8. Mama

“Hello. You like some tobacco, miss?” I hear a voice from behind me ask. “How about a coconut? This one is very juicy.” I turn around and see a friendly face smiling at me. “Hello. I’m not looking for tobacco, or a coconut. I was hoping to find some fresh flowers though. Maybe a few blossoms…” I watch as she scans the market. “No. No flowers here today.” I’m not sure if she’s actually looking to see if there are any flowers, or if she’s keeping an eye on her stall where she sells her merchandise. Her soft eyes reconnect with mine. “You won’t find flowers here. This market is for fruits. And the vegetables. Maybe some fish… and of course, tobacco. Look…” I follow her as she leads me towards a woman selling thick braids of tobacco. “This is only two Kina. It makes twenty to thirty cigarettes.” “Well, that sounds like a good deal, but I don’t smoke. Thank you, anyway. I think I’m going to look around…” “No coconut?” I shake my head and leisurely make my way between some of the other vendors. With no flowers for sale I decide to switch gears and take some images. A young girl’s curious and bright eyes catch my attention. I smile at her, but she shyly looks away. It’s then that I see a cute yellow and red flower that is on her cheek. “Hello. My name is Lisa.” She looks at me, studying my face. “Do you understand English?” She nods her head. “You are very pretty. Do you mind if I take your photo?” Her face lights up and she flashes a big smile. I take her image and then start to show it to her on the back of my camera. As I do this, I’m quickly surrounded by a group of women who don’t seem happy. They are saying things to me in their local language. I don’t understand. Uh-oh… “Mama? Is Mama here?” The woman that tried to sell me a coconut points to another woman and says, “This is Mama.” “Hello,” I say to her. “Is this your daughter?” “Yes. She is my youngest.” “Is it okay that I took her photograph? Look, I’ll show you…” I turn my camera and show her the young girl’s image on my LCD. This seems to appease her and I feel a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I just thought she looked pretty with the flower on her cheek.” “No. It’s okay.” The group of women go back to what they were doing and walk away. All except for “Mama” and another woman. “You said she is your youngest. How many children do you have? You look so young.” “I have – had – six children. Three boys and three girls. My middle daughter died.” “Oh my God. I am so sorry. Sometimes I ask too many questions.” She continues, “She was hit in the head with a coconut. It fell from the tree.” The woman still standing to her right nods in agreement. “She was playing,” tears start to fill her eyes. “She was playing with some children, under the tree. She died from the injury to the head.” “I don’t know what to say, except, I am so very sorry. She continues, “And my husband, the lung caused death.” “Your husband also died?” “Yes. From the bad lung.” I’m stunned by what she is so openly sharing with me. It’s heartbreaking to learn. “Again, I am so sorry,” I say, trying to offer empathy. “Do you have a stall here? Are you selling vegetables? I would like to buy something to help support you and your family.” “No. I no sell here. I service the boys.” There is a pause in our conversation. I’m stunned by her candor and comfort level with me. “You are a prostitute?” I ask. “Yes. In the next village. I service the boys there.” I look to the other woman who is nodding her head in agreement. This is a first for me, and rather than change the subject, and since she is so open, I decide to stay with it. “This work is your business? How you make your living?” “Yes.” “Do you go to a health clinic to make sure that you are safe with it?” “I go to Planned Parenthood, but the boys no like condoms.” “So you don’t use them to protect yourself?” “No.” “What about birth control?” “No, no birth control. I go to the clinic for family planning.” “But if you go for family planning, I’m sure that they advise you on these things.” “Yes. But I no listen. I need to make money to feed my five children.” I pause the conversation, not sure if I should say what I really want to say, or if I should just leave. I look over to her daughter who has moved away from us and is with a playmate. I look at all of the women, busy working in the market. I look to the woman who is standing with us. Then I look back to “Mama”. I search her eyes wanting to say about a million different things to her. My mind races with concerns and questions – all of which are none of my business. Knowing it will haunt me to not say something, anything, to try and prevent an unwanted pregnancy or HIV, I step a little bit closer to her. “Mama, I have to say something. I know it is not my place, but I’m going to do it anyway. When you go to the clinic, please do as they teach you. Please be safer – if not for you, then for your five children.” She stares at me and I’m not sure if she’s going to start crying, or if she is going to yell at me. I continue. “Your children need you. They do not have their papa. They need you to be safe and healthy.” Her eyes are glued to mine. “I’m sorry for your struggle, but please be smarter with your work. Please use protection to take care of yourself.” I stop talking, wondering if I’ve gone too far. I feel like I said it as nicely as I could, but I also feel like I quickly crossed a line with our conversation. “Mama” doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me. I look around and see that my guide is near the entrance to the market. I’m glad that I know where she is, just in case I’ve gotten myself into some trouble… I look back at the two women and “Mama” says, “The boys no like condoms. I make no money…” Saddened by her words, I simply nod my head, understanding what she is telling me. I give her some Kina and say goodbye. I feel like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders as I leave the market. I’m almost to the entrance when I hear, “Miss! Miss!” I turn around and see the woman that had tried to sell me a coconut. She’s running up to me. “She is lying to you!” “What? What do you mean she’s lying to me? Is she not a prostitute?” “Oh, yes. She is a prostitute. Everyone knows this.” “So what part is the lie?” “Her husband. He is not dead. He is at home. He sends her from the house to do this work. He is lazy!” My head starts to swirl… “Wait. What? He makes her do this?” “Yes. He no work! Lazy…” “Wow. I need to repeat this, to make sure that I’m hearing you correctly. What you’re telling me is pretty messed up. So he’s at home, knowing what she’s doing?” “Yes. He no care. He drink! He no die. Her mother died.” “Wait. What? What do you mean her mother died? How is this part of the story?” “It is why she is so sad. She no care. She misses her mother and daughter so much.”