‘you must’

Living and moving between worlds can be … interesting. It is full of challenges and joys, but rarely is it predictable. This was something I came up against while I was home in Australia for four months of furlough/home assignment and people would comment that ‘you must…’. I tried to be gracious about their comments, but how well I achieved that was closely tied to how tired I was.

The ‘you musts’ often were most often  a comment on the wealth of Australia and the very different lifestyle that is lead there. I do not begrudge others the opportunity to live by a different standard when they can. Yes, I did have points of being overwhelmed by choice or richness, but that does not in and of itself makes those things bad, just something I’d not had a lot of exposure to recently. Yes, I had times of longing that people in PNG had the same access to opportunities and resources that Australians have, but that does not mean Australians can’t have them.

Australia and life there is most certainly different to life in PNG, in either Ukarumpa or the village, but that does not make it bad. Neither does it make it right. It means it is something we always need to be willing to reassess and not take for granted. It also means taking stock of where our hearts are at in relation to our stuff.

 My village house, for which I am very thankful.

I found myself having to take stock of my heart-state when it came to houses. I am so thankful for my village house, where I have space and privacy. My water tanks, solar power, gas cooker and indoor toilet are greatly appreciated and give me an easier lifestyle than everyone around me.

When I leave the village though, and return to my home in Ukarumpa, I am so thankful for hot water, 240V power that run my fridge and washing machine, a flushing toilet, a soft couch, a comfortable bed and a lot less bugs in the house. I am truly happy with my village house, but appreciate the comforts of Ukarumpa when I return there.

Coming to Australia, I was reminded of how simple my Ukarumpa house is in comparison, that my couch is not really that soft and that my mattress could be improved. I had to stop and take stock, remind myself to be thankful for the incredible blessing of my two houses and not get caught up in comparisons that would only make me discontent.

 My Ukarumpa house, for which I am also very thankful.

Australia sure is different to PNG, but both are places that I love, even as I become more comfortable in PNG than in Australia. My home country is an old friend, whose quirks I know fairly well, and sometimes think of endearingly, and at other times with annoyance. It is an old friend who I differ with at times, but who I still love as she is, difference and all.

Alone, but not alone.

For the last year, I have been the only whiteskin working in my village. I have been alone, but not alone.

I have been alone, as being the only person from my social and linguistic background can be very isolating at time. At the same time, I have not been alone, as the community has been incredibly welcoming and I am surrounded by friends and family. It’s just that I’m still getting to know them. I am thankful that in being alone, I have been forced outside my comfort zone to build good friendships with the people around me.

With swamp-friends from Kapuna Hospital (A.Evers)

I may be alone in the village, but I have good friends in the region. With friends from both my own organisation as well as through the mission hospitals at Kapuna and Kikori, I have good friends in the region. We may not see that much of each other, but we are all in the swamp together, and understand the context, the challenges and the joys in a way that others cannot share. I am so thankful for my swamp friends, even if they’re three hours away by boat.

Although on my own in the village, I have a good support network in the country and beyond. Sometimes an Ukarumpa friend comes up on the radio for a chat, breaking my isolation and reminding me I am part of something much bigger than little ol’ me in my remote village. I am reminded that there are many people in many places who are thinking of me and praying for me, and that makes a big difference.

I am never alone, because God is with me. My favourite name for God has long been ‘Immanuel’, the reminder that God is with us. This name becomes true in deeper ways when one is feeling isolated. The only easy English conversation I can have in the village is with God, which is great for my prayer life and for living life by faith. Well, mostly. Mostly, because when alone and separated from the chatter and busyness that life usually has, I am forced to face up to myself, including to aspects of myself I might not like. It is good to discover these things and work on them, but it can still be very confronting at the time.

Alone, but with no one to compare my language learning to, I have also been isolated from competition, and that’s a very good thing. I find it very easy to be self-critical and to compare myself to others. When I am only comparing my progress to yesterday, not to someone else, I am much kinder to myself. Learning language is hard enough, without me being hard on myself.

Over the last year I was alone, but not alone, when working in the village. For the next 18 months I will be working in the village with an intern, Hollie, so I will no longer be alone. Yet, even though not alone, I hope I can still hold on to the lessons learnt while alone.

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.

Back Translation

After drafting, the next stage in our translation process is back translation. What this means is taking the draft and re-translating it back into a language of wider communication (LWC) so that it can be checked. In our case English is the LWC, so the Kope draft is turned back into English.

As back translation is designed to help reveal if the meaning has remained clear and accurate, the English which is used is not natural. It should sound like Kope-English, not like English-English. This happens because each language specifies things differently, and this needs to be shown in the back translation so that it can be carefully checked.

One example of how these differences show up in back translation is that in Kope we have single, dual, trial and plural pronouns. This means that the back translation needs to specify if the Kope said ‘you-1’, ‘you-2’, ‘you-3’ or ‘you-lots’. If it is just back translated as ‘you’ the checker has no way of knowing how many people were involved.

Another example is that as the grammar of English and Kope are very different, some words that are necessary in English are not necessary in Kope. These are included in the back translation in brackets, to indicate that although the meaning is there, the words are not.

Another factor that makes the English sound un-natural is that all names are written as in the draft, and that idioms are spelled out.

Looking at the example of Luke 1:6 you’ll see these and other things going on:

•          Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. (NRSV)
•          Riiti oroi’ioi mea oobora dubura ka Iehoma hohoida. Iehoma madeire ka Bubuire ai pimabedioido. (Kope draft)
•          They-2  lived (as) a good woman and man to Iehoma’s face. Iehoma word/message and law they-2  took care.  (Kope BT)

Learning to back translate like this is tricky. In our translation team we have one man who mastered the art very quickly and another who finds it hard work, but can get there slowly. It is very easy for the back translators to rely on their memory rather than the text, and it is my job to spot when this has happened. One such example was when in Luke 2:7 that back translation suddenly said that they’d ‘laid him in the manger as there was no room in the inn’. Seeing as ‘manger’ and ‘inn’ do not have equivalent Kope terms, the slip was obvious. Once the back translation was revised, the baby was laid in the ‘cow-food-bowl’ as there was no room for them in the ‘guest house’.

Once the back translation (BT) is complete, I enter it into the computer and study it. I look at the BT, the Greek, the English and the Kope. As my Kope improves, I will be less reliant on the BT, but at this stage it is a very helpful thing to have. Looking at my resources, I check to see if the meaning has remained the same and flag questions for checking. More on that next time…

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.

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.

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.

Village English

In the area of Papua New Guinea that was the British and then Australian ‘Territory of Papua’, English is mostly used as a language of wider communication (LWC). Tok Pisin was the main LWC in the Territory of New Guinea and is slowly gaining in use in the Papuan area. Hiri Motu is also a traditional LWC in my area, although it is being used less often these days.

English as the LWC can be deceptive though, as ESL (English as your sixth language) English is different to mother tongue English. I cannot think ‘Oh, people here know English, I can just speak as normal’, or they will not understand much of what I say.

 Is that when the kid behind you in class cuts
your hair when you’re not looking?!

Village English is slower, simpler, and uses few idioms or passive clauses. Changing my natural way of speaking, to another dialect of my own language, can be quite challenging at times. It can also be quite amusing, as village English has developed in different ways to the English I am most familiar with, and the contrasts can be amusing and confusing.

‘Already’ in used liberally as a marker of an event that has been completed (perfective aspect). Although this is similar to how I grew up using the word, it is used with noticeable frequency in village English. What I am learning from this is when to use the equivalent structure (‘tauo ….VERB ROOT ….maka’) in Kope. How people use English reflects their own language, so can be helpful in learning language.

‘Maybe’ is used to mark uncertainty (irrealis mode) and is a very handy word. It is a helpful way of expressing possibilities without being committed. I’m still working out how to say the same in Kope though.

 What if I have two?

There are the words that are fossilised from another era of English, the era when Australian and British teachers ran the school system. I always smile when told to look out for ‘faeces’ on the path, or that the canoe has pulled over to the riverbank so that someone can go behind a bush to ‘pass urine’. These are legitimate English expressions, just not the ones I’d normally use.

Many people have expressed a desire for more overseas teachers to help train and improve the education system here, a return to the days when they learnt to say ‘faeces’. I agreed the day I asked a grade eight after his English exam how the exam went, and he stared at me blankly. I guessed from that response that he did not do very well, an assumption justified when he later failed to pass grade eight. Considering English has been the language of instruction for him at school, it saddened me that he still struggled with it so much.

There are surprising uses of words in village English, where at first I take the wrong meaning. I thought someone in a story was being executed, when in fact they were executing (carrying out) some action or other. There are other things I wish I had written down, but it was not appropriate to do so at the time.

 Defenestration Prohibited.
I like the literal description of a door for the wind to enter by.

One word that I am often unsure of is what it means to ‘beat’ something. In my English I have a range of words to express the intensity with which I hit something, from a smack all the way to a beating. To me, beating something is a violent, damaging act, but I think in village English that it is often used the cover the whole range of intensities of hitting. What does it mean then, when a woman says her husband ‘beat’ her, or when she then says her child ‘beat’ her. Having seen the toddler smack her in anger, I know what she means, but I did not see what the husband did, and neither do I see any bruises. How I am supposed to take it when people say that the police arrested someone and gave him a ‘good and proper beating’? Is this as intense as it sounds? What do I make of the fact the speaker is satisfied that the police did this, that they are expressing it as the appropriate course for justice to take? They are using English, but the meaning can be quite different.

 Beauty, just ‘cause.

Another challenge can be written English, where the dreadful non-phonetic nature of our spelling can lead to interesting interpretations by those used to more logical spelling systems. When the programme for an event list ‘reborn cut’ I was imaging some strange baptism-meets-circumcision ceremony. Thankfully when someone else read the programme aloud, I discovered it was a ribbon that was to be cut.

Using English to communicate while I am in the process of learning Kope is extremely helpful, but it is both challenging and amusing. I need to keep slowing my speech down and simplifying how I say things. I am someone who plays scrabble and does cryptic crosswords for entertainment, so playing with words comes naturally to me, while making them simple is hard work.

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.

Home Moments

On returning to the village, there were a number of moments which showed to me that this place in increasingly another home to me.

First were the familiarity of faces and the warmness of welcome. These are now people I know and have a relationship with. We were genuinely pleased to see each other, with lots of hugs and strong handshakes. There were even some hugs from the men! There were also some familiar faces who were absent, but not missed. A place is home when you have been there long enough to have some people rub you the wrong way as well as to form friendships. The nicest welcome was that some of the children smiled at me, rather than being scared yet again.

Kake cat, who unfortunately died recently (H.Schulz)

My neighbours’ cat gave me a very smoochy welcome back, although when he brought me a dead rat to show his affection I was less pleased. I was pleased about one less rat in the world, but not pleased to hear him crunching it in my living area. He was a bit upset that I swept him out the door to eat on the veranda.

I know I am becoming a local when I know my way around the village and am able to wander around at will. When I walked between this village and the next, I was only escorted back as far as the edge of the village, they trusted me to find my way home from there.

Hanging out in the afternoon (H.Schulz)

Being able to just hang out with people is a homely thing too. Between visits, a shelter was built between the river and the open space where volleyball is often played. I often head down there in the afternoon and sit with the women awhile. All the while my phone downloads emails. I do not have to tell stories or make a show, I can just sit and be with them. I cannot join the conversation yet, but we can watch volleyball together and enjoy each other’s company. Slowly I am recognising more faces and connecting families together.

Although I can’t follow the conversation, I am encouraged by the scraps I do understand. Kope has gone from being a long string of sounds to having distinct words to my ears. Often I find myself thinking ‘I know those words!’ By the time I’ve repeated them to myself and worked out their meaning, the conversation has moved on, but I am still encouraged by the pieces I do recognise. To not be overwhelmed all the time, but to have points of recognition, goes a long way to making this place home.

My village garden, with its enthusiastic
 snake bean plants. (H.Schulz)

A final piece of belonging is being able to share veggies from my gardens. When I flew down I brought a box of passionfruit and a container of cherry guavas, picked from my highlands garden. People were very happy to try these fruits that were new to most of them. Meanwhile, my swamp garden was flourishing, provided beans to eat and making my house look like home.

While the language is still hard work and the culture often confronting, it is encouraging to have these moments of belonging.

What’s mine is yours…

The rain returned eventually, with the 

sweet sound of it pouring into my tank. (H.Schulz)

A constant struggle for me when living in the village is the different cultural expectations of ownership and stewardship. What belongs to me and what belongs to the group? What is to be used now and what is to be saved for later?

I have a wonderful neighbour and village brother who built my house, looks after it while I am away and is one of our translators. He recently named his newborn daughter after me. I am sure that I have some sort of responsibilities for my namesake, but have no idea what they might be. He himself is a generous person who often has other people living with him in his small house and who is often doing things for other people. It is this particular relationship, with its web of obligations that is the hardest for me to navigate.

What makes it even harder is that it is often the small things that leave me in a crisis, such as an umbrella or a bottle of water.

My umbrella was left in my storeroom when I went away. It was about the only thing not packed in a box because it was too long. When I returned, it was the only thing that had gone walkabout. It had been borrowed to give shade to my namesake while they went to fish camp. When they returned, I saw the umbrella in use, but it didn’t return to me. A week later, when I was walking somewhere in the middle of the day and needed it for shade, I asked about it. It was brought out of the house, broken and barely held together with string. It gave me the shade I needed, but it is useless as shelter from tropical downpours.

Why was I so upset about an umbrella? It was that my trust of things left in storage had been broken, that something I needed was not there when I needed it. My neighbour though, saw it as an appropriate use of an item doing nothing to meet a need for my namesake. My tension is that I can understand his reasoning, but still wish it had been left alone and was in one piece when I returned.

Another day I found myself annoyed at a request for a few litres of drinking water, and even more annoyed at myself for being annoyed.

At the time it was dry season. As this was first time in the village in January, it was hard to tell if it is a drier than usual dry season, but it seemed to be that way. Each morning and each afternoon there was a parade of people going along the path by my house to get drinking water from a bush well. The round trip seems to take them about 45 minutes. Meanwhile, my house has two 1000L rainwater tanks.

Before I came to the village, my neighbour had called asking for permission to clean out one of my tanks. We did not communicate clearly, and I thought that rain was falling more often to refill the tanks, so I said yes, as long as you leave me at least half a tank (500L). When I got to the village I found out that there has been little rain, so the tank was not refilling, but that everyone had very much enjoyed getting a container of water from my tank when it was cleaned, as well as from half of the second tank. I was left the half a tank as requested. This probably saved the village one day of walking into the bush for drinking water, maybe two.

My umbrella two years ago when it was new. (D.Petterson)

When I returned, my neighbour turned up asking for drinking water in bottles, and I was annoyed. Why?! I did not make the rain fall, I just caught it. I did not earn it, yet I was reluctant to share it. Part of it was knowing that half a tank will not go far if I’m providing water for a house of six or more people next door. Part of it was knowing that if my water runs out, someone else will be the one walking into the bush to get water for me. Part of it was just cultural annoyance that ‘my’ water should be assumed to be ‘their’ water from a different cultural perspective. A lot of it was annoyance at myself for being a scrooge about water, an essential ingredient for life.

My first week in the village, I was cautious with my tank, but still used it for washing etc, thinking rain would continue to fall like it had the day after I arrived. By week two we’d had little rain, my tank was much lower and I switched to washing with well water and only using my tank for drinking. I still had occasional requests for water, which I would help with, but was not getting regular requests. This seemed like a good balance for me.

Still, the question of what is mine, what I am keeping for later, what is communal, and what I am sharing with others, is an ongoing struggle. Coming from somewhere very individualistic when it comes to possessions, I am having many of my assumptions challenged, which is a good but difficult process.