PNG to Corvallis in 12 hours . . . or so

I am back in the Northern Hemisphere. Back in America. Back in Oregon.

Gigi picked me up from the Corvallis shuttle at 7:00 pm last night. A strange time warp: for PNG (our time) it was noon on Wednesday. And yet, here in Oregon, it was only 14 hours after we had started the trip, at 5:00 am on Tuesday.

We went to the Farmer's Market today, and I was struck by the otherworldliness. The pristine tables, street, and sidewalk, all the food neatly arranged on tall tables (away from the dirt, animals, and bugs), colors vivid, air cool, everyone smelling of freshness and flowers (if they smell at all). And it isn't that I mind the cleanliness (who would?), but I don't mind the other world either: the mats on the mud, the small piles of roots and fruit, dirt still clinging to their skin, dirty water poured over to keep everything fresh, insects buzzing, people crowding, smells wafting. Todd announced at one point, driving by a downtown market, that this would be our moment of intensest culture shock. But all I felt was a deep sense of rightness, of being home. Is it strange that part of me likes the smell? The stench of sweat reminding me that we are all human and alive, vulnerable in our bodies, created of tissue and tendons, beautiful, breakable, and salty. We, who are the pristine "ghost people" (and often forget that bodies ever naturally had a smell), try to remove all traces of dirt from our midst, unless it has been first cleansed and sterilized. Treated with antiseptic and bleach.

And I am not sure how to fathom this coexistence: PNG and America (or Western Civilization, if you will), not only in the same universe, but on the same planet. They seem to be mutually exclusive states of being, yet I have walked the roads of both, and my memories, emotions, and longings are entwined (perhaps as strongly) with the stained-glass of Notre Dame as the hot dust of Lae's dirty streets. I have always felt off-kilter by this dual-belonging, unsure of where I fit, or how I can mold myself to either. Yet, transitioning from the heat of Lae, to the cool mornings of PNG's "Little America" (Ukarumpa), I realized what I've always known: I grow accustomed to the comfort, but I thrive in the simplicity.

Life, intense and bare and real (with all its smell and dirt), is a living thing, heavy with peace.