‘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.

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.

Birthday

This week was my ‘US birthday’, meaning that when friends from the US read my birthday as month/day when I have written it day/month, they think I have a birthday in August. This oddity of dates has prompted me to finally write about my birthday in the village many months ago.

Birthdays are not a big deal in the PNG villages I've been in. Although a child’s health book will list their date of birth, most village kids do not know when their birthday is without checking what the book says. Many adults do not know the exact date of their birth at all. This is quite a contrast to Aussie kids who know exactly how old they are and count down the days until their next birthday. I’ve moved on from the countdown, but I still enjoy celebrating birthdays as I see them as an annual reminder to be thankful for the gift of life.

Spending my birthday in the village this year meant that it was a quiet day, and much like any other village day. I had one gift, as I’d pre-arranged for my parents to send a parcel to me with a YWAM friend a few weeks earlier. Even now that I’ve lived out of home as long as I lived at home, it is still fun to have a parcel on my birthday. It was also fun to eat all of the chocolates in the box over the next day or two, rather than carefully rationing them as I usually do with village supplies.

The best gift was not wrapped, but was the enthusiasm of one of the Kope translators for the work we are doing. In conversation I had been emphasising that this is their translation programme, not mine, and that I am there to equip, train and support them in their work, but that they need to take ownership of what we are doing. Well, this message must have sunk in, as in our conversation this translator had clearly taken ownership and was enthusiastic about the next steps of translation and how to engage the community.

No translation happened on my birthday, due to the translation team having other commitments. Instead, I spent the day thinking of the monks of old as I hand-wrote two chapters of the Bible. I’m yet to buy a printer for the village, so hand copying was the only way to get the good copy that I needed. The temptation to stop writing and do some colouring in gave me a cheeky insight into one possibility of how illuminated manuscripts happened: bored monks with some creativity to let loose.

My birthday in the village may have been a quiet affair, but I was (and am) thankful for the gift of another year of life, for the Kope community around me, for the enthusiasm of the translators …and for chocolate.

The notebook

In a world that has largely moved on to electronic communications I continue to cart piles of paper about with me. Journal, Bible, novel, diary and a notebook are my companions. Sometimes I carry a sketch book too, as I believe that creating is part of what it means to be made in the image of the Creator.

My notebook is my external memory device. It is where I note things to deal with later, be that things to purchase, people to contact, thoughts to contemplate, books to read or events to write about. When I worked on sailing ships as mate, it was an essential part of my functioning in a complex and responsible role. As I move between places and tasks in my current work, it is the item which helps to keep the right things happening at the right time and in the right place. It is of particular use when in the village as with limited access to the internet, and to the outside world in general, I cannot follow many things up immediately, but most stockpile tasks for later.

One page in my current notebook is labelled 'Aus' and is a long list of things to do while in the land of plenty. There are a few other pages of shopping lists for specific stores (hardware, stationary, grocery). There are numerous notes for future blog posts, noting events and reflections in a few dot points so that they can later grow into prose. There are notes for a meeting and from a meeting, as well as addresses to add to my database.

The page that makes me smile though, is the one that gives evidence of my need to wean myself off social media when I go to the village, as it is labelled 'Life as fb posts.' This page started as I realised I was thinking of events in brief and interesting ways that under normal circumstances I would post for the world to see. So, months later, here are some thoughts from my first weeks in the village when I was still writing such notes to myself.

• Jan 25: We started drafting the Kope NT today!!!!!!!! It took six hours for 13 verses, but it is a good team, good to be started and good to be... thorough.
• Jan 26: Sitting on the verandah contemplating vowel length, tone, stress and their relationship to tense. Feeling like a real linguist.
• Jan 27: Because functioning in English, Kope and Greek was not confusing enough, we've added Hiri Motu to the mix. 
• Jan 28: You know it's a hot day when the chickens all find a cool place to nap at 10am and they're still there at 3pm.
• Jan 29: My ankle callouses are back after spending hours sitting on the floor each day.
• Jan 30: Half an hour to download a few emails to my phone. It's no wonder I've resorted to writing fb posts in my notebook!

…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’.

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.

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.

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.