humans are funny

Category: papua new guinea

  • Who We, Like, Become

    When I went to Papua New Guinea in 2009, I met a villager who asked me the name of my homeland. I told her the USA and she asked, “The United States of Africa?” Then she smiled and tried to sell me the head of a pig. A dead pig. It was on a platter. We were surrounded by shoeless people and fresh-really-fresh vegetables. I think about her all the time. And I think about who I was when I met her: dirty, curious, spontaneous, fearless (Okay, not totally fearless– there were warring tribes and machetes everywhere and maybe I slept with my flashlight). I vowed to always be at least a part of that girl no matter what. I came home convinced I’d never wear makeup again. I wanted to forever be a traveling hippie.

    And then I hired a lady to clean my apartment.
    I was okay with it for a while because, as I learned after I posted about her a few weeks ago, I joined a very large club of dirty Angelenos. I learned the rule that everyone in LA has a house cleaner but nobody in LA admits to having a house cleaner. I got plenty of emails saying, “Thank you for saying something. I’ve been feeling so guilty about it.”

    I felt like a maid pioneer, like I was maid to have a maid (sorry).

    But then she broke my toothbrush holder.

    It was a very special toothbrush holder that sticks to the wall so that it doesn’t take up counter space. I bought it at CB2. I swear this will be important information if I haven’t lost you yet. The house cleaner didn’t say anything about it. She simply moved my toothbrush to my shower and pretended like it didn’t happen. I mean, she broke my toothbrush holder.

    But this really wasn’t something I could tell anyone. I wanted to complain about the injustice! I wanted to tell people how rude it is for a maid to break something and not even apologize. But who goes to work and says, “Oh my god, you guys, my maid like totally broke my toothbrush holder.” I thought about that girl staring into the eyes of that pig head in Papua New Guinea and complaining to that villager that maids really shouldn’t break ceramic toothbrush holders because there are very few convenient CB2 locations, and….

    WHO HAVE I BECOME!?
    HELP!? I am an adult. A member of society. A member with a maid and an iPhone. I don’t wear the same clothes every day anymore (mostly), and I have brushed my hair within the last 72 hours. WHaAAAAaoooaaaaaa?! I am the person I was running away from when I left to travel.

    I need to head out with a backpack. I need to stop painting my nails. I need to dance to some drums and eat something that could possibly give me diarrhea. STAT.

    Once I realized that I’m a maid hirer with a broken toothbrush holder, it opened my eyes to who else I am. Here are some expressions I have uttered just this week, expressions that do not pass the Papua New Guinean test, expressions that would make me hate myself if I weren’t going to psychology school to learn how to not hate myself:

    -I can’t believe Starbucks is out of Spinach/Feta wraps again.
    -I have to call you back. I can’t concentrate at the self check-out while I’m on the phone.
    -I can’t believe my favorite pop-up restaurant is closing.
    -I’ll take the juevos rancheros with tofu instead of eggs. And can you put the sauce on the side?
    -I’m not eating carbs until summer is over.
    -Should I get my teeth whitened?
    -I really think my hair should frame my face a little more
    -Let’s sign up for a 10k
    -I have such a craving for an oaky wine.
    -I just can’t keep up with all my texts and emails.
    -Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?

    I just want to apologize to that New Guinean villager for not keeping the promise I made to her as I stared into her dead pig’s eyes. I mean, I didn’t make a literal promise to her, but if we had been in a class together and she had been able to write English, she would have definitely written in my yearbook, “Don’t Change.” But I did change. I’m on the other side. I will come back, my friend. And I will be wearing my Barack Obama T-shirt for 8 days in a row like I was then. And I will have dreads in my hair after not moving it for nine months. And I will not care about the Starbucks’ menu or a dumb toothbrush holder. But I might bring up teeth whitening just so we can have a funny conversation. And I might also try to describe pizza to you once again, as that one was memorable. And I will eat that magic sauce you offer me, even though I know it’s just soy sauce and not magic at all. Or maybe totally magic.

    It will happen again, as I am still that wandering, wondering girl. I’m just in a phase of the First World for a bit. But not for long. Now that I’ve tasted two personalities, I can walk the scraggly line in between them and one day hone in on a balance. Until then, I will continue to enjoy those spinach/feta wraps from Starbucks. Surprisingly good. Yep, still hate myself for writing that. I should quit that psychology school.

  • Unrapable.

    Sometimes I perform this live to illustrate how funny humans are. I thought I’d post it here too:

    When my friend asked me to be her bridesmaid, I said yes. In my near 30 years of life nobody had asked me to be in their wedding, and I was dying for an opportunity to prove to my family I had a friend.

    Then she told me her wedding was in Australia. Shit. In order to be in someone’s inner circle, I had to take an expensive trip. I’m not the type of good friend who will pay a thousand dollars for airfare and spend the week running around preparing for someone else’s big day. If I was going to spend a thousand dollars, I would have to see all of Australia. And if I was flying all the way to Australia, I would have to see Papua New Guinea too.

    I also decided that I couldn’t go all the way to Papua New Guinea without seeing Japan, and I couldn’t go all the way to Japan without seeing Vietnam. So, I quit my job and decided to travel around the world for a year. Sometimes you have to go to some great lengths to be a good friend.

    Since I was so busy putting things in storage before my trip, I had no time to research anything. I knew nothing about Papua New Guinea except that it was next to Australia. I saw that there was a cheap flight to the mountain town of Tari so I booked one. I did read one blog that said I had to write a letter (with a pen and paper– the horror!) to the one hotel owner in Tari. They had no phone or internet. No phone or internet? How did they live? I wrote the letter, excited to see what type of world could exist without email forwards from moms or status updates about True Blood. I feared a culture I could not win over with jokes about MySpace. Top 8!

    After the wedding, at which I was the only single person, I was on my own to travel like the hippie backpacker I always knew I was.

    I popped in a book shop to ask for a travel guide for Papua New Guinea.

    “Why would you ever go there?” the shop owner asked. “I guarantee you’ll be raped.”

    I felt scared. And slightly excited.

    I did a quick internet search and found a news story about Papua New Guinean women killing male babies to stop tribal wars. I’m not a male baby, and I don’t believe rumors ever since Donnie D’Alesandro told the whole junior high I put a cordless phone antenna up my vagina. Of course I was still going to Papua New Guinea.

    I stepped off the plane with an German man.

    “You’re here alone?” he asked. “You better watch out. You’re going to get raped.”

    I started to wonder if raping was just some sort of New Guinean custom. In Spain people greet each other with two kisses. In Papua New Guinea, maybe it’s a quick rape.

    Again, I felt scared and slightly excited.

    I had one night in the capital city of Port Moresby before I headed out to Tari the next day. I found a helpful welcome packet in my hotel room. It said atop a bright picture of a sun, “Welcome to Port Moresby! Please do not go outside. AT ALL. Even in the daylight. It’s not safe for tourists.”

    Hmmm… At this point I began to worry a little. I spent the night paying $25/hr to send goodbye emails to friends. And I wrote my will. My mom got everything in storage, which was a papazan chair and a magic bullet blender.

    The next morning, I hopped in my airport shuttle freshly shaven in case I was raped. I asked my shuttle driver what was the deal with the danger and the raping. He said, “Don’t worry about it. Most people who go to Tari come back.” “Most people?” I asked him. But by then the shuttle was being hijacked, so he didn’t have time to explain.

    From the plane, the country looked fake, a series of rivers criss-crossing perfectly like freeways. The amount of untouched green was shocking. A country can sure be beautiful when Westerners don’t barge in, claim the land for development, and kill off the natives. The passenger next to me was not wearing shoes and had two teeth. He did not seem at all like a rapist, so I settled in for adventure.

    The airport in Tari was a fence. When I got off the plane, thousands of villagers were waiting to see who was cool enough to ride a plane. That’s what you do when you don’t have phones or email. You gather to watch planes land. So many strange black faces stared at me through the fence. I was the one white lady as far as the eye could see, even a really good eye with 20/20 vision. I understood what it must have been like for the one black kid in my high school who everyone just expected to play basketball. These people just expected I buy stuff from them.

    First I had to find my guy, the one who surely had received my letter and was waiting for me to arrive. He wasn’t there.

    “Oh, that guy,” someone said. “He had to pay a tribal compensation so he went to go buy some pigs.”

    Oh. Ok. Of course, sure.

    Patrick, the self-appointed mayor of the mountain, took me under his wing and brought me back to his village to stay with his sister, Janet. It was there I immersed myself in true Papua New Guinean culture.

    I was one of the few white people to ever grace the town. The first one arrived in 1932 wearing pants and looking for gold. The villagers had never seen pants before, so they assumed he had a penis down to his ankle. They didn’t realize the white man was a human being until they spied on him and saw that he also squatted in the bushes to excrete brown snakes. Swear.

    White people to these villagers are pretty gross. A baby saw me and burst into tears. Cosmo magazine does not have Tarian issue, but if they did, the models in it would be large, dark skinned women with beat up hands. Men there like a woman who looks like she can work hard under the sun. The more meat on her the better.

    I told them that people had warned me I’d be raped, and they laughed and cackled. “Who would want to rape you?” They said with disgust. You are not fat enough. They gave me advice on how to be prettier though: eat more. I’m working on it.

    I have to admit that I felt a bit hurt for not being rapable. My instinct was to show them an American magazine and say ‘Hey look! This is the ideal you should be reaching for.’

    But then I heard myself telling them about our beauty ideals.

    Well, I said to shocked faces, We pay a lot of money to have a doctor break our noses and then shave the bones down and then put it all back together.

    Then they told me about marriages. Women are bought with 30-60 pigs and if a man is rich, he can buy as many brides as he wants. People hardly ever marry for love and couples never sleep in the same bed.

    I thought that was tragic and wanted to teach them about ‘Romeo and Juliet’ or another famous love story like ‘No Strings Attached.’ But then I heard myself telling them about American marriages.

    Well, I said to more shocked faces, we marry just one person. But most of us decide we don’t like them anymore after a few years. And many women in their forties shove silicone bags under their nipples and wear slutty dresses in bars so they can find a second or third husband.

    Then they told me about the lady friend. If a woman is menstruating, she is not allowed out of her hut and she can’t talk to men.

    I wanted to call Gloria Steinem and get her there to fix these misogynists!

    But then I heard myself telling them about abortion.

    Well, I said to more and more shocked faces, women pay a doctor to take a machine and kill the baby while it’s inside of them and then suck it out through a large straw.

    They had never heard of straws. Or Michael Jackson, electricity, sunscreen, wifi, soy lattes or even cheese.

    I felt the urge to run home, grab some electricity, a pizza, and a Netflix password to catch them up on everything. My instinct was to show these people what’s right and teach them that they should venture off their mountain and see the beach. Find some manchego!

    But who am I to say which lifestyle is better? I watch The Jersey Shore. (I mean, only sometimes. Not religiously or anything.)

    I was able to shower away my self-righteousness in the village’s cool natural stream after eating fresh pesticide-free vegetables from their gardens. Though those villagers convinced me to give them all my cash, I wasted no money at all. What I bought was perspective. And it’s what I needed so that I could truly appreciate all the other cultures I encountered during that whole year of traveling.

    Come to find out, I am unrapable in several other countries.

     

  • I’m a Chupacabra & You’re a Unicorn

    My friend, Madge, is 62. After her dining room table lasted her twenty years, she bought a new one.

    “It’s so weird to think this could be my last dining room table,” she said.

    Holy shit!

    I mean, Holy shit.

    I’ve heard that we are all going to die. I know people die. I saw my grandmother in her casket when I was eight (and poked her body because my cousin dared me to). Plus, my dad never calls me anymore, so I’m pretty sure he’s dead (although, I still slightly suspect he faked his death to move away to his secret family in Idaho– road trip to Idaho pending).

    I get it. People die. Everybody dies.

    I’ve even contemplated my own death. I like to ask myself about my own death pretty often. I’ll say, “Hey, Laurenne, would you be okay with dying today?” Or sometimes my own demise is forced upon me when I’m just walking in a really bad neighborhood (which I do pretty often because I like to live on the edge). I’ll say, “A bullet could go through your brain any minute now. Are you ready?”

    And usually it’s a yes. Usually, I think about all the times I’ve laughed in my life and all the people I love, and I say, “Yes, I think if I HAD to be okay with dying today, I’d be okay.” When I landed in Papua New Guinea and the guy in line behind me in customs told me he was 100% positive that I would be raped and maimed if I stepped into the street, I did it anyway because I had prepared myself mentally for my own death. And because I’m fucking crazy sometimes. And because I was in Papua New Guinea! Totally cool with dying after that.

    But mentally prepared for dying is one thing. Actually preparing for dying makes me want to crawl in a hole and avoid avoid avoid. Actually buying the last dining room set ever in your WHOLE LIFE…? I don’t like it and I don’t like that I don’t like it. Some cultures celebrate death. In Bali, they party when someone dies. The human is able to pass onto the next life, which has the possibility to be so much better. So why not celebrate? And in India, death is not so scary. If you’re a devout Hindu and you die by the Ganges, no biggie. But, in this society, death is looked upon as such a horrible ending. We escape conversations about death and whisper about the poor souls with cancer and then soak up boxes of tissues when they finally disappear.

    When we know death is close, we do everything we can to keep it away. We’ll undergo any operation necessary to hold on just days longer to our precious lives. Yet, we can’t stop ourselves from eating Big Macs and shooting up schools.

    Most people in this country believe in heaven, yet still we still hold on so tightly to life. Why is everyone so scared to go bowling with their great uncles in the sky? Either we’re all aware that we wouldn’t be dressed well enough to get passed the heavenly doormen, or there’s a little part of us that thinks heaven sure sounds like something we just made up to make us feel better about dying. We have no proof and no idea about what death could be. Really, dying is like walking into a dark room. What if we turn on the lights and it’s better than expected?

    I may tell myself I’m okay with dying sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I’m finished. I want to see more of the world and make more of a difference and love even more people and laugh a million more times. And to me, death takes that away. But maybe it doesn’t?

    I would like to salute my friend and her dining set for addressing death as the inevitable mystery that it is. It’s just some thing that happens. Perhaps not a horrible thing. We’re all going to die. And we don’t even know what that means.

    Possible things that happen when we die:

    1.   Our souls travel to a Universal hub. We have to take turns coming back to Earth to learn lessons. But we all think Earth is so boring and petty, so we have to Rock, Paper, Scissors for it.

    2.   We find out that all the mythical creatures actually exist in another realm. In this other realm, I am a chupacabra and you are a unicorn.

    3.   We find out we’ve been in the matrix. Laurence Fishburne is there and then we all wear black coats and then there’s an oracle and then some more stuff happens but I don’t remember cuz that movie was a long time ago.

    4.   We all become shape-shifting ghosts and we meet up once a day to watch all the human teenagers masturbate. Because we think it’s funny.

    5.   We find there really is a heaven and hell. And that we’ve actually been in hell this whole time.

    6.    Nothing at all happens. We just die. But there’s a perfect few seconds right before we realize there’s nothing when we’re able to regret ever wearing MC Hammer pants.

    Anybody else have a good theory?

  • If you buy culottes at noon on a Tuesday, I will hex you.


    I’m unemployed again.
    Yay!
    I was able to hold a job for three weeks.
    This time, I didn’t technically get fired like I did here. But my job ‘ended early,’ as they say. Actually they don’t say, but whatever. The point is that I’m back to sitting in cafes and eavesdropping.

    Some great quotes so far:

    “This song is Timbaland with Elton John! Elton John is getting good.”
    “If I take off my fairy costume, the magic is over.” (you must imagine the silky pastel dress that accompanied this comment.)
    “Should we get a breakfast burrito and roll the bootie dice?”

    Bootie Dice? Gross.

    Yesterday I decided not to head into a coffeehouse because I realized that spending ten bucks for hipster coffee from Papua New Guinea every day is really stupid when I’m on an unemployment budget. Plus, I know those guys in Papua New Guinea and they would never charge me 10 bucks a day for a couple coffees. Actually, they would ask me for 10 bucks a day and I would artfully whittle them down to at least 8.50.

    Instead, I took myself to Border’s in the mall. And man all mighty, the mall parking lot was full. FULL. At 11:30am on a Tuesday. Packed cafes and crowded malls: What is it that I’m not getting? There’s a secret society of the self-employed in LA and none will let me in. What is the fucking secret? How do these people earn livings and never have to walk into a cubicle?

    I saw a gaggle of women excitedly exiting Nordstrom Rack, and I yelled to them, ‘Hey ladies! How do you make money? How do you live in this city and pay your bills and your damn student loans and still laugh your morning away in Nordstrom Rack looking for deals on Laura Ashley culottes? How do you do it?’
    They ran away from me.
    But I put a hex on them, yes I did. Who’s smiling now, middle aged shoppers? Who?

    Then I made some guesses:

    1. These people have no shame in acquiring sugar daddies or mommas. If this is the case, I have very much no future in being a woman of leisure. I can’t do it. I feel guilty when my mom pays for me. There’s no way I could actually let a man say, ‘Baby, don’t work anymore. I’ll pay for everything.’ Gross. I would feel like I owed this man something– that I had to give him blow jobs on command. I would hate that. Sometimes I’m tired after work and I just don’t want to. Oh, wait. I wouldn’t be working. Option #1 now open for possibility.

    2. These people are involved in a pyramid scheme and/or they sell knives door-to-door and make their own hours. Not doing that.

    3.These people are on unemployment and/or welfare, which they are spending at Nordstrom Rack. No matter the dire circumstances of your finances, you gotta have nice throw pillows and a discounted designer pump. I get it. But I don’t qualify for either.

    4.These people have answered those ‘work from home’ ads on the internet that claim ‘total financial independence from your living room.’ Those ads weren’t a scam? Fuck. I could have been stuffing envelopes for years at my own leisure. Will look into this.

    5.These people don’t have any student loans or bills because their parents have paid for everything for them. That’s not an accomplishment, assholes.

    6.These people are bartenders, actors, and models who work at night or don’t work at all and have only a couch from Goodwill and a bag of Cheetos in the apartment they share with 3 other people. Not into it. I need my couch from Macy’s.

    7.These people have very successful blogs which they write every morning really early. And they’re funny and they have tons and tons of visitors who send their link to their friends and get even more traffic. And they make great big salaries based on ad revenue and writing opportunities, and all they have to do is write an entry every single day that makes people peel over in laughter, as evidenced by this woman. Oh, I can’t even think about these people because my skin begins to boil from hot jealousy.

    One day I will figure it out. One day. For now, I will head back to the cafe. Maybe if I eavesdrop for long enough, someone from the secret society will accidentally spill the 10-dollar beans.

  • It flew by

    Feb 5th, 2009 – Tari, Papua New Guinea
    Feb 5th, 2010 – Santa Monica, CA USA