Invisible In Papua New Guinea (cont.)

I finally stop beside a couple of relatively respectable looking men.  They are middle-aged and dressed in clean clothes.  It’s as close to respectable as we’re going to get.  “Can you tell me where the mission house is?” 
     
Their eyes light up with prospects. This was a bad idea.  They blatantly scope out the truck for loot.  Finding only two grimy backpacks, they point out the way.  “It’s farther up the road.”  
 
I pull up to a formidable gate.  Two middle-aged white men pull it open.  It’s like entering a forbidden civilization.  We pass through the gates into a surreal replica of 1950’s suburbia.  Impeccably manicured yards and street names like Buttercup Lane and Church Street.  Couples walk uptight little dogs, their pooper scoopers wielded like staffs.
     
“If they ask us about our religion, just tell them we were raised Catholic,” I say.  “The last thing I want to deal with right now is a hopeless debate with a bunch of zealots.”
     
Maya nods absently.  “God, I gotta pee!” 
     
We giggle a little, and it breaks the tension between us. I turn into a circular driveway.
     
A frantic voice scurries from the porch, “My goodness, we were so worried!  Thank the Lord you’ve arrived!”  The old woman waddles down the steps, wheezing.  “No one drives that road anymore.  Even in the daytime.  It’s way too dangerous.  Everyone flies in now.  Oh! I was so terribly worried about you girls!”  Her voice is like a beaten bagpipe.  It would grate on me if I weren’t so relieved to be here.
     
The wooden floors shine; there’s not a speck of dust to be seen.  A fire crackles in the huge stone fireplace.  Dinner smells waft from the kitchen.  My stomach unfurls from its knot.  I’m overcome with hunger.   
     
“Dinner is almost ready.  I’ll show you to your room so that you can clean up,” says the old woman.  She frowns at our grimy clothes. 

“Please change before you sit on anything,” she sniffs as she walks away. 
     
We close the door and collapse on the beds laughing until we can’t breathe.  “I’m so hungry,” I groan.  “I hope the food is as good as the rooms.”
      
We clean ourselves up, and then make our way to the brightly lit kitchen.  A gaunt man gives us a curt nod. He looks us over with a tight, contemptuous face.  His eyes linger on Maya’s braless chest.  He walks over to the cook, a young Melanesian woman, and barks orders at her in pidgin.  She cringes, as if she expects to be slapped.     
     
An older couple is already seated at the table. They look us over: our hippie clothes and fit bodies.  They don’t bother to hide their scorn.   
     
Dinner is served: bloated sausages of questionable content, mashed potatoes with shreds of ham, petrified rolls. 
    
 I try to be discreet.

“Have some sausage, young lady!” the old man barks.
     
“I’m a vegetarian,” I answer and brace myself for an onslaught.
     
A few sniffs of disapproval are my punishment.  They chalk up another mark against me. 
     
I take some mashed potatoes and diligently pick out the bits of ham.
     
“Do you know what we do here at this mission?” the old man asks.
      
Maya and I shake our heads.
     
Proud smiles all around as he begins, “Our mission is to translate the Bible into every language on earth.  There are over seven hundred distinct dialects in Papua New Guinea.  Almost none have a written language.  Therefore, the dialects must first be analyzed phonetically.  The sounds converted into words.  Then a dictionary must be compiled of the dialect and finally the translation of the Bible can begin.”
     
The woman says, “May I ask what your religion is?”
      
“I was raised Catholic,” I say triumphantly.
     
The woman’s face slackens. 
      
"I—I don’t know,” Maya blurts out. 
     
I stifle a groan.  She stammers, and her face grows red as she tries to debate them.  She looks to me for help, but I just shake my head.  She hasn’t yet learned that it’s better to keep quiet than to try to win with hellfire fundamentalists.   

My dreams this night are of a Jesus with a malevolent leer.
         
In the fog-obscured dawn as we climb into the truck to leave, the old woman says, “I have a gift for you girls.”  She hands each of us a pocket Bible.  To Maya she says, “You’re going to Hell if you don’t mend your ways.”

Maya nods meekly and bites her tongue.   

The old woman turns to me.  “Catholic is better than nothing, I suppose.  Help her to see the light.”

“Oh, I will,” I answer.  We wave as we pull away.

“Little Miss Prissy,” Maya mocks me.

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