, one girl creeps back. She looks shyly
at me, stifling her giggles enough to say that she is called Sipin. She has a fine-chiseled face,
ahighforehead,andexquisitelytinyears.Withlightsteps,Sipinleadsmetoalittlewaterfall.
“That's Soriben, Ana, Corin, and Dani,” she says when we rejoin the others. Her compan-
ions,Sipinexplains,haveneverbeentoschoolanddon'tknowEnglishorPidgin,thenation-
allanguage.SipinspeaksalittlePidgin,pronouncingeachsyllableinaclear,flute-likevoice,
but her vocabulary is almost as limited as mine, a fact that doesn't augur well. The others
speak only Bimin. None of the girls have any idea how old they are. And none of them, not
even Soriben—the tallest girl, a gangling kid with a goofy smile—can be more than 12.
We begin walking up a succession of muddy hills. Or rather, they walk. I slip and slide.
Instead ofzigzagging, thetrail tackles thehills head-on,uponesideanddowntheother,asif
blazedbysadisticgymteachers.Asthehillssteepen,thetreesthin.Inolongerhaveanything
but the girls' hands to hold on to.
FromahilltopIcatchaglimpseofthemountainwewillhavetocrosstomorrow.Although
thesummitishiddeninmist,thepartIcanseelooksdauntinglysheer.IrecallwhatNigeltold
me: The climb is one that mountaineers consider easy. It requires no special equipment, and
