Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
“She
is
bigger,” Phillip insists, pointing to the plain evidence on the page.
“The house looks small because it's far away. Have you noticed how things get smaller
when you move away from them?”
Phillip looks unconvinced, but he translates my explanation. The family stares at me in
stony silence. One man squints at me as if I have the Mark of the Beast emblazoned on my
forehead.
“Suppose you tell a friend goodbye and you watch him leave the village,” I try again as 10
pairs ofeyes watch me suspiciously.“Doesn't he get smaller and smaller as he walks away?”
More silence. Then a distinct muttering. “Why are you not telling the truth?” Phillip asks
quietly.
Inthenarrow,junglyvalleysofSandaun,maybenooneevergetsthechancetoseefarinto
the distance. Thinking this, I give in: “Tell them that in my country we have people of differ-
ent sizes. This woman is a giant standing in front of a little person's house.”
My hosts look relieved that I've stopped lying.
“Do you know John?” asks Phillip. John, I've heard, is an American anthropologist who
came to Bimin 10 years ago and has since left. As we're both Americans, no one can under-
stand why I don't know John. Now the father begins to compare us. “John is fat, but you are
fatter,”Philliptranslates.“AtthedangerousplaceonthewaytoBimin,healmostfell,butthe
Lord saved him. Yaiiee! We will pray hard to the Lord not to let you fall tomorrow.”
I try not to think how large a role the Lord might be expected to play in all this.
“John speaks Bimin and you don't,” the father continues. “John used to sing for us. Can
you sing?”
For an instant, I hate John. I've never been able to carry a tune, and no way am I going to
sing. Then just as suddenly I feel ashamed of myself. I seem to be reverting to an infantile
sibling rivalry.
To satisfy my hosts, I sing a Japanese nursery rhyme that involves more chanting than
singingandhaslotsofhandmotionstodrawattentionawayfrommyvoice.Sooneveryoneis
waving their hands over their heads and exclaiming with me in Japanese, “Uh-oh! The turtle
is falling down!” Then I remember that the Japanese word for “turtle” is pronounced almost
the same as the one for “the Lord,” and that many a missionary has perplexed his Japanese
congregation with long, impassioned sermons on “Our Savior the Turtle.” I can't help wish-
ing I'd picked a luckier song.
When I start to nod off, I'm shown into a room barely large enough to hold the family's
bows and arrows and spears, propped against a wall, and a stained, child-sized mattress that
smellsofurine.Howdidtheygetamattressuphere?Didthemothercarryitwithatumpline?
IconsidercoveringitwithmyrainponchosoIwon'thavetoliedirectlyonit,butdecidethis
might be impolite.
