Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
there is only one spot from which a fall would surely be fatal; elsewhere, you can't plunge
more than 30 feet.
I fail to find his words reassuring.
Suddenly hungry for the surer comfort of cookies, I stop Soriben. She is toting my back-
packsideways,withoneshoulderstrapdrawnacrossherforeheadlikethetumplinelocalwo-
men use when hauling firewood. I fish my Oreos out of the pack. When I hold out the pack-
age to offer her one first, Soriben grins widely and takes not just one cookie but the whole
package.ForseveralmomentsIstandfrozenwhileshewolfsdownmypreciousOreos.Then
I snatch the package away and pass it on to Dani, who also seems to think I want her to have
all the cookies. By the time I grab it from her and dole out two cookies each to the remaining
girls, every Oreo has been devoured. I crumple the empty cellophane wrapper in my fist, not
trusting my guides, feeling vexed and helpless.
From the next ridge, we can see Memnahop—a clump of five or six thatched-roofed huts
clinging to the mountain about two-thirds of the way up. To reach it, we have to dip sharply
into a jungly river valley and clamber up the other side. Branches, barbed vines, and succu-
lents tear at my clothes and skin. There is no longer any trail that I can discern. Nor is there
any such thing as admiring the scenery. The ground is so uneven I have to look down con-
stantly to avoid tripping on a tree root or walking off the edge of a hidden cliff.
Once, as I follow the girls along a wet, rotten log, I decide to step off the log into what
looks like underbrush, and I sink up to my knees in thin air. It happens too fast for fear.
There's only time to feel shocked, my legs flailing uselessly beneath me, my wide hips mo-
mentarily catching me.
Withworriedyelps,CorinandDaniturnaroundandyankmeup.ThenIadjustmyglasses-
holder and watch the ground more carefully. After several minutes of dazed, unsteady walk-
ing,thepanickythoughtthatIcouldhavediedinthatsinkholecatchesupwithme.Thisisall
because of my dream-map, I think suddenly. Though I've long ago stopped believing in the
Lord that guides my missionary parents, it occurs to me that now I harbor my own mad faith.
In fact, mine is madder. Am I going to get myself killed because of a red line glimpsed in a
dream?
When at last I look up, I see angels hovering in the mist over the bushes just ahead. I wonder
briefly if I'm already dead. I wipe the sweat off my glasses and look again, but there's no
mistaking those golden halos. Closer up, the angels become babies astride their mothers'
shoulders. Brown, naked babies with blond Afros. In the New Guinea mountains, often ba-
bies are born with yellow or copper hair that later turns black. Sometimes children too young
to walk are taught to cling to their mothers' heads so that women will have their hands free
to negotiate the steep terrain, which explains why I see the babies first, before I notice that
most of the adults of Memnahop are standing in front of their houses, waiting to greet us.
