Hands and Feet

“Oh, yes. They knew.” We swing into the dusty spread of cinder block and corrugated iron dwellings which compose much of Hagen. Barefoot, half’dressed tribesmen curiously surround our van and stare at me as always, at the lone wait meri. Willy explains that he’d recognized those Opoka men, that they were friends of his and he’d needed to buy a tire from them.

“With us in the car?!”

Willy smiles as if at a small child, as if to tell me that I haven’t learned the rules yet. And he’s right. I haven’t. I am hopelessly bewildered.

He talks slowly, patiently. “They know if they take someone I don’t give them 40 kina for the tire.”

Of course. I nod. Only where they can wear ass grass on asphalt, I think as I get out. I wonder what might have happened if Willy hadn’t been interested in any business deals, but to wonder such a thing is craziness. Wondering about anything in P.N.G. is to create fear, and fear-not violence-is the real enemy. A person can become immobilized by fear. An entire country can shut down from it. Better to smile and count blessings over the changing of the storm. Better still: don’t count anything at all.

Getting out of the van, I become aware again that I’m sick. Too sick for all this traveling business, for hands and feet on the sides of roads and adrenaline rush highs. Maybe when I return home, I’ll tour the South Side of Chicago. Somewhere safe.

Deomi greets an older man. Her father? She smiles and waves goodbye to me, polite to the end. She says it was nice meeting me.

I tell her, good luck.

Kira Salak’s work appeared in the spring issue of grand tour, as well as in a recent issue of Witness. She received her MFA from the University of Arizona and is currently writing a book about her travels in Papua New Guinea.