Rosary School

4.13.2005 – 10:20am (PNG)

The drive from Goroka to Rosary Kondu is quite an experience. The scenery is spectacular. Lush, mountainous green landscape everywhere you look. Low hanging clouds crown the mountain tops. Highlanders are everywhere – small food stands, beer shacks, farmers, road workers and wayward travelers (walking is THE mode of transportation in the mountains). We have to slow down to dodge a pig or goat every few kilometers. *My head is in on a constant swivel, trying to take it all in.* The road is rough – the pot holes are more like pot ponds. I am sitting in the back row of a van, right on top of the wheel so each bump sends me flying into the ceiling. The chickens we are transporting from Goroka shriek louder as the terrain gets worst. It is quite a ride.

*Killing a pig that does not belong to you is a serious crime in PNG, which requires considerable ‘compensation’ to the guilty party. Not only that, if you are caught in the act, you are liable to get a severe beating. During our security session, we were instructed ‘if you happen to hit a pig whilst driving, KEEP GOING.*

QUICK NOTE TO MY MOTHER: Mom, I will not be getting behind the wheel of a car up here in the highlands. I promise. Deep breath… there you go.

The school is quite a large complex. Most of the faculty and staff live on school property with their families. Since this is a boarding school, there are dormitories for the over 500 students. The administration has been extremely polite and everyone seems happy that I am here. A lot of handshakes. In PNG, handshakes are very sacred displays of respect and friendship that can last a few minutes. Some people will continue to shake your hand during the entire introductory conversation and it is rude to pull away. I don’t mind it at all.

The school used to be run by an order of brothers. I am staying in a domicile that housed three of the holy men. Catholic symbols are all over the walls. My quarters are real decent. I have a lot of space, a new fridge and the place is tidy. I would call the conditions ‘summer camp’ or maybe ‘beach house’ clean. You can’t call it dirty but it is certainly not clean. My bathroom is in a separate building behind my house and it is a little scary but I should be able to survive.

I get many waves and shouts of ‘moning’ and ‘apinoon’ as I walk the grounds. Everyone knows that a new volunteer - the American - has arrived and is anxious to meet me. The children absolutely stop dead in their tracks when they see me and stare at me wide-eyed. I smile and say hello and try my best to look casual. I probably fail miserably. As I go by, I hear them whisper ‘white man’. Strangely, there is a family that lives down the road with four children - the oldest boy is named ‘Whiteman’ and the oldest female is named ‘girl’. High comedy.