the men in the Jayapura airport ash their clove cigarettes directly onto the floor. I sit on the floor reading Berenstain Bears to a two year old and a five year old; we share our books with a young Papuan woman and her child with enormous eyes. we smile and nod at each other, but can only share terima kasih. a man with glasses nods at me and we trade selamats. “how many?” he asks appraisingly, less of the boys than of me. “they’re not mine,” I say, and he leaves without further conversation.
*
ambulances carry dead people. funeral processions look like motorcycle gangs. imprisonment follows raising the flag of the independence movement, so Bob Marley, and Che Guevara walk around on t-shirts and posters, strange surrogates for freedom. police vans carry groceries for extra cash, while garbage trucks are cheap transport.
*
high over the Baliem valley, the mountain streams are sand. below, fish live in the garbage ditches and no, don’t drink the tap water. we bathe in the river with other children; they laugh at us in a language we do not understand. they bring soap to the water’s edge. later we shower in secret at home.
