Chalmers

One person I am always hearing about in my area is James Chalmers. I’d never heard of him before I went to Gulf, but he is a local hero; the missionary who was killed and eaten while spreading the good news to the local populations, well over a century ago.

He is a hero and a martyr, but along with his co-worker Oliver Tompkin, he is also a scar. They died on April 8 1901, but their death seems to weigh heavily on some people, as they seek a formal reconciliation with the descendents of Chalmers and Tompkin*. Different reconciliation ceremonies have been planned, but each one so far has been cancelled for various reasons. Meanwhile, there are many men named James or Tompkin in my village, in memory of these martyrs.

One of the men I work with in the village wrote down the story that his grandmother told him about when Chalmers came to visit. She was seven years old, and this was the first white person she had seen. I have the story in writing, but am still building the language skills to really understand it. A century is not very long, in a strong oral culture.

Others tell of the dream that a leader had before Chalmers visited. They dreamed of a visit from a  guru mere , a thunder-child, and that when this thunder-child visited, that they should not touch him, or the thunder would come. When the man the colour of lightning visited, they did not touch him, but traded with him to receive salt and sugar and sent him on his way. In the coming months, at Goaribari Island, Chalmers and Tompkin went ashore to preach to a hostile group of locals. They were killed and eaten within the day. Some PNG missionaries working with Chalmers were also killed that day, but they rarely feature in the local stories.

The thunder did come, in the form of Australian troops sent in the wake of a Royal Commission into the death of the missionaries. Local stories paint a story of fear and massacre and tell of bullet holes being visible in trees many years later and cartridges being found buried in the earth after generations. Many had already fled the area, in fear of such retribution, but many had also stayed. From the little I know, it seems that even at the time people thought the retribution was out of proportion to the original crime.

More than a century later, these men are largely forgotten in the west, although in the years following Chalmer’s death he was placed on the same pedestal as David Livingstone** and there was a Royal Commision into their deaths. In Gulf Province though they are not forgotten but remembered and given credit for bringing the Gospel to the area, even though it cost them their lives.

  “The Reverend Jame Chalmers in 1895, six years before he was murdered and eaten by cannibals on Goaribari Island in Papua. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote of him that he was ‘the most attractive, simple, brave and interesting man in the whole Pacific.’”

Photo and quote from John Ryan (1969) The Hot Land:Focus on New Guinea, Melbourne:Macmillan.

Someone had the remains of a copy in the village, which is where I took this photo, but they did not have the verso page any more.

*My limited internet searching indicates Chalmers had no descendents and Tompkins may not have had any either, but reconciliation with the descendents of their extended family or of their counrty of origin, remains something people desire.

** Cuthbert Lennox (1902) ‘James Chalmers of New Guinea’ London: Andrew Melrose, p v.

Anigibi Adaptation

 Working in Ebegau (H.Schulz)

My third trip to work alongside the Kope people in translation was momentous enough, considering we started drafting Luke. We managed to complete the drafting and checking of two chapters, which is a fine effort for a translation team just beginning its work. This was apparently not enough for one trip though, as on the last day, another momentous thing happened when we visited the Anigibi.

The Kope translation team had been saying that the Anigibi should also have their own Bible, and that they should receive it at the same time as the Kope. The Kope and the Anigibi are closely related, both linguistically and socially, but have distinct social identities. They can understand each other when they talk, but their dialects have numerous differences. It is wonderful that the Kope care enough about the Bible, and about their neighbouring upstream tribe, to want to help them this way. It is also slightly scary when I can’t even speak Kope properly yet.

So, on the last day of my third village trip, we went to visit the Anigibi. We took with some of our drafts from Kope. I say some, as I did not have a printer in the village at that stage, and there was only so much of the good copy written out by hand that we could take with. Drafts in hand, we went visiting to see what people thought and how hard it would be to adapt the Anigibi into Kope.

 Working in Titihui (H.Schulz)

First we went to Ebegau village, the furthest upstream. We sat in the shade with members of the community, reading through the Kope and using a red pen to change it to Anigibi as needed. About every second word needed changing, but the changes were consistent. Once the changes were done, we re-read the whole thing in Anigibi, to many smiles from the gathering crowd as they heard the text so clearly.

Next we visited the village of Titihui. This is right bedside the airstrip I was flying out of later that day, and not far from Teredau mill where many Kope and Anigibi people work. Once again, we sat in the shade with our drafts and Tompkin, a Kope translator, worked through the adaptation process with some Anigibi people.

As we heard the plane circling to land, an hour earlier than expected, we grabbed my luggage, rushed through the last changes, looked at the threatening clouds and headed for the airstrip. Unfortunately the pilot had not received my message to stop at the river end of the airstrip, so we had to walk the length of the strip in the pouring rain for me to board.

Flying back to the Highlands, I was feeling thankful and overwhelmed. Thankful that the Kope were so keen to help their neighbours. Thankful that the Anigibi were keen to have God’s word in their language. Thankful that the adaptation seemed to be a straightforward affair. Yet overwhelmed, as I can barely speak Kope and had just been handed the responsibility of supporting another tribe to have the Bible. Overwhelmed because I have no idea how to go about that well, for although the adaptation process may speed up the drafting, there is still much work to be done in checking etc. Overwhelmed because two full on months in the village had just ended with a wonderful development, and a tropical drenching. Yet overall I was thankful, because God is more than able to make things happen, even when I am not.

Ebegau from the air…it’s a very small village! (H.Schulz)

Life and Death while Village Checking

During our two days of village checking in Bavi we sat in an open-sided longhouse between the village and the river. From there I could watch village life as it passed by, and village death too.

Firstly, from my perch I saw a young man have a seizure. His parents carefully looked after him, which was a sign to me that this was not a new thing. When I could, I went over to have a chat with his parents about their son, taking someone with to help me with translation.  I then started messaging my friend who is the doctor at Kikori Hospital, sending details about the boy, receiving questions in return and sending more information as I could. It was a medical consult by messenger that resulted in his parents being encouraged to take their son to see her when she next visited the area to do clinics. Hopefully they do!

Later in the day, a logging barge went past on the river. All the kids, and plenty of adults too, lined the river bank to watch it pass. It was lightly loaded and had no trouble navigating the sandbanks in the river.

Watching the barge go by (H.Schulz)

When the school day ended, teenagers who attend school a little further along the river started coming home. They would paddle along, tie up their canoe and walk home, paddle in hand. I was amused by this as I was once at their school as they arrived. As the canoes came in, they tied them in a flotilla, planted their paddles on the river bank and went to class. My school had a bike rack, they had a flotilla. Where I wandered along swinging my bike helmet, they wandered along carrying an paddle. It is the same concept in a different context.

Risking a finger while feeding

star fruit to the parrot (H.Schulz)

As we worked on the checking, a semi-tame parrot joined us. He danced in the rafters. He hopped down and investigated any food anyone had. He was chased away as a nuisance and he kept coming back, adding some colour to the day.

The saddest part of the parade of life was when it became a parade of death. A child in the village became gravely ill, and his home was right across the path from where we were working. People gradually gathered at the house, kids peering in at the windows and doors until they were chased away. This happened late in the day, and as we left for the evening to stay in the next village (Gibi) just along the river we did not know if the child lived or had died. As we left, the women who had been working with us went to pray with the family in their time of need.

During the evening and the morning, many rumours came our way. The child had died. The child still lived. It was not the child, but the mother who was dead or near death. There was no clarity, but the decision was made to cancel the second day of checking out of respect for the family. We packed ourselves up and prepared to head back to our own village, Ubuo’o. As we passed the village where we’d been working, Bavi, we stopped to pick up a team member who had stayed with his family there overnight.

As we pulled up to the riverbank we found that the child had indeed died, but that the family and the community still wanted us to proceed with checking and were waiting for us. The family of the child had even provided a mat for me to sit on to demonstrate that they wanted us there. So, we unpacked the canoe and got to work.

The village was in a sombre mood. The teens had not gone to school, but remained at home. Kids were being hushed into silence when they got carried away. As we did our checking, the sound of wailing came from the house across the path from us. There was also the sound of sawing and hammering as some men made a coffin for the child in the yard outside the house. We continued with our checking making sure our own noise levels were never too high or that we laughed at anything. Discussing the joyful story of Christmas with this as our backdrop and soundtrack was quite a contrast.

Village Checking

Another level of checking in Bible translation is village checking, which comes after advisor checking. This is where we take the checked draft to another village, to a group of people who have not been at all involved in the translation process, and see how they receive it. We took our drafts from Ubuo’o village to Bavi village, where we spent two days sitting with a small gathering from the community, going over the work we had done. This not only provides fresh ears to the checking process, but involves a broader section of the tribe in the translation process. Having broad ownership is an important thing.

As usual, our journey to Bavi and back had its moments. The canoe we travelled in was over full, so part of the way there, as we were about to round a corner and enter some slightly choppy water, we pulled over to the river bank and dropped some people off. They waited on the bank until the canoe could take us to our destination and then come back and collect them.

 In the canoe, when only half full (Ikobu)

The checking process we used on arrival is much the same as the advisor checking, as we read the text as a whole, asked comprehension questions and discussed the finer points that were raised. My ongoing frustration is that people have not learnt the art of summarising a story. When I ask for the big picture, I get all the details. I think I may be on a one person mission to teach my region how to summarise when appropriate! I was encouraged by how well the Bavi community got involved and approved of the translation work, but my biggest encouragement was in seeing the team who did the drafting take ownership of the process and reflect a number of the things which I had been teaching them.

One challenge that we often have is what words to use for introduced concepts. Although my Kope is a long way from fluent, I know that when I hear talk of ‘bogobogo made’ (white talk) that this topic has been raised again. This time it was raised concerning the use of ‘boromakai’ for ‘cow’, a term borrowed from the Tok Pisin ‘bulmakau’. They wanted to use ‘boomo’ or ‘pig’ instead. The problem is that Mary and Joseph were good Jewish parents and would never have laid their child in the pig-food-place. If we had a generic term for ‘animal’ in Kope we would use that, but we don’t (as far as I know!), so a cow-food-place it is. Counting and numbers are the other area where people were worried about using English numbers, but as their own counting system is limited, it is hard to use it beyond about three. Our compromise is that we write the number as a figure not a word, and leave the reader to decide how they’ll say it.

 Sitting in a longhouse in Bavi doing checking (H.Schulz)

When these two issues came up, the team who had done the drafting did a great job of explaining to the Bavi checkers why we had made the choices we had made. There was then agreement that these were the right words for the text.

Another challenge is that people want to use all the old words in the Bible, effectively creating the King James Kope version. As they do this to record the ‘pure’ language, I encourage them to write these words down for the dictionary instead, and to write stories using them that we can turn into readers. This way the words are recorded, remembered and used, but the Bible remains a source of clear communication. It was good to see the translation team talking about the need for the Bible to communicate, not just be a place to store old words.

The biggest area in which I could see the growth of the translation team was their graciousness is receiving feedback on their work. In a shame based culture, taking one’s work out for others to comment and critique is a risky affair. That the translation team accepted and appreciated the input of the Bavi folk was wonderful.

Drafting

On January 25 this year, we started drafting the Kope New Testament. It was a quiet yet momentous occasion. Since then we have got into more of a rhythm of how we draft, which I will try to lay out for you here.

Reading and reflecting (H.Schulz)

Firstly though, is the admission that my Kope language skills are not good enough to do drafting and that calling myself a ‘translator’ is somewhat misleading. At the same time, the Kope people are experts in their language and are good at drafting. My role is to train, support, equip, resource, mentor, check and advise. They are the translators; I am the advisor and supporter.

In my advisor role, I start the drafting process the night before any drafting happens. I sit and read through the original Greek text, relying on all the helpful resources on my computer to understand it clearly. I then turn to other resources including commentaries and notes from other translators, to help me think through the meaning of the text and what some of our translation challenges may be. In, under, with and through all this I am praying.

The next day the translation team gathers on my veranda to work. Once at least three of the team are there, we are ready to start, but in the meantime we chat about life. With the team assembled we pray for our work, open our Bibles and get started.

Writing and discussing (H.Schulz)

First we read through the portion of text we’ll be working on as a whole, to get the big picture. We read it in several different English translations, usually something easier to read like the Good News, something more literal like the New Jerusalem (my favourite) and something more middle of the road such at the NIV. We also read the Hiri Motu (trade language used in our area) and where possible watch the appropriate portion of the Jesus Film in Kope. After this we talk about what is happening in the text. Who are the main characters? What are the main events? What is the main point? Having this discussion helps to move us from a word by word translation that is stiff and loses meaning, to a translation that flows and captures the meaning of the text.

With the big picture in mind, we then start on verse by verse translation. Initially I encouraged the team to tell the story and then write it down, drawing on their skills as a primarily oral/aural culture, but the team has not taken to that method. Instead, they prefer to each write their version of the verse on individual pieces of paper. Once a few people have come up with an option, these are read out, discussed and the best way of saying something is agreed upon. This is then written on the blackboard for further discussion and refining. During this time of drafting I am often asked questions about the text and the meaning, drawing on my reading the previous night, and researching further as needed. Sometimes a verse takes ten minutes, sometimes more than an hour.

Putting our draft on the blackboard so that
everyone can see and contribute. (H.Schulz)

Verse by verse we chip away until the whole section is on the blackboard. We then read that as a whole and start another edit to make sure that the whole flows as well as each verse. This edit can easily take another hour. Sometimes I find myself frustrated by the time things take, and need to remind myself that I have the privilege of sitting with community and church leaders, discussing God’s word for hours on end.

With the edit done, it is time to write the good copy into the notebook. One of the team members will do the official copy, but often everyone else is writing their own copy as well. Once the good copy is written, it is proof read by another team member before being given to me to type into the computer. I hope to teach some members of the translation team computer skills in the coming months, but so far that has been one of my responsibilities.

This first step of drafting is slow and challenging, but it is exciting to see Luke’s gospel slowly unfolding before us.

…and Tide

 Village wharf as a spring tide comes in.

Time and tide wait for no one.

This is a maxim I thought I understood from my days sailing, but it has taken on new meaning as I live in the tidal delta area of Gulf Province PNG. Tides in our area average 2-3m, with spring tides sometimes going over 4m and neap tides having less than a metre variation at times.

This daily breathing in and out of the river system is part of life. It defines when and where you can travel, as some short cuts only work at high tide, and some routes are best followed with the flow of the tide, rather than travelling against it. The tide defines what people can catch and eat, as the greater the tidal variation in a day, the more the water is stirred up. I’m still learning which things are easier to catch in clear water, and which are more likely in muddy water.

 Same wharf when the spring tide went out.

Although the daily tide dictates life, it does not come into the village, but keeps within the river banks. It is king tides that cause flooding.

King tides occur due to a number of factors, growing bigger when some things align, such as when the partial solar eclipse occurred in January. Rain upstream from us also raises the water level, and although not a king tide, the flooding is similar.  This is when the water comes through the village, making life a little more interesting, as these photos show.

 

 Note the drain in this picture,
it is nearly a metre deep…

 …and vanishes in a king tide, so watch your step!

 Having avoided swimming in the drain with a mis-step,
I reached the bridge, only to find that it was floating,
which made crossing to the other side …’interesting’.

Language Learning; Assumptions and Imagination.

While learning Kope, I am organising my own daily language classes. In these approximately hour long sessions, I use a variety of approaches, but one of my main tools is pictures. I have a collection of old calendars from PNG, as well as series of pictures that make up a story, and sketches of life in PNG. Using these pictures we describe things, ask questions and tell stories. Along the way, I have discovered that my imagination and assumptions work differently to women I am sitting with and learning from.

One picture I intended to use to learn the phrase for ‘The boy is reading’. I got many phrases, but not that one. The boy was lying on the mat, the boy was looking at the camera, the boy was holding the book, the boy was looking at the pictures (of which there were none) and the boy wanted to read, but at no point was the boy reading. I was both frustrated and fascinated by our different assumptions. My teacher thought the boy was too young to read, so would not describe him as reading. He was also clearly looking at the camera, not at the book, so couldn’t be reading.

Reading? From SIL PNG 2014 calendar, June.
Photo by Catherine McGuckin.

Another time, I had been learning the many ways to say ‘go’, depending on who was going and when. I then wanted to switch to saying come, but hit a road block, because whenever I wanted to elicit the phrase for ‘we will come from X’, I was told that we had not gone there. After that I got extra practice with the phrases for going, as first we had to go before we could come. I was being abstract in my approach to language, but they were being much more concrete.

 A tiny picture of a frog chasing a snake
chasing a gecko that was the basis of a
fun story we made up.

I have been using a number of picture books to learn how to tell stories. The first time I gave the book to someone and asked them to tell a story, but they quickly got stuck. The next time I stumbled my way through the book, being corrected every second word, then asked them to tell the story. Most people would tell the story very much how I told it. Only one or two people would add their own colour to the tale. I wonder if this reflects a culture which values being able to remember and retell traditional tales more than it does being able to create new ones.

Pictures are a wonderful tool for language learning, but they still require common assumptions for the learning process to work.

Language Learning; Assumptions and Imagination.

While learning Kope, I am organising my own daily language classes. In these approximately hour long sessions, I use a variety of approaches, but one of my main tools is pictures. I have a collection of old calendars from PNG, as well as series of pictures that make up a story, and sketches of life in PNG. Using these pictures we describe things, ask questions and tell stories. Along the way, I have discovered that my imagination and assumptions work differently to women I am sitting with and learning from.

One picture I intended to use to learn the phrase for ‘The boy is reading’. I got many phrases, but not that one. The boy was lying on the mat, the boy was looking at the camera, the boy was holding the book, the boy was looking at the pictures (of which there were none) and the boy wanted to read, but at no point was the boy reading. I was both frustrated and fascinated by our different assumptions. My teacher thought the boy was too young to read, so would not describe him as reading. He was also clearly looking at the camera, not at the book, so couldn’t be reading.

Reading? From SIL PNG 2014 calendar, June.
Photo by Catherine McGuckin.

Another time, I had been learning the many ways to say ‘go’, depending on who was going and when. I then wanted to switch to saying come, but hit a road block, because whenever I wanted to elicit the phrase for ‘we will come from X’, I was told that we had not gone there. After that I got extra practice with the phrases for going, as first we had to go before we could come. I was being abstract in my approach to language, but they were being much more concrete.

 A tiny picture of a frog chasing a snake
chasing a gecko that was the basis of a
fun story we made up.

I have been using a number of picture books to learn how to tell stories. The first time I gave the book to someone and asked them to tell a story, but they quickly got stuck. The next time I stumbled my way through the book, being corrected every second word, then asked them to tell the story. Most people would tell the story very much how I told it. Only one or two people would add their own colour to the tale. I wonder if this reflects a culture which values being able to remember and retell traditional tales more than it does being able to create new ones.

Pictures are a wonderful tool for language learning, but they still require common assumptions for the learning process to work.

Dreams and Encouragement

I am from a mainline protestant background. Dreams and visions as answers to prayer were not really part of my liturgical upbringing. Sure, in theory we acknowledged that God could work in this way, but in practice we were cautious of the Pentecostals who claimed that God regularly did such things. Working in PNG, where there is no line between the spiritual and the physical world, and working in a non-denominational organisation of many and varied backgrounds, I have learnt to accept and appreciate the encouragement that God can give through dreams.

On my first night in Ubuo, the first night of the rest of my life with the Kope, I had a strange and vivid dream. As I rarely remember my dreams, it took me awhile to realise it had been a dream, not an actual occurrence in the night. I will not outline the whole dream here, but summarise it as a confirmation that although Satan could push and scare me he could not bite me, that although I may not be aware of God’s presence I am always in it, and that God had put good people into my life to help me on this new journey. This was a hugely encouraging dream to have on the first night of something so new and so big.

My mosquito net fortress.

I have only told the details of the dream to a few people, but one of these reminded me of it after a series of okay-in-the-end-but-nearly-dreadful mishaps. She reminded me that although I can feel pushed about and scared, I am not defeated, but protected. The mishaps has been that in one evening I had nearly fallen and severely cut myself in the shower, nearly dropped a sharp knife on my bare feet, nearly spilled boiling water down my leg and very nearly choked on my dinner. Nearly, but not quite. The next evening a hive of bees moved into the wall of my bathroom, which is a rather distressing discovery when one is in the middle of showering. A day later, with some persuasion from citronella smoke and pyrethrum poison, they swarmed off to a new home. I hid in my mosquito net while the migration took place, scared of what that many bees could do if angry, which they had reason to be, considering my campaign against them. Once again, it was a case of nearly, but not quite. Although I had thanked God for saving me from what could have been, it was my friend who pointed out to me how this tied back to my dream of being pushed but not harmed. It was a strange dream, but it continues to encourage me in strange and scary times.

 Me with some of the Goiravi women. Usually I walk home,
 but that week there was a king tide and the path between
villages was underwater, so we took the dinghy instead.

Another dream is one that was told to me by a friend when I walked to Goiravi to do my weekly Bible study there. She said that the previous night she had dreamed that she had seen me making three sago rolls to give away. Seeing as I don’t make sago, we all thought this a bit funny. That day though, there were only three women at the Bible study, when often there is a crowd. As I thought on the dream, I realised that although I had not been making sago, I had been preparing the Bible study, and I am part of the long slow project to translate God’s word in to Kope. This is me preparing the bread of life for the Kope people. Bread was a staple food in Jesus’ time; sago is the staple food in Kope life. With three women at the Bible study that day, I had effectively made three rolls of sago for them. I could easily have been discouraged that only three women came when there is usually a crowd, but this dream reminded me that the work I was doing was important, and that three had been God’s plan for that day.

There are many dreams that are just our brains processing life, but in some instances, they are a moment of insight and encouragement to hold onto. These two dreams have been the latter to me.

Above Reproach

Social networking and facebook are simply the current model of what people have always done: present themselves to the people around them, watch what others are doing and make judgements based on what they see and hear. The speed of news in the village leaves the internet for dead at times. Although what the truth is underlying the story that is told can be equally mysterious in both places.

In this context, of both high speed village news and an online presence, I find myself juggling the concepts of doing what is right, being seen to do what is right, and living in the freedom of the Gospel. Let me give you some examples

Gossip is destructive, and once a story is out it takes on a life of its own and cannot be brought back under control. As a single woman, it is easy for gossip to spread about what man I was seen with and what we were doing. As my translation team is made up of men, I am often left juggling social situations to make sure that we are seen to be above reproach. When I need to talk with my village brother, we do so in the yard, not on the enclosed veranda. If we need to work on the veranda on the computer, his wife or his children normally come with, to keep everything above board. If a man needs his phone charged, he will send it to me with his children. If he comes himself, kids will always come with him. All of this social engineering is to make sure that rumours cannot be spread, as there was a group present, not a secret meeting of two people.

It is not just in the village that I juggle these things, as Ukarumpa has been called Uka-rumour with good reason. One time a single guy came to visit while my yad meri (gardener) was working outside. We sat in the lounge by the big glass windows, where she very obviously kept an eye on us to make sure nothing happened. Had she not seen enough to keep her happy, valley rumour would have had us ‘married’ by nightfall. Another time a colleague came to help fix something in my house, and his wife came with, to make sure no-one could spread rumours. It was not that she didn’t trust me or her husband, but that she did trust the speed at which rumours can develop and damage can be done.

The social management involved with being a single woman is not the only area in which I find myself making sure I am seen to do what is right. Alcohol is another area. At home in Australia I like a glass of wine with friends. In PNG I very rarely drink. At home social drinking is normal. Here drinking is associated with drunkenness and is not Christian. I agree that drunkenness is not the life Christ calls us to, but I do miss a quiet drink with friends.

The challenge of being seen to right, as well as doing right, is not just my challenge. I have reminded my village brother, who was the voice of Jesus in the Jesus film of this a few times. If he does things that people see as immoral, they will no longer trust the film or the story of Jesus. For all Christians, it is a challenge to proclaim Christ with our action as well as our words, but for him, this is doubly true.

All of this social engineering seems very restrictive at times, especially when I consider myself free from the law to live a life of grace. Putting on what can feel like act to show others that I am doing the right thing, when the fruit of the Spirit is self control and I should be trusted to do the right thing, regardless of appearances, is frustrating. Still, I need to balance doing right and being seen to do right. I also need to balance the living in the freedom of the gospel with the knowledge that people will make their own judgements of their actions and base future decisions on this.

 River view from Ubuo.

Tanks, Taps and Lent

In Lent each year I like to give something up and to do something proactive. The combination of these disciplines reminds me of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem, where he actively moved towards a goal, with the knowledge he was giving up his life.

A Lenten still life.

Taps, plumbers tape and my coffee plunger. 

This year the fasting half of my Lenten discipline was coffee. A coffee with breakfast in the village is part of my ritual that starts the day well. Giving it up was hard. Going on the YWAM ship during Lent, where they had good coffee easily available made it harder. Still, my daily reminder of sacrifice was a part of my Lenten journey.

The active half of this year’s Lenten discipline was to work on providing taps for the community tanks in our village. I think that was the harder journey!

Water can be a challenge in our village, with very few people having private tanks. I am one of the few and struggle with watching the women walk past to the bush well when I have water on tap in the house. There are two public tanks in Ubuo village, but both of them are broken. One tank has no lid and no tap; therefore no-one has plumbed it with gutters to catch water from the nearby school roof. The other tank has a broken tap, so although it is full of water, it cannot be accessed except for catching the drips from the tap. My Lenten idea was to fix these public tanks with working taps so that the community could have water, and my conscience would be eased over my private tanks.

In planning and ordering taps for tank repairs, I also visited the neighbouring village, Mira Goiravi, to find out the state of their community tanks and was shown three tanks. One had no tap, no proper base and no catchment area. The discussion was that if I provided the tap, they would organise the rest. The second tank had a spectacular jury rig of a tap that I hoped to improve. The third tank had a huge hole cut into it where a drunk had one day attacked the tank with his knife. This is a good illustration of the benefit of NGOs helping to provide multiple small private tanks: one idiot cannot deprive the community of life giving water.

 Bush mechanic jury rigged tap.

With my information gathered, I sent measurements and requests to a friend in the Highlands to send parts down on a flight. The parts arrived while I was on the YWAM ship and I was ready to install them when I returned to the village. While I was on the ship, I found out that one of the crew, Simon, had a particular interest in helping communities fix their tanks, particularly through the provision of taps. It is a sad fact that tanks are too often provided without a tap, meaning they are of no benefit to the community. When YWAM did a clinic in my village, Simon was able to come along and make sure I had all the necessary parts for my impending tank repairs. I spoke with leaders in the community and told them that once our tank had guttering in place, I had the tap ready to install. In the next village it was a similar tale, that once a foundation and guttering were in place, I had the tap ready. Everyone seemed pleased to finally have their tanks on track to being functional.

Fast forward a few weeks and I am back in the village again. It has been dry and people are walking past my house to get water from bush wells. I ask people in the village what is happening with the tank preparations, as I am standing by with taps.  In my village, the school maintenance has been focussed in another area. They are reinforcing the floor as it broke one day as there were too many students in class. The gutters will happen ‘later’. When I ask about ‘later’ it turns out that people do not know where the guttering that was in the office has gone.

In the next village, I am quickly finding out that two of the three tanks I was initially told are community tanks are actually private. Only the useless tank with the big hole belongs to the community. One of the private tanks was supposed to be public, but has been claimed by the largest family in the village. The village magistrate and others talk with that family, suggesting that if they are willing to make it a community tank, I am willing to provide a tap, but they are not willing. I have made it very clear that I am only providing taps for tanks that service the whole community, not for individual families, so I find myself with two spare taps and no repaired tanks in the neighbouring village.

Testing the tap for size… we then removed
it until the gutters were in place.

Fast forward a few months, and a phone call from the village tells me that the tanks are still not repaired. The school tank still has no gutters, so the person who I gave the tap to has not put it on. He is someone I trust to keep hold of the tap until the tank is ready. The other tank, with the broken tap, is still full but unusable. People are not willing to empty the tank to replace the tap. So that tap and tank also sit unused.

When I think about the women walking into the bush to get water from the well I am sad. Before I felt guilty because I had my own water supply, but now I am sad. Sad because the resources are there to fix the community taps, but for complex reasons beyond my understanding, it has not happened. I am sad because I suspect it is largely the politics of men that keep the women doing the hard work. Sad because I wanted to bless the community, the women in particular, and feel like I have got nowhere.

This exercise in taps and tanks started in Lent and continues well beyond Easter. I sought to bless people, but have been prevented. This really leaves me with a lot more of Lent to reflect on, as Jesus too sought to bless yet was, and is, rejected by so many. If I grieve over taps and water, how much more must God grieve over those who reject the eternal water of life. 

Feast and Famine

I have touched on the question of ownership and generosity before , but as it is an issue that I continue to be challenged by, it is an issue that I continue to write about. This post is some thoughts on a variety of related issues, all pertaining to the question of giving or holding.

Taking food to share with someone else (A.Evers)

PNG is traditionally a feast or famine culture. When the harvest, the fishing or the hunting was good, people feasted. When the crop died and the prey got away, people went hungry. As there were not many foods that kept well, things were consumed while fresh and available, not preserved for another time. When things were abundant, they were shared. This was a practical measure that meant things did not go to waste. It was also a pragmatic investment in relationships that meant when someone else had a time of abundance, you would be given your share. This tradition of feast or famine continues to shape ideas of ownership and sharing in PNG. This is particularly true for the majority who remain subsistence farmers, but also true for those in towns who deal with pay checks and budgets. As someone from a culture that preserves and rations, I am often in conflict with the feast and famine cycle. I am used to keeping hold of what I have and making sure I have enough over an extended period, keeping my consumption more level. That I hold on to things when others are in a famine period can seem selfish from one perspective, but good stewardship from the other.

A table laid and waiting for speeches to be done
and the feast to begin

Another challenge is that in a culture of reciprocal giving is that I can never outgive the other person*, regardless of if I have more than they do. Part of this culture is that one party should always be slightly indebted to the other. This ensures that the giving keeps going and the relationship remains strong. If accounts are balanced, then the relationship is in danger as there is no longer a need to connect. To maintain relationships, and as a promise that I will continue to come back to the village, I am always slightly behind on the giving. There is no official tally, but there is a sense that I am indebted to the community.

Corruption is a big challenge in PNG and is also part of this complex web of questions of ownership in community. Traditionally, goods were shared primarily with one’s own network to build and maintain relationships. When political power is gained and people are given control of public money, those with a relationship to that person expect this pattern to continue. They helped to get their relative into power, now they want their slice of the pie. This is a huge social pressure that it is difficult for people to resist. I am not in favour of corruption, but I do recognise the long and challenging road that it will be to bring change, as this is about old cultural practices, not just about greedy individuals.

A feast at my house before I left at
the end of one village stay

Alongside of these issues I find myself chewing over the idea of the ‘theology of enough’. The little I have read appeals to me, as it is a challenge to live with enough, but not too much. How much that means varies, but it means assessing what I have and deciding if more necessary or if it is better to share with others, so that they too may have enough. It is not a call to renounce all earthly possessions and live in poverty, but a challenge to not be swept up by the consumption of a world that bases identity on possessions.

What is enough in a feast or famine culture? What is enough in a preserve and pace yourself culture? What is enough when reciprocal giving is the foundation of relationships? What is enough when I am richer than many around me? How much do I save for later and how much do I give away now?

There are no easy answers to these questions, but it is a good thing to be kept alert and not complacent about these issues of poverty and riches, giving and receiving, and owning and sharing.

*Yes, every place has its greedy people who take and do not give. This is a breach of the reciprocity on which relationships are based, and is therefore a bad relationship.

Third Gender

A while ago there was a pastoral support team visiting Ukarumpa and they put on a session for single ladies. This was a bold move by a married couple, so I went along to encourage them to continue to recognise the different needs of singles working cross-culturally. So often if feels like everything is focussed on families and we singles are sidelined as if somehow incomplete.

The session was a good time, as it was basically a safe space in which to share our challenges and joys with a compassionate audience, which was both a group of singles and the wife of the pastoral couple. Along the way, one of our singles who has been here decades made a comment that rang true: When working as a single woman in a traditional PNG village, you are effectively a third gender. We do not fit the culturally defined role of women, yet clearly we are not men, so we must be something else.

Women cutting and raking grass to clean up the village.

Women in my village spend their time gardening, fishing, cooking and looking after children. Few have good English and many did not make it past grade three. Meanwhile, I do not live off my garden, do not fish for my supper and have no children. I have a collection of university degrees and spend my day working with words and books.

Men in my village also garden and fish, with hunting and house building also being their responsibilities. They are more likely to have gone further in school and had reason to travel outside the village. They have much more access to, and therefore understanding of, life outside the village. One man has a Masters degree and has travelled the world before retiring to the village. Another man from our village is one of the Prime Minister’s body guards and has travelled to many more countries than me.

I dare not speak for all of PNG with its hundreds of tribes and cultural variations, but for there to be distinct roles for men and women would be fairly normal. For me to not fit into these roles is also normal. Instead, I find myself in a ‘third gender’ role, where my education, livelihood, life experience and lack of children set me apart.

One time my position as a third gender was clear was the day the village was preparing for visitors. The young men were building shelters for people to sit in during the meeting. The women where cutting, raking and burning grass so that the village looked tidy. The older men were sitting under a house, chewing betel nut and supervising proceedings.  I was invited to join the men under the house. The conversation covered local, national and international politics as well as development issues, and I was included with the respected men.

 The shelters being built by men for the visitors to sit in.

On the same day, some re-fencing happened at my house that included me with the women. When I arrived in the village a week prior, there had been a welcome gate put outside my house. I was enjoying having my own gate. That day, the gate was removed and a fence put in its place, with the very clear message that I would come and go through the neighbours’ gate, as I came under his protection and was part of his household.

Most of the time I am thankful for my unique third gender role, as it gives me freedoms not given to village women in a patriarchal society. It leaves me room to be different and to do my work in Bible translation. I am allowed to teach and work in a way that local women are not able. Some days being an outsider is a burden. It is difficult to connect with the women around me when our everyday lives and experiences are so different.

Being the outsider (in so many ways!) in the village is one of the reasons I enjoy time back in our organisational base. There I can be normal… whatever that is! There are other single women who work in villages like I do that I can connect with and we can share our stories and challenges. There I am in a community where education and experience are something we all have and where I can be with my own kind. Being a third gender in the village is mostly a good thing, but so is belonging.

Cancer

Cancer. It is a word that strikes fear into many of us, as we have seen the suffering of friends going through treatment, or you’ve experienced it yourselves. It is a rare person who does not know the loss that occurs when the disease is stronger than the treatment. In the last year I have had friends all over the world fighting various manifestations of cancer. Some of them are winning, some of them are not. I am thankful for the access they have had to quality treatment and care.

In the village though, it is a very different story.

My friend is a doctor at a nearby hospital. She came to stay with me in the village for the night when she was doing a TB clinic in a nearby village. In the morning we had a crowd of people waiting outside for their chance to see the doctor. When I say the hospital is ‘nearby’, it is actually three hours away and hard to get to for most people and having the doctor in the village was a chance not to be missed.

 View from my verandah, which was briefly a clinic that morning.

As there was a limited amount of time before my friend had to leave, she prioritised the patients who got to see her. One of the first was someone who had been unwell for some time. After a discussion and an examination the diagnosis was cancer. To receive treatment, the lady would have to go to a hospital far away. Reaching the hospital would require three hours of boat travel and 18 hours of travel in the back of a truck along treacherous roads. She would then have to stay for months, away from family and garden, with the outcome of treatment uncertain. When one is a subsistence farmer who is reliant on a network of relationships for social security, this sort of time away from people and place is nearly impossible. She chose to stay in the village, where she will die from the disease.

As part of the same trip, my friend had returned another cancer patient to their village. Cancer treatment is not something her small rural hospital is able to offer, and the most compassionate course of patient care was to return them to the village to die among their family.

Off to the TB meeting with community leaders,
having finished the critical consultations. 

This is the reality of life and death in the village and people largely accept it as such. At home we fight death for all it is worth. I am glad that my friends have been fighting death this year, as I do not want to farewell them quite yet, but I also see the value in accepting that death will come. I wish my village friends had access to the healthcare my international friends have access to, yet I respect their valuing dying at home and among family rather than fighting for life in a strange and distant place.

Having a foot in both worlds, I am slowly learning to live with this and the many other contrasts and tensions that are ever present.

Surreal Moments

Travelling by dugout (H.Schulz)

There are some days I pause, look at my own life, and wonder if I have stepped into a movie.

Tablet: I bought my tablet in a multi-story technology mall in Kuala Lumpur while on holidays. I use it in a PNG swamp village to share photos and show the Jesus Film. Was it really me in both places?!

Private jets and dugout canoes: Flying to the village I sit in the co-pilots seat of a Kodiak plane. It is one of four owned by our organisation and the pilot is a friend. Although very much needed work transport, my imagination has me flying about in a private jet. From the plane I finish my journey to the village in a dugout canoe. It was carved from a single log by one of our translation team. Which is less normal, to travel by private jet or dugout canoe?!

One of our Kodiak planes (A.Evers)

Animals: Walking back from a friend’s house one day I realised I was being followed by a cassowary. It was a tame one, being raised for a feast one day, but they still have a nasty kick and it was chased away to keep me safe. The next day I was sitting with another friend, giving their baby cuscus a cuddle. He too was being raised for a feast. Followed by a cassowary, cuddling a cuscus, and trying not to think about their dinner-plate destiny. It almost makes me believe that children ride kangaroos to school in Australia.

Bananas: Lying in bed for my afternoon nap, I can see two bunches of bananas ripening on the tree outside. Above me is a roof made of palm leaves. Somedays these views are normal, other days I am reminded that I really do live with in a PNG village, in a bush house.

View from my bedroom window
(H.Schulz)

Facebook: When the phone tower is in a good mood, I can download facebook posts on my phone, but the normality of life outside my village bubble is such a contrast to my local reality. I download things to read later, because reading with a crowd is awkward when I never know at what point a friend will have a culturally inappropriate photo that is difficult to explain in my current context. Australian beach wear and Christians drinking alcohol are just two examples of normal at home that makes no sense here. Hardest is getting a snippet of news, but not being able to follow it up and find out the real story. My heartstrings are being pulled from far away, but I am here and only hearing echoes of the truth.

City streets: Having got used to PNG, being back in Australia is always surreal in a different way. A busy city street, full of people in a rush to be somewhere else, with all the glittering shops and places to eat is now sometimes also a surreal experience.

Incarnation

The Creator walked with Adam and Eve in the cool of the evening. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Incarnation is very much part of the Christian way.

It is how I understand what mission should look like. We need to be with people, in the midst of their lives, with all the mess that entails. It is then that we may be bringers of truth, hope, joy and grace. We are to live as bearers of Christ. This is as true for life in the PNG swamp as it is for a stay-at-home parent, a business executive or a blue collar worker.

This theme of incarnation is one that I keep returning to and hope to keep growing in the practice of.

Christmas is often when we focus on the incarnation of Jesus, and I am reminded that he started as a baby, reliant on others. He grew up in a culture, a network of relationships, and learnt how to be a man in that time and place. After about thirty years, he spent a short time in public ministry. Being incarnational about mission requires humility and patience. We cannot come in with all the answers from the beginning, but need to learn how to be in that time and place. We need to belong so that we can be heard. We need to accept the help of others. These things are a challenge to me. Stepping back to being reliant and being the learner is hard. I like to be competent and independent, but that is not how incarnation starts.

Incarnation is sacrificial. Jesus left heaven and came to earth. He humbled himself. He was hurt, betrayed, misunderstood and killed. I hope not to be killed for my beliefs and the message I share, but I should not expect to be spared the painful realities of life. Jesus invites us to take up our cross and follow, so he is not trying to fool us that it will be easy, but he promises that the Helper will be with us. We are not alone in the suffering, we are understood and we are in good company, in God’s company.

Following in the crucified Christ’s footsteps also means resurrection. The sacrifices we make are not for their own sake, but for a greater and most worthwhile goal. We can be confident in this life, both now and ever after, meaning that the incarnational life is also one of joy. We have the privilege of being light in the darkness, now. We have the opportunity to be the representative of peace that passes all understanding in the midst of what is troubling people today. Among what is going on, we bring grace.

Incarnation: there is one white hand waving amidst the crowd, mine. (Ella B)

Incarnation is a slow process. Jesus spoke of the kingdom being like a small amount of yeast mixed into a large amount of dough. It took time, but the whole thing was leavened eventually, and could not be separated out. We are the leaven, and living incarnationally means mixing ourselves into the world so that resurrection can happen.

One thing that empowers me to live incarnationally is gathering for communion. Here, at the eternal family table, we are fed and told ‘Take and eat, this is my body.’ In that moment we are invited to really take Christ into us. We are then sent out to be the body of Christ, so that, that which has come to us, now goes to the world.

Immanuel, God is with us. This name for God is both a promise and a challenge, one that I expect I’ll spend my whole life pondering, and still find things to learn.