A PEAS of My Life

Adventures in Bathing

2011-09-11T21:43:00.001+10:00

(Adventures in PNG Series, Vol. 2)

The other day, the water turned on in the shower, and in short order we heard my husband singing “The Hallelujah Chorus” in a loud, exaggerated vibrato.

“What is he doing?!” my daughter asked me, stifling a giggle.

I smiled. “That means the water is cold.”

There are many reasons one might take a cold shower here, the two most likely being:

1. Lack of sun the day before, and

2. Too many showers taken before yours.

We, like many people in the world, have solar-heated water. Lots of homes here, including ours, have an electrical backup heater, but it is quite expensive to run it, so most people do so rarely. Some homes are fortunate enough to have water pipes routed through their fireplaces or wood stoves. If the would-be bather is enterprising enough, he or she can start a fire that will heat the water in these pipes before it is delivered to the shower. Enterprising or not, we are not so fortunate.

So, when the previous day has been particularly cloudy, or a child has taken a 30-45 minute shower the night before (ahem), we have a choice. Pay for the hot water, or chill out – literally – by taking a slightly-higher-than-room-temperature-if-you’re-lucky shower.

When we were at POC two years ago, hot water was available via bucket showers (top left picture above). Course participants were tasked with the twice-a-day chore of starting a fire in an outdoor stove. Pipes passed through that stove and delivered hot water to spickets inside the men’s and women’s bathrooms. One would fill a portable bucket with water from these spickets, lower the rope-suspended bucket in the shower stall, and pour in the hot water. Raise the bucket back up and voila – a hot shower! The flow was controlled by turning a wide shower-head/nozzle on the bottom of the bucket. It was wise to close the nozzle while soaping up, lest you run out of water before you were rinsed clean.

If you did run out, or if you chose (like I did most of the time) to have a cold shower, there was a regular shower head emerging from the wall of the stall. One turn of the knob, and from it would flow a glacial-brisk, refreshing shower that actually felt really nice on a typical, tropical Madang afternoon. (Not such a good idea in the morning.)

In the villages, bathing takes place in the river. On day one of our six-week village living experience, our village “brother” took Paul and Evan to the men’s bathing hole at the river. Some girls took Andie and me to another part of the river, downstream from the men. This was culturally intentional, as men would not want to be defiled by having women bathe upstream from them. I suppose the women who must bathe upstream in a different village are of no consequence. Maybe they assumed the contaminants were diluted by the time they reached this particular bathing hole. Maybe the men never even gave the possibility a thought, but as we were on the coast, logic dictates that surely hundreds of women in dozens of villages do, in fact, bathe upstream from these men.

The other place to bathe was at the mauswara – the mouth of the river where it empties into the ocean. Because the other bathing hole had an interesting set of complications (a steep, muddy bank to climb in and out of the river, and a 15-20 minute walk back to the house after you were finished – just lomg enough to get good and sweaty again), I preferred to bathe at the mauswara.

For a few days, anyway.

It was at that point that I discovered something very important: the mauswara was the place where I was literally being eaten alive by sand flies. After about a week in the village, I had more than 300 sand fly bites.

We counted.

For the next five weeks, I gave myself sponge baths outside our hut, wearing my tankini top and board shorts, of course. I never set foot at the mauswara again. Of course, that didn’t mean I never got a sand fly bite again. They had gotten a taste of something sweet and spread the word to all their friends. I was a certified smorgasbord of culinary goodness for the entire insect community.

Just as an aside, ocean swims supplied most of the kids’ “bathing” experiences. :)

The truly frustrating part of living, doing laundry, and bathing the village way is that one never feels completely clean. Who am I kidding … one never gets completely clean! Seriously. I cannot emphasize this enough. It was probably my number one complaint during our time out there … just this constant gritty, grimy, grody feeling. Dirt and sweat are a way of life. The only real respite was the occasional downpour of rain. On more than one occasion, I got up in the middle of the night to go outside (in my tankini top and board shorts) in order to stand under the gush of rain water coming off the thatched-grass roof. I even took my shampoo. It was the closest to a real shower … the closest to CLEAN … I ever felt.

It was marvelous.

PNG is the first place that I have scrubbed my feet with a stiff brush nearly every day. Even here in the highlands, unless you wear sneakers all the time (I almost always wear sandals) dirty feet are inevitable. This pales in comparison to the unpleasant, yet constant, grime of village life, but it is reality. And no matter how much I scrub, I can never get my feet completely, living-in-the-US-and-walking-on-plush-carpets clean.

Here in the highlands, living in our western-style house, we are still bathing in river water. The only differences are 1) it’s not iron-smelting-factory hot outside, 2) the water has at least the potential to be warm, and 3) it comes in the form of indoor plumbing.

But, as I said, we rely on the warming presence of the sun, and during rainy season in particular, it doesn’t always make a significant appearance.

In addition to that, there is a constant struggle between wanting your children (and your spouse, for that matter) to be presentably, reasonably clean, and wanting your own hot shower. I do get my share that are cold.

But I haven’t gotten a single sand fly bite.

And for that (in addition to many other things) I am grateful.

Adventures in Driving: An Authorized Addendum

2011-08-31T20:59:00.001+10:00

Someone in the US who is hoping to come here recently asked the question, “How are the roads in PNG, and are they safe to drive?”

A coworker posted this in response. I laughed out loud at her perspective-rendering response, and hope that maybe you will, too.

Posted with her permission [with a few clarifying comments inserted] …

“Is driving in New York City safe? Driving anywhere requires a set of skills unique to the environment. For driving to Kainantu, Goroka, Madang or Lae (which I've done heaps of times in my bold red truck while locals shout "meri driva!" [means “woman driver!” -sharon] in amazement or joy or solidarity or something), the special skills unique to PNG (as opposed to California or New York) are:

1. Pot-hole and land-slip avoidance
2. Raskol avoidance [“Raskol” is the generic Melanesian pidgin word for criminal, thief, carjacker, etc. It may or may not be safe to assume that the homemade shotgun he’s holding has no ammunition. :) -sharon]
3. Pig- and dog- avoidance on roads (if you avoid deer on the road, you may already have this merit badge)
4. Pedestrian avoidance on roads with no shoulder and adjoining residences (if you've driven in Cairo or Bamako you may already have this skill)
5. Not running out of gas (if you live in the wilderness miles from town you may already have this skill)
6. Driving in loose mud (similar to driving in snow, so you may already have earned this merit badge)

7. Waving at people (a common small town skill) [may include gently waving down those would-be riders who think you’re a PMV –sharon]
8. Occasional river fordings
9. Negotiating bridges with holes in the road surfaces [see photo above of the bridge you MUST drive over to get anywhere outside our valley; we’re hoping it gets repaired before it completely collapses (again) -sharon]
10. Flexibility to address break-downs in the bush
11. Bush toileting skills [not to mention wisely selecting a location for such an activity -sharon]
12. Passing large trucks (additional skill: on roads without painted lane lines)
13. Convoy driving skills [it’s true that there is strength in numbers -sharon]
14. Tolerating being hot and uncomfortable and bounced around and dusty; varies depending on vehicle

And, the hardest one on the list in my experience:

15. Token security man recruitment skills [for when you’ve encountered raskols going into town, and need to get back out of town via the same road you came in -sharon]

If you're from a rural area, the more remote the better, or drive off-road through rough terrain, you already have the balance of these skills.

-Donna Smith”

Adventures in Driving

2011-08-29T15:52:00.001+10:00

As I started typing, I was about to say that there are limited roadways in this country. However, as is the case with any serious journalist, I had to get my facts straight, so I turned to Google to find some statistics. Encyclopedia of the Nations (http://www.nationsencyclopedia.com/economies/Asia-and-the-Pacific/Papua-New-Guinea-INFRASTRUCTURE-POWER-AND-COMMUNICATIONS.html) tells me that there is actually 19,600 km of roadway in PNG.

I admit, that’s more than I expected to see. But the subsequent statistic didn’t surprise me at all.

Of that, “only 686 kilometers are paved.”

That’s about 3.5%. Yeah, baby. That’s more like it.

I found it further interesting that of the “492 airports, … only 19 have paved runways.” That’s a whopping 3.9%. Maybe I’d be better off owning a plane?

It’s not uncommon to start a road trip here with prayer. The pray-er, if an experienced PNG traveler, usually includes a clause that goes something like this …

“… and as we drive, please guide us as we encounter pigs, pedestrians, and potholes.”

Driving here is very stressful. Especially on the driver and whoever else feels a sense of responsibility for the people in the vehicle. You have to be on guard at all times, constantly aware of road conditions that we all but take for granted in the US.

As is the case in many third-world countries (or, I suppose, any country where the motor vehicle to human being ratio is negligible), people use the roads as pedestrian thoroughfares. Old and young, male and female, alone and in groups, people walk along the roads as if they would be shocked to actually see a vehicle driving on it. Sometimes they will move out of the way when they see you coming, but it’s smart to not expect it. Many of them are carrying something – a baby on the back, a cord of firewood on the head, large bilums (string bags) filled with garden produce, machetes. It’s not uncommon to see gaggles of small half-dressed, barefoot children walking down the road carrying machetes (here called “bush knives”) that are almost as long as the kids are tall.

Pigs and dogs, too, roam the roads. And should the unthinkable occur … should you hit one of these precious treasures … don’t even think about stopping. That is very difficult for our western minds to compute … that you wouldn’t stop – that if you value your life, you SHOULDN’T stop to help in such a situation. The response of the local community wouldn’t be any more tense if you’d hit a person – you have just destroyed something that belongs to them and you will pay. If you want to get out of the situation with any hope of only paying monetarily, your best bet is to floor it and drive straight to the nearest police post (if you can find one). Tell them what happened and trust that they’ll protect your life until compensation can be negotiated.

While I’m on animals, I suppose I shouldn’t neglect the bovines among us. You don’t see them often, but in one straightaway in the lowlands, I recently saw a sign that read:

“Draiv isi isi. Bulmakau wokabout long rot.”
(basically, “Drive carefully; cattle walk on the road.”)

And potholes … I think if the powers-that-be were to go back and seriously evaluate those 686 km of “paved” roadway, they just might have to disqualify about 127.3 km for … well, pavement that no longer exists. :)

There are no superhighways here. No interchanges, no on- and off-ramps. No odd-for-North-South-routes and even-for-East-West. In fact, there is not a single road – no road - that connects the highlands to the capital city of Port Moresby. The Highlands Highway – the only thoroughfare spanning the northern half of the country, consists of 2 lanes – one going each direction. Bridges tend to be one lane, with right of way going to whoever is driving away from the coast (presumably so the few heavily-loaded tractor-trailers coming up from the port cities don’t have to stop as they’re driving through the mountains.) Sometimes potholes leave a section of road as effectively one-lane. Sometimes portions of road shrink laterally as chunks of asphalt gradually break off and plummet down the mountainside.

There are a few private vehicles out there, but not many. Most vehicles you encounter on the road are PMVs (Public Motor Vehicles). Those that drive long distances tend to be vans, while short-distance PMVs are generally open-backed trucks. Of course, they’re always overloaded, often with several people following the one-appendage-in-the-vehicle rule: hang on, for example, with one foot on the back bumper and the other leg thrown over the tailgate. Sometimes the people are sitting on heaping piles of burlap bags filled with copra, coffee beans, or buai (betelnut). Either way, it’s a house of cards, and I fear woe to anyone who follows too close.

Roadside markets dot the highway. Usually people are hocking sweet potatoes, pineapple, and mangoes, but in some places you may see a table lined with soda bottles. On closer inspection, you will notice that though these bottles contain a dark brown liquid, it is not Coca Cola. It’s motor oil. Quite possibly slightly used motor oil, but with the lack of gas stations (you can drive hours and not see a gas station – best just to fill up in the major cities), sometimes that’s the best you can do and they know it.

On one two-hour trip, I counted no less than 15 skeletons of vehicles along the road. That’s one every 8 minutes if you’re doing the math. If your car breaks down, and you have to abandon it, be prepared to say goodbye. If your car breaks down on my land, that makes it my car, and that bench seat in the back would be a great addition to my house. If your biscuit-filled tractor-trailer breaks down, let’s just say our village will be sitting pretty for tea time for some months. These “skeletons” are vehicles that have literally been stripped clean of everything that could potentially be useful, leaving, at best, only the steel frame intact. In one location, I saw what used to be a bus, stripped clean except for a flap of sheet metal. One small, resourceful child was using it as a trampoline.

If you ever do take a drive in PNG, please don’t focus only on the road and its hazards. (Unless you’re the driver, of course. So, sorry Dad … no matter how successfully you gawked at the sights while managing not to tumble off the winding mountain roads of the American West, I will have to put my foot down here.)

If you’re not driving, enjoy the view.

This land that was once thought to be a homogenous mass of rainforests sports rugged mountains, vast grasslands, deep valleys, glorious rivers. Eight foot tall kunai grass waves in the afternoon breezes. Patches of the hillsides burn dramatically to make ready garden plots. The higher vistas reveal mountaintops that seem to float in the clouds.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, there might even be a stretch of asphalt ahead of you as far as the eye can see. :)

Adventures in PNG

2011-08-04T10:57:00.001+10:00

It’s time for a new blog series. I anticipate that from time to time I may revisit the “Fun in the Remote Highlands of PNG” theme, but for now, I’d like to move on.

Most days here have some element of adventure. Everything from experimenting with recipe substitutions, to vehicular encounters with pigs, pooches, people, and potholes. From enduring showers of all temperatures, to racing home to snag the laundry from the line before the bottom falls out of the clouds. From caring for the neighbors’ pets, to watching bow-and-arrow-wielding men in conflict.

I’ve been collecting topics, but if you have a suggestion, or something you’re dying to hear about, throw it out there! Big adventure, or little adventure, I’d love to respond.

Stay tuned.

Transcending Transience

2011-07-23T18:39:00.000+10:00

(or, “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 13)

In my twenties, I was part of several military communities. In my thirties, we went to a church that not only had a high volume of seminary families, but also sent many members out as career missionaries. In both of these situations, people came and went all the time.

Now in my forties, I am still immersed in a community where transience is a way of life. New people arrive and/or people leave (some to villages, some on furlough, some leaving for good) nearly every week. (http://apeasofmylife.blogspot.com/2010/01/bookmarks.html)

In the three or so weeks following the end of the 2010-2011 school year, more than forty families - all of whom lived only a few minutes’ walk from our house - left the country.

Even last year, when we had only been here a few months and I didn’t know that many of them, it was in some ways a difficult time. I think part of what made it so hard was knowing that these families were going where I wished I could go … home. This year it wasn’t so bad from that perspective; I have adjusted to being here, and though I wish from time to time that I could visit home, I’m content.

However, I have found it very difficult to watch my children’s friends leave. When they leave for furlough it’s bad enough – that has happened to both Andie and Evan - but when they leave for good … well, that can break your heart. A year ago, one of our daughter’s good friends “went finish” back to Germany. This year, another of her friends, one who she was even closer to, went finish back to Finland. (Would that be called going “Finnish?”)

A few days before this most recent family left, we decided to have a going away party and hosted all the girls in our daughter’s class for an evening. On a Sunday afternoon, the girls gathered at our home and when the guest of honor arrived, they were there to surprise her (she thought she was just coming to spend the night). First, the girls each got to make their own personal pizza (we’re still waiting for someone to come open that Little Caesar’s franchise). Then they sat down to watch the movie, “Tangled,” and as the pizzas emerges from the oven, their personal waitress delivered them piping hot to their laps. Once the move ended, they had dessert (popcorn, puppy chow, and mocha muffins – mmm!), and then worked it off with a “Just Dance” Wii session. What a hoot! The girls’ favorite teacher (besides me, of course … ahem) who had left six months earlier, had returned to the country and was a welcome special guest for all of the festivities.

They had a blast, and made some fun PNG memories for this special girl.

On Tuesday, people gathered to say goodbye to the family.

Now, the community has come to call these weeks, “Cry Weeks.” A couple months ago when I was cutting a friend’s hair, she told me about one particular cry week when her daughter was between grades 11 and 12. (Paul suggested that these haircut sessions turn out, many times, to be my own form of Member Care … I think he’s right.) Anyway, this woman was having to take her daughter home for her Senior year. At that time, apparently, they would allow people out onto the airfield to say goodbye. She said it was one of the worst experiences of her life … all her daughter’s girlfriends surrounding the Cessna, clinging to the windows and sobbing. They had to force them away so the plane could take off.

Ugh.

Her story brought tears to my cry eyes.

Most families still leave via the airstrip, but I have not yet gone out to say goodbye there. This family, however, left from our guesthouse via PMV (public motor vehicle) and went to Lae where they spent two nights before boarding a commercial flight. It was hard to say goodbye, but the pain was definitely compounded by knowing that, though Finland is now on our wish list of furlough-routings, it’s possible my daughter may never see her friend again. On top of that, this girl is very close friends with one of the Papua New Guinean girls in her class. Seeing Evelyn’s tears made me realize something monumental – we travel around the world. It is now part of our lives. But this precious girl is likely to never set her feet on the soil of any foreign country, and possibly never even on an airplane. Short of a miracle, she really will never see her again.

I felt a little less sorry for myself, all of a sudden.

The upside to Cry Week is that it also coincides with arrivals. In the four to five weeks between the end of one school year and the beginning of the next (we have year-round school here), many people also return from furlough. Just fifteen days after this family left, we had the opportunity to welcome back an Aussie family who are good friends of ours. They have three children including a girl in Andie’s class, and a boy in Evan’s class. This time we did go to the airstrip. About 8-9 families were represented on the impromptu welcome committee, and this time there were no tears. When the Kodiak touched down, hands were waving wildly, expressing our collective delight to have them back.

They emerged from the plane, looking and feeling tired, but all smiles.

At one point in the movie, “Evan Almighty,” Evan Baxter’s hair grows out of control. As he arrives at the Capitol building with his hair in a ponytail and his 14 inch beard held together with several rubber bands, His assistant, (who would later ask, “Evan, what are you doing? You have a pony tail on your face! What you gonna do next? Cornrow your eyebrows?”) responds with a look of shock.

“What is that?!”

Evan’s answer to her, I feel, is fitting to how we need to respond to Cry Week and the transience of our community.

“Makin’ lemonade outta lemons.” :)

Graduation Festivities

2011-07-12T22:50:00.000+10:00

(or, “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 12)

It was an incredible honor and joy to teach my daughter’s class this past year. Not just because she was in it, though that was a pretty cool perk. I said numerous times that I would take any or all of these kids home with me and adopt them if I needed to.

Yep. They’re that cool.

While it is sort of silly, they make a big deal about graduation from grade 6 here. I think it is part tradition, and part in keeping with the stages in the national education system. After grades 6, 8, and 10, students in the PNG system must test to see if they qualify to continue on to the next level. Only a small percentage make the cut, and consequently, many PNGns have, at best, a grade 6 education.

However, I think the biggest reason for the end-of-year-6 hoopla is that in just a few short weeks, these guys experience the big transition from the Primary Campus (Preschool – Grade 6) to the Secondary Campus (grades 7-12).

The class consisted of 6 Papua New Guineans, 16 Americans, an Aussie, a New Zealander, and a Finn. They worked hard all year, and we wanted to make the last few days and graduation very special for them.

Several weeks in advance, the students began hitting me up to let them skip their last day of school. Being the rule-follower that I am, I convinced them to give me time to garner some information, and set off to plan a “skip day” that was still a real “class” day, but also would become a special memory.

They were told that the day was a normal school day, and they would be reported to the office as absent if they didn’t show up to my house by 8:30AM.

At half-past-eight, everyone was accounted for.

Badminton, basketball, four-square, Wii, and board games kept them busy at first. After a while, we broke out the snacks and they all gorged themselves on cookies, popcorn, chips, gummy creatures, fresh pineapple, and the vegetables that I insisted on putting out. (“OK, [insert name here], if you’re going to have seconds, you have to eat some veggies!”)

After a while, they were separated into teams and sent off on a photo scavenger hunt. Over the next hour, the four teams would hunt down and capture images such as several teammates peeking out from behind banana trees, a word spelled with rope, all team members underneath a picnic table, the smallest team member standing with someone who is over six feet tall, a team member with a pink flower in his or her hair, a soda can pyramid with at least 21 cans, two team members literally stopping to smell the roses, all team members sitting in one chair, and the favorite, all team members standing in a shower or bathtub.

They loved it! And the pictures were hilarious, so I got to love it too. :)

We scored the results, awarded prizes, and then had lunch. I found one group of kids with a stack of Pringles on the back veranda playing poker.

With chips.

Since Pringles are a rare commodity, I’d say the stakes were pretty high. :)

Eventually, we all headed to the auditorium for graduation rehearsal. They did such a great job that we ended up releasing them about 30 minutes early from their last primary “school” day.

Graduation was very nice. Sweet stories from former teachers, character awards, student memories, and presentation of grad certificates. No bouncing beach balls or releasing caged mice like at my high school graduation, but that’s another story.

After the ceremony, the kids were loaded up in a couple of vehicles and paraded around the center, hootin’ and hollerin’ the whole way. When they arrived at the reception venue, snacks and a couple hundred cupcakes greeted them, as well as their proud family members and friends. There was a chance for formal family photos, and then the kids quickly changed out of their Sunday best.

Families were invited to stay at the auditorium for phase 3: Australian bush dancing. Bush dancing is somewhat similar to square dancing, but, frankly, way more fun. There was much laughter – and sweating – as the parents, graduates, and siblings got into the, er, “swing” of things. :)

After thirty or so minutes of bush dancing, most of the family members left. Being a teacher, I was privileged to stay, and a few dads also stuck around to help supervise a campus-wide game of Capture the Flag. I would get to be the jailer.

Of course, as if on schedule, at the exact moment of this transition, the clouds broke and the bottom fell out. I have no idea how many inches of rain fell that night, but it was quite a downpour.

Did a little precipitation slow these guys down? No, it did not! They played two full games.

And, in fact, the father who was in charge of the bonfire that would culminate the evening’s festivities was able to successfully get a roaring fire going, despite the rain. As the kids stood in the thick mud and huddled, shivering and dripping around the fire, we decided to forego any attempt at marshmallow roasting. Instead of being let down, many of the kids ran over to the nearest big hill and held an impromptu after-dark mud-sliding session.

I don’t know if the kids will have great memories for years to come, but I certainly will. :)

Step Aside Prom . We've Got Banquet!

2011-06-07T20:21:00.000+10:00

(or, “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 11)

I can’t prove it, but I am quite certain that my niece’s prom dress this year was priced somewhere in the three digit range.

Imagine for a moment, if you will, a lovely eighteen year old girl beaming a smile while announcing that her dress was bought for $7 at a second-hand shop in the nearby town.

Now imagine futher, her date proclaiming with pride that his mother bought his entire suit online for under $10.

Another young lady reveals that she is the sixth person to wear her dress, as it has been passed around between attendees for several years. In fact, her sister wore it last year, and she bought it for $5 on the For Sale board.

Allow your mind to envision a couple dozen girls, some on the arms of male friends, some in groups with other girls, donning with dignity wrist corsages that have been lovingly made by community members.

Envisage the lot of these kids walking into a building that has been transformed from skating rink/floorball court/periodic hamburger eatery/teen hangout into Elegant Banquet Hall with little more than butcher paper, paint, sheer fabric, and strands of Christmas lights.

Welcome to Banquet.

Yes, it may be because we have little else to do here, but for whatever reason, this iconic Ukarumpa event remains a community attraction year after year. Literally hundreds of people bring lawn chairs, camp out in the grass, and stand behind the ropes to garner a view of high school Juniors and Seniors entering their long-awaited “Banquet.”

While most students arrive by car which, if not chauffeured by a parent (heaven forbid!) will be left with the volunteer “valet,” a few make it a priority to leave their mark in the Banquet history pages with some sort of unique arrival.

This year, six friends (three boys and three girls) arrived together sitting on couches perched high up on a flatbed truck. The sides of the bed were lowered and a tent made with netting had been erected on top of the vehicle, encasing the couches in what amounted to a grand-scale mosquito-shield. Once the conveyance utility came to a halt, one young man stood and stepped onto a small platform. He then pushed a lever that slowly lowered the “elevator” he was standing on, dropping him gingerly to the ground. He then raised the platform twice more to lower the two other guys and then the three girls. (While it wasn’t really clear, speculation among the crowd was that the guys descended first so they would be there to catch the girls if they fell. Fortunately we didn’t have to find out. We’ve fulfilled our quota of medevacs for the quarter.)

Another enterprising couple chartered an organizational helicopter, and flew in from the airstrip just a couple miles away.

While this approach is generally employed once every two to three years, they were definitely the don’t-miss arrival of the evening.

Sometimes, students arrive on horseback.

Or on motorcycles.

Last year, one couple arrived in a trailer-bound speed boat, pulled by a truck driven by the girl’s father.

However, a few minutes later, the three guys that arrived in caskets stole the show. One of their fathers had made three identical wooden coffins and mounted them in the back of a flatbed truck. Once the truck stopped, the coffin lids opened one by one and suit-and-cape-clad teenagers emerged to the uproarious laughter and applause of the crowd.

The evening always includes an elaborately prepared banquet dinner and entertainment. Usually, the attendees watch their parents putting on a 60-90 minute play that is aligned with the evening’s theme. This year, the theme was “Life’s a Stage” and last year the play was a hilarious spoof of “Lord of the Rings.” The script always includes numerous inside jokes, playing off of the habits, phrases, and foibles of the year’s Juniors and Seniors. Also, in a couple of the upstairs rooms, numerous games and activities are elaborately set up for the pre- and/or post-dinner enjoyment of the students.

In addition to preparing the entertainment, the parents and other volunteers will have spent a couple of weeks transforming the no-frills, utilitarian Teen Center into an elegant banquet hall. Even the bathrooms look like they should be found in a classy, up-scale restaurant.

The Banquet theme is always a well-kept secret, never publically announced until students arrive on Friday night. For those of the community who are not involved in Banquet, but who are infinitely curious (or just looking for cheap entertainment), enter “Encore.” Those who attend one of the two Saturday evening Encore time slots are able to view the décor of the Banquet and the games facilities. And, though they may or may not get all of the inside jokes, they are also privy to enjoy a repeat performance of the play that was performed for the students the night before. As a bonus, the Encore entry fees help offset the cost of putting on Banquet.

While watching the Banquet attendees enter the hall last Friday night, I spied the parents of a friend of ours. This couple has been visiting for a few weeks and will, later this month, attend the dedication for the New Testament their son and daughter-in-law (our friends) have been working on for many years. In the meantime, I approached them and asked if they were enjoying this little bit of Ukarumpa culture that was Banquet.

The grins on their faces gave them away.

As surreal as the whole event surely must have seemed to them, they were definitely having fun in the remote highlands of New Guinea.

Who Needs Starbucks? Three Cheers to Ledcafé!

2011-06-06T18:05:00.001+10:00

(or, “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 10)

“Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got. Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot. Wouldn't you like to get away? Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name and they're always glad you came. You wanna be where you can see, our troubles are all the same. You wanna be where everybody knows your name.”

In the great Aussie tradition, I hereby offer the standard three cheers to a great Ukarumpa institution … Ledcafé.

Hip hip … HOORAY! Hip hip … HOORAY! Hip hip … HOORAY!

This is not your local Starbucks.

Ledcafé, open on select Saturday mornings, does, however, fulfill the coffee-shop cravings of many local expat residents. Because it’s a small community, Ledcafé is actually a place where everybody generally does know your name. (Sorry, no anonymity here.)

And yes, they’re always glad you came. :)

Unfortunately, the proprietors of this fine establishment will be going on furlough in a few very short months. So, if you want your coffee, your mocha, your cappuccino … your espresso or latte (hot or iced) … your hot chocolate … or any of the above with a flavor shot such as raspberry or cherry (or not, depending on availability), you’d better act fast.

Specials of the week have included such delights as “Fruited Pumpkin Muffins with Sultanas and Pecans,” “Danish Puff with Almonds,” “Strawberry Swirl Coffee Cake,” “Double Chocolate Almond Biscotti,” “Very Lemony Poppy Seed Muffins,” “Carrot-Apple-Raisin-Nut Oat Bran Muffins,” “Pennsylvania Dutch Crumb Coffee Cake,” “Cranberry-Orange Nut Muffins with Streusel,” …..

I’d better stop. I’m getting drool all over my keyboard.

We watch our money, so Ledcafé is a treat, not a routine. Therefore, I can’t vouch for the delectableness of most of the above-mentioned specials, but I will say the Frosted Strawberry Bread they had a couple weeks ago was a perfectly moist slab of sweet, fruity deliciousness.

(I just used that phraseology in an email to try to weasel the recipe out of the bakeress. Clever, huh?)

In addition to special-of-the-week baked treats, Chocolate Chip Scones are a menu standard, along with cooked-to-order eggs, several varieties of oatmeal, a breakfast burrito (“Breakfast Burrito includes scrambled eggs with your choice of onions, green peppers, red peppers, mushrooms, sausage and/or cheese, all encased in a flour tortilla. Salsa available upon request”), and the Danish Garden, an “oven baked pancake with broccoli, green peppers, red peppers, onions, mushrooms, and cheese.”

(Seriously now … I’m ruining the computer.)

You know, even if the offerings at Ledcafé weren’t fundamentally luscious, just not having to cook for yourself is alone worth the money. The people who run the coffee shop (in their kitchen, living room, and veranda, incidentally), don’t do it to make a profit, nor is this their primary job here (one spouse works in publicity and communications, and the other runs a whole department.) They do this as a ministry to the community.

And a ministry it is.

When we arrived a couple weeks ago, there was one couple sitting at the dining table enjoying their hot drinks and chatting. A single gal was curled up on the sofa reading her Bible.

Soon, the room was filled with people. Several other single gals joined the first and, between them, ordered a variety of menu items. A father and young daughter on a “date.” A mother and daughter just hanging out together, basking in the beautiful highlands weather over hot chocolate and scones.

All enjoying this unique opportunity to have fun in the remote highlands of New Guinea.

Bargain Hunting, PNG Style

2011-05-15T21:02:00.001+10:00

(or, “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 9)

If you’re a bargain hunter, you have probably experienced your share of second hand clothing stores. PNG has no shortage of these in most major cities (“major cities” being a relative term, of course), but, of course, you have to be patient and willing to “dig through.”

And if you’re in a coastal town, you have to be willing to sweat.

I find it especially interesting that most (if not all?) of the clothes are shipped up from other countries just for this purpose. I, for one, never imagined “used clothing” would appear on an import list.

Some people have found great deals, though, and being good little missionaries, many people think creatively when standing in front of, say, an XXXL floral tapestry skirt.

Hmmm … 80 cents? This would make some great throw pillow covers!

Now, I am not much for shopping at these places (though, before we left the US, I basically pre-outfitted my kids for our whole first term at McCart Thrift. It better still be there when we go back.)

Another source of bargains is the electronic “For Sale” board on our local Intranet. Here are some deals that have been posted within the last week (all prices converted to US equivalent). You may or may not consider them deals, but, as in the case of the ice cream, consider that some of these items are impossible, or all but impossible to come by over here.

Pack of 100 Latex Gloves, $4

Pampered Chef Stoneware Bread Pan, $4

Old Navy girls’ capris, brown, size 12, Free

Chicken Manure, $7 per bag

Christmas Gift Wrap, $1 per roll

McDavid lace-up ankle brace, size L, $1.50

Pyrex pie plate, $2

2003 Rand McNally Atlas of US, Canada, & Mexico, free

Package of 5, slightly squooshed Peeps, $1

Super Solar Shower, New! $4

Kitchen Scale, 80 cents

Tray for making heart-shaped ice cubes, $1

$17.20 worth of Philippino Pesos, $17.20

Mango plant, 80 cents

100g package of poppy seeds, age unknown, make an offer

Homemade Ice Cream, several different varieties, $8 per liter

Secrets of the Baby Whisperer, book, free

Vahki Keerakh Metru Nui Bionicle, $2

Set of 16 plastic chop sticks, $2

Pink Fuzzy Socks, 40 cents

Now this one gets me … upon inquiry, this person told me that he purchases this coinage from used clothing stores and their employees:

“100 New Zealand Dollars valued at US$79.43 for sale at only US$70.00. This is current coinage that is very spendable in New Zealand, not the old stuff only good for collecting. This money was recovered from the pockets of used clothing imported to PNG.”

Well, I have to admit, that is very resourceful! And, hey, if I’m going to pay $3000 for a round trip from here to New Zealand, that savings of $9.43 could come in handy.

We have several annual activities where bargain hunters can fulfill their felt need for shopping. The first is the Christmas Craft Fair, held at the end of November. This past year, I tried to corner the market on “practical” and sold handmade hanging clothespin bags and grocery bag keepers. I sold every one that I made, and later made several for people who found out about it after the fact and had to have one or the other. My most popular item, however, was flannel-covered rice bags … the kind you heat up in the microwave and put on sore muscles, or use to warm up your bed. That is an item I will be revisiting this next November.

Also for sale at the Christmas Craft Fair were CDs of acoustic guitar recorded by one of our teenagers (an amazing musician), ink pens, cutting boards, and clocks made from various PNG hardwoods, Christmas tree ornaments, handmade greeting cards, crocheted, knitted, and cross-stitched items, handmade doll clothes, and plenty of PNG handcrafts as well. Something for everyone!

A couple weeks later, our store holds the Store Christmas Sale. Over the several preceding weeks, volunteer shoppers travel to Lae (and maybe other cities) and procure items for the sale. This past year, patrons could purchase anything from several varieties of candy (who would have imagined Toblerone?!), to holiday décor, jewelry, housewares, stationery supplies, water guns, fru-fru scented soaps, craft kits, kitchen gadgets, ceramic mug sets, insulated lunch bags ….. well, just about anything. The sale only lasts one day, so lines are forever long, but at least you’ve saved a 2-4 hour trip (one way) to a “real” store, right? The only tricky thing is (considering that the sales floor is, perhaps, 500 square feet) keeping those nosy little people you’re buying for from seeing what’s in your basket. :)

Each May, throngs of people flock to the “Top of the Hill Sale.” This is a mass yard sale, held at dozens of homes of people who live, well, at the top of the hill. We moved to the top of the hill in December, but decided against participating as sellers this year, mostly because I was scheduled to leave town at around noon. We did, however, walk around and take pictures to share with our vast readership. :)

Despite having the intention to not shop, we did purchase a set of books for Evan … basically if we can identify something that he is willing to read, we will try to get it for him. You know what I mean. At another home, I arrived just in time for the residents to decide that they were done for the day, and as a result, I walked away with 8 free books and a partial package of Christmas gift tags.

The TOTHS also includes many food booths, and even pony rides. Andie participated with other members of the Pony Club, taking children (and some adults) around the block at 2 Kina per ride.

The Teen Center in our little town holds an annual “Everything Sale.” The items up for grabs have all been donated by the community (including, I presume, much of what didn’t sell at the “Top of the Hill Sale” the week before.) All proceeds of the Everything Sale go to fund the Teen Center and related activities for the youth of the community. There is a 2 Kina entrance fee (about 60 cents), but inside you can find bargains such as a 5 foot Christmas tree for $5, hardback books at 15 cents apiece, and board games for 20 cents. In general, the prices are much better than those at the TOTHS, making the ES most definitely a bargain hunter’s paradise.

While it’s true that we have no Wal-Mart, and even worse, no Target (gasp!), we survive. A companion board to the “For Sale” board is the “Wanted” board. This particular feature of our electronic bulletin board system is the one that best magnifies the absolute amazingness of our community.

Do you need a pair of size 10.5 soccer cleats for your teenage son? Post on the Wanted board!

Are you completely out of ground cinnamon? Post on the Wanted board!

Need a small amount of white acrylic paint for a school project? Post on the Wanted board!

Need to borrow a French beret-style hat for the 8^th grade play? ….

You get the picture. :)

Every time I see a “wanted” post (and those above are real ones), and then an update, often within minutes, that the need has been met, I am amazed again at the graciousness and helpfulness of our community.

It’s so Acts 2-ish.

And that, I believe, is one of the best bargains in the highlands of New Guinea.

Here Comes Peter Cottontail, Hopping Down the "Necessity is the Mother of Invention" Trail

2011-04-24T10:15:00.000+10:00

(or, “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 8)

I have vague memories of shopping for Easter candy and other basket-stuffers back home. My mind is filled with foggy images of complete aisles full of baskets, buckets, stuffed bunnies, and plastic grass, and still more aisles containing jelly beans, chocolate bunnies, cream eggs, and other treats. I even seem to remember something about a jelly bean-pooping … oh wait, that was a raindeer.

But it must be a hallucination, right? Surely it couldn’t have been aisles and aisles ….

Not only do we not have seasons here to mark the passage of time, we also don’t have mega-stores blaring holiday music in October, and stocking red heart-shaped boxes tied with lacy bows even as the customer service lines begin filling with shoppers holding after-Christmas returns. So, when, on Thursday afternoon (just an hour before the store would close for the next four days) I caught sight of the Easter candy shelf, it surprised me.

Uh oh … Sunday is Easter.

From my place in the check-out line, I visually perused the meter-long shelf (yes, singular). It contained stock of four different items. I quickly decided I needed to make some attempt … for the children’s sake, right? I reached for two 8” hollow chocolate rabbits, one foil-dressed as a boy, and the other as a girl.

So, this morning, when my son asked me for his, presumably well-stocked, Easter basket, I presented him with - without fanfare, mind you – a single bunny.

And some ideas.

He was a great sport about it. He immediately unwrapped the bunny and gave it a thumbs-up even while chocolate goo oozed from the corners of his mouth. He chewed delightedly while I suggested that we make our own chocolate/peanut butter “eggs.” I had considered fudge, and a dear friend at home, upon hearing that I didn’t have much chocolate, sent me some recipes for peanut butter fudge. But, I think with what we have we can even swing Buckeyes. If the kids want to wrap them in foil and hide them around the house, or if they want to call them bunny poo instead of eggs, that will be fine with me.

But that would have to wait. First, we had breakfast to tackle.

Evan whipped up pancake batter from scratch (we assured him that with the mad cooking skills he was sure to develop, he would be the hit of the college dorm someday). He asked for four bowls and dug through the pantry for the food coloring. Soon the batter was distributed and colored and the creative juices began to flow.

And the way I figure it, at least there are eggs in pancake batter. :)

"I'm Glad it's Your Birthday . Yes, We're Going to a Party Party!"

2011-04-07T11:38:00.000+10:00

(or, “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 7)

While I knew that having ten twelve-year old girls spend the night in our living room would not be without unexpected elements, I never anticipated the surprises that were to await us last night.

If I were reading this on your blog, I might automatically assume these “surprises” to be associated with drama related to petty tween girl stuff. Be assured, these kids are most wonderful. Not that there is no drama, but when it does rear its head it isn’t particularly ugly. It probably helps that these kids are my students. What can I say? I love them.

At approximately 3:30pm, I began the pre-emptive dish-washing. I think I spent 7 of the next 17 hours in the kitchen. I have to say, my husband rocks … he was right there with me for almost all of it.

Once the dishes were drying in the racks (yes, plural), I began making the pizza crust. I mixed and rolled and baked until twelve crusts were lying on tea towels the counter. Paul mixed up the pizza sauce and started cutting up meat and olives.

In the midst of all this, at about 5:00, our home braved the onslaught of nine pre-teen girls, their overnight bags, sleeping bags, blankets and pillows. Oh, and noise.

We were suddenly very grateful for the extra-large picnic table on the front veranda. It came with the house, this monster … and by monster, I am not exaggerating. This thing is made with 2x6’s and 2x8’s. The former homeowners told us they had moved it a few times, but it took four to six strong men each time to accomplish the relocation.

While Paul and I baked pizzas, most of the girls had moved outside and were playing basketball or badminton. Evan, who had seriously not been looking forward to the event (“But, what am I going to do with all those girls in the house!? BORING!”), was invited to play with them. Ten (ok, nine, because Andie probably was only nominally on board) 12-year old girls had invited an 8-year old boy to play with them? I’m telling you, these kids rock.

At 5:45, I began carrying sliced pizzas to the picnic table. Soon, the benches were filled with eleven (again, Evan was welcome) hungry kids, and the dog was camped out under the foray hoping beyond hope for falling morsels. These people at nine pizzas. Nine!

At one point, Paul all but offered to foot the capital for someone to open a Little Ceasar’s here before we have to host another birthday party.

Finally, we prepared one final pizza, and the kitchen slaves sat down on the front porch rocker to watch the badminton frenzy that was now going on in the dark. (We have only 12-13 hours of daylight here year-round.) We had just gotten comfortable when we were asked by several enthusiastic faces,

“Can we have a bonfire?!!”

So, once we finished shoveling in our food, everyone moved to the back yard and prepared the fire pit. God had given us a dry day and a beautiful clear night full of stars, and soon, all 13 of us were sitting around the fire playing telephone, concentration, and telling progressive stories. Once they got tired of sitting around, they decided to play “Ghost in the Graveyard.” I turned off the security lights, established reasonable boundaries, and the game began.

It was my job to guard the little avocado tree.

They played until almost 8pm, when we moved inside for presents, cake, and a movie.

As Andie was opening one of the last few presents, Paul came in and quietly said, “Um, I think there’s some sixth grade mischief going on outside.”

Once the girls got wind of this, they were storming the doors and ran squealing into the night. Several of their male classmates were in the process of, once again, taping (TPing) our yard. The guys ran off into the darkness, leaving behind shoes and other identity-betraying paraphernalia.

Eventually, the girls convinced a few of them to come back (after all, we had their shoes) and enjoy cake with us, with one stipulation. They had to clean up the yard. Four of the hooligans decided they were willing to trade their desire for anonymity for birthday cake and ice cream. The others, well, too bad for them, right? After the celebratory formalities were over and everyone was full, we shooed the boys out into the night and locked the doors. The girls (and Evan) brushed teeth, threw mattresses, cushions, and sleeping necessities around the room, and settled down to watch “Bedtime Stories.”

After things got quiet, I took the dog out for a final potty walk, and found the boys trying to quietly re-distribute the already expended tape around the yard. I told them I wouldn’t tell the girls what they were doing, but that they would need to come back in the morning and clean it up … again. :)

Eventually, I guess, they decided since Mrs. B knew, it was no fun anymore, so they cleaned up the mess and moved on, but not before knocking on the door and asking for tweezers to remove cactus spines from some of their feet and hands. Hey, that’s what you get for wrapping toilet paper around a prickly pear.

Once the movie was over, we put Evan to bed, and hit the sack ourselves. We needed to rest up, for a busy morning of waffle- and pancake-making awaited us in just a few short hours. I’m telling you, these girls can eat.

It is 11:15am now. When asked a few minutes ago how long they could stay, I smiled and told them that they were welcome to stay as long as they wanted, but that the kitchen would not be opening for lunch.

While they’re not looking, I think I’ll eat some cake. :)

No Description Necessary

2011-04-01T22:49:00.001+10:00

(or, “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 6)

An Amazing Race

2011-03-28T17:46:00.000+10:00

(or, “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 5)

My tube of muscle rub has expired. I don’t mean simply that the date imprinted on the crimp has passed, I mean, like really expired. Like it’s completely ineffective.

That is the most important realization I had after last Saturday’s “fun.” Actually, it may be the only realization I had, considering that my brain was as tired and as sore as my body.

“The Amazing Race: Ukaurmpa Edition” had been a dream of Toni’s for two years. Saturday saw that dream realized. Events like this are rare enough that we jumped on the chance to do something fun as a family. We prepared ourselves for the toll that stressful puzzles, decisions, and challenges would take on our pre-existing relationships.

Twenty teams showed up at 8:30AM for preliminaries. Teams (including memorable combinations such as “Elmo’s Biggest Fans” (four high school senior girls wearing Elmo t-shirts, “Café con Leche” (two expats from Spanish speaking nations and two Americans who speak Spanish with them) the “DoReMi’s” (a music teacher and his family), “Smoking Hues” (two fathers and their sixth grade sons, the team name created from their two last names), “SMACK 1” and “SMACK 2” (two teams of four women each – all of their names starting with S, M, A, C, or K) and “SMACKED” (four of their husbands)) signed in and had team pictures taken. Rules, route markers, detour and roadblock signs were displayed and explained. And the first wave of ten teams departed with their initial clue envelopes at the 9:00 start time.

Fifteen minutes later, after a just-in-case bathroom break, the second wave (which included “The PEAS”), took off. We rushed into the shade of a tree to tear open our envelope.

The clue referred to “going bald” or “needing a new do” and “Milky white” who was “mooing at you.” That was a tad bit obscure, and we weren’t really sure what hair had to do with a cow, but rather than asking for help from spectators (which was allowed), we, the independent, self-reliant team, tore off down the road toward the cow from whom we get fresh milk twice a week. As we approached (not seeing any sign of a route marker), Paul reminded us that there are actually two cows on center, and the other one is located at the home of one of the other ladies who cuts hair.

That made sense, so we turned around and made our way quickly (we’d stopped running as soon as we got away from the cameras – ha!) to these people’s home which lies at the bottom of a long hill. They were hosting their Saturday morning café (the subject of a future “Fun in the Remote Highlands of PNG” post), but no route marker. Knowing we had the huge hill to climb, I decided to inquire rather than continue our failed self-sufficiency test. We were informed that we were not the first to try their house (turns out, about eight teams came to their house that day), and that “Milky White” was the name of a paper-mache’ cow in a high school play a few years back.

Yeah, like how were we supposed to know that?

So, we trudged back to the high school.

Yes, I said BACK to the high school … to the prop room that stands just a few yards from the starting line we had jogged away from so energetically fifteen minutes earlier.

It had been a long fifteen minutes.

Unfortunately, we did not successfully complete the challenge at that stop (finding a marked black ribbon hidden among the rows of costumes inside of a 12 minute time limit) and, in addition to the 15 minutes of confused roaming, the 10 minutes waiting for the team ahead of us to finish the challenge, and the intense ribbon search, we absorbed a 5 minute penalty. We had now used up 42 minutes of our allotted four hours. We’d used 18% of our time on the first 8% of our race.

Fortunately, the other eleven pit stops were not as difficult for us. The only other one we did not complete had to do with bean counting (literal bean counting), and no one else accomplished it either. Using sampling theory, we did come up with the closest answer of all the teams that attempted it, but alas, not close enough to avoid another 5 minute penalty.

The location clue we received at the prop room was a photograph of someone’s front door. This led us to a roadblock where we had to choose someone who was “really hungry” to attempt the challenge. “I mean really really hungry. I really mean really really really really really really really really hungry.”

Well, on any given day that describes our son exactly, so, thinking he would be downing a dozen bananas, he agreed to take the challenge.

He wouldn’t let us talk him into any more challenges for the rest of the day.

Before he even unwrapped the foil-covered plate, we caught a glimpse of the hand-made poster-board “menu.” It included such delicacies as “squid snack,” white jelly fungus, sardines, sago, lychees, jellyfish, and sago grubs. Yes, grubs.

Our team took the three minute penalty for changing participants.

And Paul took one for the team.

The lychees turned out to be a fruit, sweet and rather tasty (I took his word for it) but having come out of a can, slimy and unrecognizable prior to being ingested. The sago tasted like cardboard; no surprise there. The grub (beheaded and fried just that morning by a brave 15-year old girl) he popped like a pill and downed with half a glass of water.

I didn’t ask for any more descriptions.

He said he didn’t feel sick, so we trudged on.

Our clue led us to a home where strains of “Eye of the Tiger” were wafting from the closed curtains of the living room. When it was our turn, we entered to find that we had ten minutes to learn a dance, and then we would be judged on how well we performed it. Suffice to say, we passed the test and did not receive a penalty, but two pit stops later, when given a Detour choice of “Assembly required” or “Performance inspired,” we chose to assemble. (A good choice from what I hear because, among other things, we didn’t have to try to pantomime “Argentina.”)

The clue for Pit Stop #4 was a photo that took us back to the high school. Paul had to sink 10 baskets from somewhere beyond the top of the key in a certain time limit. He just made it, and then retrieved our next clue from a plan full of whipping cream … using only his face.

The kids were jealous and insisted on cleaning off the zipper baggie before it went in the trash.

It took a couple of minutes to figure out that the bold words in the otherwise very bizarre clue were an anagram for the name of one of the youth hostels. It was at this location that we chose “Assembly required” and after finding twenty-four plastic eggs that had nails inside, I built a box using some wood and every one of those nails.

Pit Stop #6 required that we sink a plastic golf ball in a makeshift “hole” (made from half a margarine container) in eight or fewer swings of a club. Everyone had to hit at least one time. On the eighth hit, a four inch putt, the putter caused the ball to go airborne and bounce off the top of the butter tub. (I won’t say who that was, but considering that that person had ingested jellyfish, fungus, and a grub on our behalf, we didn’t hold it against him.)

We had to start over three times, with hitting the ball out of the fence, and into a flower bed being the other two no-no’s that sent us back to the tee. We narrowly avoided a penalty as we sank the putt just seconds before the time limit was up.

Our next clue sent us to a home where our roadblock card said (sorry in advance for any offense that may be taken here), I quote, “Choose the one person on your team who really sucks!”

I ended up having to draw a huge bowlful of jello through a straw. About half way through, I noticed that the rules didn’t say anything about having to swallow the jello, so when I asked, I was escorted into the house (so other teams wouldn’t get wise) and given a spittoon. Yay for spittoons.

At pit stop #8, we found 100 plastic knives sticking blade-first into the ground in a space that measured, by my best guess, 800 square feet. Again, a time limit was imposed for us to find the one knife with a painted blade. Only one knife (per person) could be out of the ground at any time. I don’t know which was worse … crawling around on hands and knees or bending over repeatedly. I did both.

They both hurt. :)

Once the embellished piece of cutlery was located (I think it was the 98^th knife we pulled), we were given our next clue. When we arrived, we again had a choice to make … either a 2- or 3-person challenge. The route to this pit stop had been all uphill and the kids were worn out (oh yeah … waah, waah, waah) so it was up to the aging, but ever faithful parental units to choose the “two” option. I was blindfolded and Paul directed me, using only verbal instructions, through an elaborate obstacle course while the kids sat back and casually enjoyed cups of lemonade. (Had one child been willing to make it “three,” then two blindfolded team members would have been required to erect a tent based on the verbal clues of the third person.)

Pit Stop #10 was where we encountered the beans. We figured, being “peas” we should be able to conquer some lowly “beans,” but, as described above, they conquered us. We should have chosen the “paper caper,” whatever that was.

Pit stop #11 found Paul and I volunteering to be the participants again. I told Paul I would be the one blindfolded because he did such a great job of leading me around the obstacle course earlier. (I meant it, too!) Turns out, the obstacle course this time was his face. The lipstick broke in my hand, so I smeared it on with my fingers … between his lower lip and his chin.

Oops.

I won’t describe where the rest of the cosmetics landed; you can look at the picture. At least the wig ended up perched on the top of his head.

With Paul’s face so bedecked, we hurried to our final pit stop. “Cemetery Hill” is, as you might guess, a hill. With a cemetery. Beside the cemetery is a steep foot path that takes those fit enough to scale it from one section of housing to another. (I’m pretty sure I made my parents climb it, as part of their introduction to life here.)

The rules were that all team members had to climb up the hill … on hands and knees.

Which brings me back to the expired muscle rub crisis.

I focused on the ground as I plodded my way up the steeply-graded slope. My family had reached the finish line and was cheering me on when I decided I had to stop and rest for a minute. I looked up to see that I was in exactly the same place that I, when I first started climbing the hill (on foot), had to stop and rest: about 2/3 of the way up. I laughed out loud at the coincidence, and then forced myself to finish, all the while staring at the grass.

Having completed all twelve pit stops, it was time to return to the high school and jump on the mat indicating our team’s arrival. Instead of the Amazing Race logo, the plastic mat bore a picture of Winnie-the-Pooh.

But, hey … whatever works, right?

With our penalties added in, our final official time was four hours and one minute … good enough for an 8^th place finish and the t-shirt prize that came with it.

Not bad, I say.

I have to give some kudos to two of my students, Andie’s classmates, who tagged along with us … for the entire race! They were our own personal cheering squad, even going so far as to make and wear a sign that said “Go PEAS!” E and V, you rock!

My twelve year old described Saturday as “one of the best days of [her] entire life!”

And as for the toll of stress on our family? I’d say there was little to none. The four of us worked together surprisingly well and, thanks to the hard work of many people here, enjoyed a day of “fun in the remote highlands of Papua New Guinea.”

Celebratory Dining Options

2011-03-24T23:34:00.000+10:00

(or, “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 4)

Today is my daughter’s birthday. We told my husband as he was leaving for work this morning that we would be going to Applebee’s for lunch. He told us to have fun.

We dream a lot here. :)

Actually, I would have said “Johnny Carino’s,” but it’s been so long I couldn’t remember the name of the place.

I said a few posts ago that there are no restaurants here. That’s not exactly correct. There is one restaurant in Kainantu. Sometimes it is even open. We’ve never been there, but we know people who reportedly have. It’s about a 25 minute drive.

In the daytime.

When the bridge isn’t out.

But that’s not the point. In other “big cities” (it’s all relative), there are restaurants … and some places even more than one to choose from.

But, here in our little township, we have the “Ukarumpa Kai Bar.” (“Kai” is the Melanesian Pidgin word for food.) This fine establishment is open when the store is open, typically Monday to Friday. From 11am to almost 4pm, it usually even has food. :)

Typical fare includes hamburgers (K7.50 … about $3.15), chips (also known as French fries – K4.50 … about $1.90; these are edible for the first thirty-six seconds after they leave the deep-fryer; after that, you must have the jaws of a cow to break them down), meat pies, and roasted chickens (sold whole, half, and quarter).

They also have hot dogs on the menu, but don’t be fooled. These are not your typical American hot dogs.

Now most expats would not see this as that great a loss. However, I had a friend tell me a couple weeks ago that when she went home on her first furlough, her mother asked her, “If you could have any food you have been missing, what would it be?” Her response? A hot dog.

Now, while I am not the greatest connoisseur of the great American frankfurter, and that certainly wouldn’t be my first choice, I have to admit, I totally understood what she meant. Throw some of that canned Hormel chili (no beans variety, please) on top and I’m there. (Gross, I know.) But, please … when we get ready for furlough, don’t everyone start stocking up on hot dogs. At the risk of being rude, after about the third meal of them, I’d be heading to Carino’s. But, again, I digress.

Ice cream, when available, is the best bargain in town: K1.70 for a two scoop cone … about 70 cents. It is available in elaborate flavors such as chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, banana, toffee (which is bright yellow), coffee, and mango. They even have blueberry ice cream from time to time, which is especially odd in a country that doesn’t have blueberries.

They were out of ice cream today, but back to the outing at hand.

I told Andie I knew this great little bistro that I wanted to take her to for her birthday. Since we eat there about twice a year (with the exception of 70 cent ice cream), she was all in favor.

She likes the fries. Hmm.

So, we walked the 12 minutes downhill to the store and stood in line. They were out of meat pies, her first choice. I suggested we get a chicken (which is right tasty, actually, but you have to be prepared to rip it apart and eat it with your hands … fortunately they have paper towels. Sometimes.)

She decided on a hamburger and chips … er, fries.

Which brings me to a rather humerous rabbit trail … that same friend who relished the hot dogs (no pun intended)? She and I were headed to the store the other day. She asked some of our co-workers if they wanted her to get anything for them. To our American friend, she said, “Would you like me to get you some fries?” Then, two minutes later, to our New Zealander friend, she said, “Would you like me to get you some chips?” Didn’t even flinch.

As we walked to the car, I commented on how impressed I was by her cultural sensitivity.

She didn’t even realize she had done it. :)

Anyway, back to today. Andie and I had burgers and chips (I have to call them that, since, if you note the picture, we only had “tomato sauce” with which to garnish them), and Fanta “Creamy” sodas. You may never have heard of Fanta “Creamy,” but let me assure you it is a delight that has made this entire international escapade worthwhile. It is described as “strawberry ice cream flavor.” Not really, but close enough.

Mmmm.

While we were sitting there outside, under the grass-roofed shelter, sharing a table with other people, some friends of ours came and sat down on the bench seat beside us. When they found out it was Andie’s birthday, my friend Birgitta decided to serenade her.

In Dutch.

Lang zal ze leven, lang zal ze leven,

Lang zal ze leven in de gloria.

In de glo-ri-a, in de glo-ri-a.

Hiep-hiep-hiep hoera!

(Let her live long in glory; hip-hip hurrah!)

The happenstance of the moment wasn’t lost on me. That’s just cool.

Happy birthday, kiddo!

Play it Again, Sam. (And again, and again, and again, and ...)

2011-03-22T23:36:00.000+10:00

(or “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea.” Vol. 3)

Almost every Sunday, after the kids have gone to Sunday School (there is no SS for adults here), Paul and I pull out the Scrabble board. This frequently leads to visions of the two of us slowly rolling our wheelchairs into a common room and then moving our little wooden letters around with arthritic hands, while a kindly 20-something nurse hands us saltines and glasses of grapefruit juice.

I’m sure it will happen sooner than I think.

But I digress.

We used to play Cribbage, but after years of peg-moving and 15-and 31-counting, we graduated to Scrabble. I won most of the time, until Paul caught on to all of my tricks. It took a while, but within the last year he began to match me game for game.

Of course, that meant we had to change the rules. Couldn’t have him beating me that much, you know.

Last year, someone gave us one of those Scrabble sets with the turntable-style board and the little grid ridges that keep the letters in place. Someone at Milton Bradley should have gotten early retirement with full benefits for that one. But, even better than those upgrades, the set came with alternate rules.

We adopted two of them at once:

1. A player who has, or draws, a letter which is represented on the board by a blank, may, on his turn, substitute the letter and pick up the blank.

2. A player, at the start of his turn and before adding any letters to the board, may replace any single letter already on the board with one from his or her own rack which will form an acceptable new word or words. Any number of such substitutions may be made on a turn – but only one letter at a time, and only when correct words result from each individual change.

These changes shifted the balance of power. I once again dominated the world of Scrabble, until he began to get wise to my strategies and implement them for his own gain. The rat. At this point, the scale still tips slightly in my favor, but it won’t be long before I’ll need to find some new rule adaptation that will again give me the upper hand.

Pinochle is a game that we played frequently before coming to PNG, but we have not met many people here who even know how to play. We taught a couple several months ago, but they haven’t played since. I think the complexity may have overloaded their circuits.

In January, a new couple arrived (with our same last name, interestingly enough, but no relation) who enjoy pinochle as much as we do. One night in February, they invited six people over and introduced us to a new twist on the game. I am not sure what the real name of this variation would be, but it was a rotational pinochle, where players play each hand with a different partner, and two games are going on simultaneously. At the end, each player adds up all eight of the scores they helped attain to find an ultimate winner.

Having nowhere else to go, Andie tagged along with us that night. She took along a book and was looking forward to holding down the sofa for a while. However, when we got there, the hosts were delighted because one of the players they had invited could not come at the last minute. Now, Andie had never played pinochle before and she was less than half the age of the next oldest player, but she is a card shark. She caught on very quickly, held her own, and had a great time.

Tonight, the first day of school term break, the four of us played a rousing game of Agricola (top picture above.) Paul was introduced to this game at one of the numerous guy “let’s-play-games-and-stuff-food-in-our-faces” nights he’s attended over the last year. Other G “LPGASFIOF” N activities have included classics such as Settlers of Catan, Dominion, and Carcassone. No video games for these men, no siree. Like I said, this is a community of academics. We are much too sophisticated for that.

Okay, maybe not.

Anyway, this was the closest game of Agricola our family has played together. After an hour of buying wood, clay, reed, and grain, sowing and harvesting grain and vegetables, expanding and upgrading houses and families, erecting fences and procuring cattle, pigs, and sheep, the scores were 20, 24, 26, and 28.

I was declared the winner.

That’s really all that matters, right?

Oh yeah … and spending time together as a family, making our own entertainment here in the highlands of Papua New Guinea.

Yeah, that too. :)

Horse Sense

2011-03-20T15:15:00.000+10:00

(or “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 2)

Unlike in most other places, the largest animal indigenous to Papua New Guinea is not a mammal.

It’s a cassowary.

I know, I know. Control your excitement. :)

Yet, yesterday morning, right here in our little hamlet, horses and their riders put on a community event: a gymkhana. You see, though not indigenous, horses do tend to be a little more tolerant of the saddle than cassowaries.

Several members of the Pony Club have quite a bit of experience with horsemanship, and some even with this type of horse show. Several others do not, yet they participated anyway. Fun times for all!

(Though Andie is a member of the Pony Club, she chose not to participate. The horse she cares for is a 32-year old, stubborn, grumpy old mare.

Hold your jokes; I’ve got Phantasie by a good ten years.)

The day’s events included in-hand leading through and over obstacles, dressage, Parelli games, barrel racing, pole-bending, and the ever-popular “spud-n-spoon” race.

I am not sure if the Spud-n-Spoon race is a traditional horseback skill set, or if it was an infusion of fun in today’s very formal (ahem) events. Either way, in this balancing race, the eggs normally carried on concave cutlery were replaced by potatoes.

The store was completely out of eggs.

As you may have assumed by now, this horse show was definitely for fun, rather than a serious equestrian meet. At the very last minute I was asked to be a turnout judge, if that tells you anything. I told the organizers that surely there was someone there who had more sense about these things than I did, but they still wanted me to do it. Let’s just say that every entrant passed.

I mean, they pretty much all looked like horses to me. :)

Slip Slidin' Away

2011-03-16T16:32:00.000+10:00

(or “Fun in the Remote Highlands of New Guinea,” Vol. 1)

Papua New Guinea is known for its rain forests, and precipitation is one commodity we certainly do not lack … at least during much of the year. While we don’t exactly live in a rain-forested area, we still get quite a bit of wet. Over the last 30 years, the average annual rainfall here in the Aiyura valley has been 2,156 mm (for those of us cursed to have been raised under customary measurement systems, that about 86 inches … more than 7 feet.)

I’m pretty sure that in 2010, we had that reached that amount by sometime in May.

I have pictures of my kids and their friends last year, “watersliding” down the concrete culverts in front of our house. And we have the torn shorts to prove it. :)

This rainy season has been much drier, but that doesn’t stop people from having fun with water.

Behind one of the youth hostels here is a long hill, just perfect for a slip-n-slide … the extra-extra-extra large variety. Last weekend, under the burn of the tropical sun, the center youth group held a fund-raiser there. Thanks to several water hoses and a case of Palmolive dish detergent, kids of all ages (literally) enjoyed the fruits of gravity.

No, I did not indulge. I had a responsibility to get good pictures for the blog, you know.

The youngest I saw flying down the black rubber tarpaulin was about 2 years old. The oldest, a PhD-holding high school teacher from Great Britian … I am guessing in his late 50s. To see these individuals throw themselves onto the tarp and suddenly lose all control (literally) was quite a sight. Once they got going, there was no stopping. At least not at will. Several teenage boys were at the end with another piece of plastic, trying to “net” those who reached the end of the tarp still going top speed before they slid off into the rocks and/or mud puddles below.

They weren’t always successful.

But I never heard anyone complain. :)

Let Me Entertain You

2011-03-15T14:21:00.000+10:00

We knew before coming to Papua New Guinea that we should not expect the same level of service and services that we were comfortable with back home. After all, PNG is a third-world country. If planting yams and telling stories over coffee in the dark is not your natural inclination, being here might take some getting used to. (Understatement of the year, I know.)

I had a comment on my last post (Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow) suggesting that some people simply could not, or should not, as the case may be, give up professional hair services. I suppose that’s true. I’ve seen my share of “frumpy” missionaries. Why, I may even aspire to become one someday! (Okay, maybe not.) But seriously … does it really matter? In our Western thinking, in our resource-rich, idyllic Shangri-Las, yes, it does. But here? Not so much. It’s all a matter of priorities and context.

Those that come here expecting too much, either from themselves or from the community, are setting themselves up for a great fall. Expectations that are set too high are nothing but rich deposits of stress ore.

You do what you can with what you have and then you have to let the rest of it go, you know?

Some would look at our little hamlet and think that entertainment, in particular, is a rare commodity. There are no movie theaters, no restaurants, no bowling alleys. No malls, no department stores, no book stores. No miniature golf, no state parks, no Starbucks.

No fun, right?

I think the best justice I could do to the situation here would be to say, fun and leisure and entertainment is what you make it.

Many people have others over for dinner. (Of course, dinner might take two and a half hours to prepare, but that’s another post.) Board and card games are all the rage. DVDs are swapped around like germs.

Every weekend you can see kids walking to each other’s houses carrying pillows and sleeping bags. These are the same kids who play outside, explore, create, dig, and build, and otherwise make their own fun. Think 1950s America.

In the great tradition of adolescent pranks, some (yes, generally teenagers) take it upon themselves to decorate people’s yards (see photo of our yard above.) This is not your traditional TP-job. No, sir. Toilet paper is too expensive. This is old video tapes. (Please tell me, why didn’t we think of doing this with eight tracks?)

So, other than planting yams and engaging in “vandalism lite” with reels of magnetic media, what is there to do here in the highlands of Papua New Guinea?

Well, I’m glad you asked. Stay tuned. :)

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

2011-03-13T16:11:00.000+10:00

“So how did you get into cutting hair?”

In the last year and a half, I have heard this question from nearly everyone who has sat in my kitchen chair sporting a stylish black cape. The jury is still out on whether they’re just striking up a friendly conversation, or concerned about what they will look like when I’m done hacking away with my scissors. But, I don’t charge for the service, so I’m sure it’s hard to resist.

To answer the question, I’ve cut my husband’s hair ever since we got married, and started cutting my own about ten years ago. I had recently had the best haircut of my life (thanks, Rann!), but at $45 for just the cut, there was no way this seminary student was going to be able to do that every eight weeks. What can I say? I’m cheap. I tried several $12 chain-salon haircuts, but soon decided I could do just as well on my own. And if I butchered my coif, I could always go running back to Rann to have it expertly doctored.

I also cut the kids’ hair, and the dog’s. And fortunately for our current community, I had some friends in Texas (equally cheap, apparently) who were my willing guinea pigs before we came to PNG. To my great surprise, they were all repeat customers, including the sixteen year old boy who generally refused to let anyone touch his curly blonde locks.

I knew that services like haircuts could be hard to come by here, being a community filled with academics, so I brought along my scissors and my willingness to give haircutting a shot, just in case. I didn’t get past the first three weeks before requests were coming in.

Despite my lack of training, I routinely do anywhere between 3 and 8 haircuts in a normal week. In the last two and a half weeks, I have had 21 haircuts and a couple of consultations with mothers who want to learn to cut their children’s hair. Who would have ever guessed?

Last night I cut hair for my friend in the photo above. The woman has piles of hair. It had been a while since I cut it last, and, after I finished the trim, I asked her if we had thinned her hair last August. She said, yes, she thought so, and yes, let’s do it again. However, with the first snip of the thinning shears, she shrieked, “Sharon! What are you doing?”

I just laughed. You’ll never miss it.

I convinced her to trust me and kept on thinning. She swallowed her fears and let me do my thing. The picture above was taken when it was all over and she had just gotten a glimpse of the volume of hair on the floor. She’s laughing behind her hand … really she is.

Though she was happy with her haircut, not everyone has been. I have had three notable situations over the eighteen months where the person was less than satisfied. The first was a woman who came to me with super-thick hair, long enough to reach her waist. She wanted to have enough cut off to donate to “Locks of Love,” and she was headed to the coast for four months of orientation training. We discussed how stiflingly hot it is at the coast, and how she would want it short enough (and thinned) so that it wasn’t too hot, yet long enough to pull up in a ponytail. I did what she asked me to do, so I choose to believe that it was the sheer shock of going from waist-length to just-below-the-shoulder-length that caused her very, very pained countenance upon completion of the job.

The second to-be-unhappy customer brought me a picture. As if that’s not dangerous enough, her words to me were, “This is the closest I can find to what I want.”

That’s very specific, thank you.

I tried as best I could to figure out what she wanted, but apparently I overshot it significantly. A couple weeks later she apologized for the way she had reacted when I handed her the mirror. I must be a completely insensitive dolt, though, because I hadn’t even noticed. Though short, yes, I thought it looked very cute on her. Then, and this is the funny part, she said she forgave me for the haircut.

I don’t think I’ve ever been forgiven for a haircut before.

At least not that I knew about. :)

Last week, I cut the hair of one of my ten-year old students. This boy had long, shaggy blonde hair which he had grown out for a school event. Now that the event was over, Mom was the impetus for him to seek a trim. Fortunately, she came with him, because he was rather tight-lipped about what he wanted. That or he was embarrassed to see me in this capacity, one or the other.

Mom tried to glean from him what he was hoping for, and then interpreted for me, adding her own opinion into the mix. I gave him what she wanted.

But, it was not what he wanted.

His tears broke my heart.

I never thought that a 10-year old boy would care that much about what his hair looked like. I have cut hair for several teenage boys, many of whom, like my friend in Texas, won’t allow anyone to touch their hair under normal circumstances. I always felt honored (albeit a bit nervous) that they trusted me to cut it. But this kid is ten, and shorter in stature than my 8-year old. I never expected that reaction. He ended up having it buzzed short. A bittersweet consolation prize.

Aside from these three dramas, most of my victims, er, clients are happy enough, especially, I suppose, considering the alternatives (no cut, self-cut, spouse-cut, or worse.)

After all, I offer a double-your-money-back guarantee.

Just Go With the Flow

2011-03-10T20:57:00.000+10:00

Everyone knows that overseas missionaries are destined to subsist on a diet of roasted insects and fried monkey brains. It just comes with the territory.

Well, if I’m going to be honest, I have to admit that the most exotic thing we have eaten here in Papua New Guinea is alligator, and we prepared that. For sure, there are some nationals who eat items less appealing to our Western appetites. For example, there is a common joke (or is it a joke?) around here that if you’re invited to a mumu (celebratory feast), the main course may very well be cat.

But, no. Our wildest culinary encounters have not been cooked over an open fire.

They’ve come in packages.

Take crackers for instance. If you were to walk through any PNG grocery store, you might led to believe that the diet of all PNGians consists solely of tinned meat and crackers. No kidding. Crackers make up an amazing percentage of the stock of every store I’ve ever been in.

You’d think that crackers would be harmless enough, right? Well, check out the ingredients in the picture above: “Edible vegetable oil, Edible salt, Edible ammonium bicarbonate, Edible flavouring …”

As if the Commonwealth spelling wasn’t disconcerting enough, you also have to contend with several other uncertainties. I mean, the list definitely begs the question: if these four components are edible, what about the other eleven? Am I taking my life in my hands by ingesting Cream flavoured “1+1 Soda Sandwich” crackers?

And what is this Ghee oil thing? I looked up the word “ghee” and found that it actually has a definition: “Clarified butter used in Indian cookery.” Even though these crackers were not manufactured in India, they do come from the same continent. And I am very glad to know that this butter is clarified. Edible or not, I certainly wouldn’t want to eat vague butter, that’s for sure.

Sixteen months ago we were living in a village setting, complete with river bathing, water-hauling, and a grass and bamboo hut. Interestingly enough, one of the most popular PNG-manufactured snacks is actually very reminiscent of a treat from back home. The Twisties, cheese flavoured variety, rivals crunchy Cheetos in nearly every respect. It seems strange, but I actually met someone who claimed she had to take a goodly number of Twisties bags home with them on furlough to satisfy their PNG-raised children. Cheetos were, of course, inadequate.

Anyway, drinking the water we were drinking, and bathing in the water we were bathing in, we weren’t surprised that most of our, er, bowel movements were, shall we say, less than firm. The problem actually plagued us for most of the time we were in the village, but near the end of our time there, we made a startling discovery.

Twisties snacks come in several varieties, including Chicken flavor, Cheese and Onion, and Barbeque. Those are okay, but the Pizza flavor had become a favorite. Then we read the back of the bag.

The ingredients list contains enticing components such as “cheese powder, … natural & nature identical flavours, … and parsley granules food acid (330).” (I do wonder if they’re missing a comma in last ingredient.) The final item on the list, however, was at the same time somewhat frightening and surprisingly enlightening.

You ready for this?

“Free flow agent (551).”

I kid you not. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

Yessiree, like the slogan says, “Life is fun with Twisties!”

Investigating the rest of the bag sheds no light on this odd discovery. Instead it reveals even more quandaries … such as, “Why would a product made and marketed exclusively in Papua New Guinea be labeled in English and French? (For those who are interested, the component in question is translated, “agent fluidifiant (551).”)

Fortunately, discoveries like this are not restricted to ingestible products. Nor are they always frightening. Occasionally we find one that provides hours of entertainment.

Take, for example, the shampoo bottle in our shower. The one Paul is using. (Me? I lucked out and found some Indonesian-manufactured Pantene PRO-V, but considering the price and limited availability, have forbidden him to touch it.)

I can’t tell you where this product was made. No, really, I can’t. That information, if it is there at all, is in a language I do not recognize. What I can tell you, thanks to the company’s fine interpreters, is that this particular bottle is of the following variety: “Ocean Element Beauty fair.” Where my Pantene bottle says “Smooth & Silky,” this bottle of mystery goo goes on to say, “Nourishment Moisture, Twinkling of Hair.”

Now, I ask you, who wouldn’t want Twinkling of Hair? These people have secured a corner in a very competitive market.

Paul chuckled and was satisfied with this, and knowing that it couldn’t be all bad to have hair that shimmered like stars in the night sky, didn’t bother to read any further. But had he turned the powder-blue container over, he would have discovered a great treasure trove of Engrish on the back. And I quote …

“Contain the bright hair vegetable, vitamin of meek essence original b5, etc., can be overall the depth nursing hair at the time of go to a scraps, make the show deliver the meek and bright.”

Oooooooh … that’s good.

But, wait! There’s more!

“All new negative ion essence, …”

(This is a relief, because I’ve heard that second-hand negative ion essence isn’t nearly as effective at containing the bright hair vegetable.)

“ … keep show hair from be subjected to the static electricity interference, be easy to comb, full of flexibility.”

Scraps-destined, nursing hair that delivers meek and bright. Easy to comb, flexible, and not subjected to static electricity interference. You know, I don’t even know what to say to that.

How can one possibly improve on perfection?

Avacados and Self-Reflection

2011-03-09T17:11:00.000+10:00

Several weeks ago, a Papua New Guinean friend of ours brought us three young avocado trees. We had asked her for one, but she brought three, hoping that “at least one would make it.” The smaller two had been attacked by some kind of parasite, and the laciness of their leaves indicated a probable transplantation failure. The leaves on the largest (about two and a half feet tall), however, were unaffected by these bugs, and seemed to promise sure success. Paul planted them, and since then has tended and watered them religiously.

Within just a couple of weeks, the middle-sized one (we’ll call it “Specimen B”) died a rapid, unglorified death. Its wilted, black excuse for a twig still stands in our yard, mostly, I suppose, as a monument to our laziness.

“Specimen A,” the largest one, the one that seemed to hold the most promise, has stagnated. It lost a few leaves (not unexpected, considering the transplant), and the top of its “trunk” blackened; the leaves it still possesses, though large and bug-free, hang limp and hapless. It doesn’t change much from day to day, or even react to the sun as it passes overhead.

Interestingly enough, the smallest one (“Specimen C”), from the very beginning, has been the most courageous, the most curious, the most acutely inspirational.

Standing only about a foot high, this unremarkable twig bore about four leaves, or at least what was left of them, when Tina brought it to our house. (The insects must have thought this one was particularly delicious.) Once Paul put it in the ground, every morning, without fail, this pitiful young tree would stretch to its full 12 inches and bend its hole-laden leaves toward the burning ball of gas as it crossed the sky. Every time I looked at it, I could just hear it urgently crying out in its squeaky little botanical voice,

“I’m trying!”

It made me laugh, that little stick. By late afternoon, it was always sagging, exhausted, beaten down by the tropical sun. But the next morning it would stretch again, attempting everything within its power to regain full health.

Despite its best efforts, however, its leaves dropped off one by one until there was just one left, hanging precariously near the top of the stick.

The day I saw Evan and his friends playing in the yard near the little tree, I didn’t think much of it. Evan knows how badly his daddy wants the avocados to grow. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt them. His friend, Michael, however, wasn’t aware of the importance of this little tree.

In fact, he wasn’t even aware it WAS a little tree.

The boys were playing barefoot, in appropriate PNG fashion, and at one point Michael walked over to the “stick” and put his toes around it.

“Oh, Michael, be careful! Don’t do that. That’s Mr. Paul’s ….”

Schwoop.

Even as he looked at me as if to figure out what I could possibly be getting onto him about, his toes, still gripping the feeble trunk, swept up and off the top of the tree … taking the last remaining leaf with them.

“… that was Mr. Paul’s tree.” *sigh*

We didn’t know if a stick with no leaves would grow … it could get water, yes, but photosynthesis was now out of the question. Yet, having observed that this tree was a fighter, we left it there to see what would happen.

Within days there were leaf buds, and now, a few weeks later, that little trooper has eighteen leaves – none of which have any insect damage.

Amazing.

As I was trying to figure out how to graciously and discretely re-enter the blogging arena, this saga caught my attention. Because I feel like an avocado tree. Or, I should say, over the nineteen months we have been in PNG, I have had times where I felt like each of the three specimens.

Occasionally I have been Specimen B … refusing to engage with the soil and water around me. Choosing instead to be alone and lonely. Only Grace kept me from blackening and wilting to nothingness during those times.

At other times, I have been Specimen A. Pretty healthy when I arrived, but in some ways wishing I was still “back home.” Only minimally engaged with my surroundings. Stagnating. Not dead, but not truly living either. Droopy, pathetic.

I have considered my one-year absence from blogging from many angles, wondering why I have gone twelve months without investing in the art of creative writing. Finally, yesterday, it dawned on me … at POC, I had no way to find out about friends back home, I had very little contact with family and loved ones stateside. Over the few months following our move to the highlands, however, I realized the accessibility of Facebook. Suddenly I was a part of things back home again, more or less. I think that for most of the last year, I have been only nominally engaged with my immediate surroundings, at least emotionally. Instead of insightfully putting into words snippets of life here, I have instead tried to live vicariously through the comments of people back home: who’s having a baby, who’s sick, funny things your kids have said, politics, quips that cleverly personify inanimate objects, Snowmageddon 2011, and the like. I have frequently experienced a desperation to know what is going on back home, to feel connected, and have chosen to mindlessly read the status updates of a few hundred friends rather than invest what it takes to capture pieces of my life here in words for the many who will never experience this life, or at least for the few who care.

But, after watching this perennial woody plant fight its way through difficult (and, at times, seemingly impossible) circumstances, I now realize that I want to be more like him - not losing sight of where I’ve come from, and yet, fully engaging the soil and water around me. Stretching my leaves to their full potential every day and soaking in the sun.

So, that said, after a year hiatus, I am going to do my best to spend less time on Facebook (missing everyone, wishing I was back home, feeling left out, jealous of the snowstorms you’d rather not be having), and more time with my word processor, sharing pieces of my life in Papua New Guinea with you.

Like Peering Through a Mist

2011-01-19T14:55:00.001+10:00

“We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!” ~1 Corinthians 13:12, The Message

The sound was haunting as I turned up the bush-lined dirt driveway. Unsure of exactly where to go or what to say when I got to the house, each step was like slogging through wet concrete – I knew if I didn’t keep going, I was likely to get stuck, trapped by fear of the unknown.

A few women stood the front of the house; many others had gone in to where the body had been laid … where the wailing was concentrated. Behind the house I could see some men and a few ladies. As I walked toward the back with my grocery sacks (rice, tinned fish, coffee, toilet paper … just a few things to help provide for the mourners that would be at the haus krai (crying house) around-the-clock in the coming days), I noticed a man standing by himself near the door.

“Excuse me, do you know if Freddie is here?” I asked in Tok Pisin, the main trade language of PNG.

“Yes,” the gentle-faced man replied, also in Tok Pisin. He offered a slight smile. “I’m his father. Let me get him for you.”

As he turned to go, my head spun and I quickly processed what this meant. If this man is Freddie’s father, then he is also the father of Bettie, Freddie’s fourteen-year-old sister … the one who had a heart attack and died last night (August 29).

“Sir,” I spoke quickly, reaching out toward him, feeling that I shouldn’t let him, or the moment, get away. “I’m Sharon, one of Freddie’s teachers. I am so very sorry about your daughter …”

I probably stand six inches taller than Orava, but it wasn’t awkward when he hugged me, grateful that I had come. Along with the time I subsequently spent with Freddie, it was one of the most precious moments I had had since coming to Papua New Guinea.

A few minutes later, while talking to my student, I said, “I lost a brother a few years ago. It was very difficult. So, I don’t know exactly, but I think I understand a little bit of what you’re going through.”

Though he had not been crying when he came out of the house, as I prayed for him, I could tell that this adorable boy, hardworking student, kind friend to others, brother of Bettie, was sniffling. Then it hit me:

“God comforts us in our weaknesses so that we might comfort others.”

Several minutes later I entered the front of the house to pay my condolences to Leah, their mother. The small living area was lined with people, mostly women, sitting along the walls. All of the furniture, except for the couch holding Bettie’s body, had been moved out to allow for maximum capacity. About a dozen more people – men and women – surrounded her, many wailing, most crying. Bettie had been born with a heart defect which, regardless of her level of privilege, had unfortunately been inoperable, and now her time had come. The girl was beautiful – without the pale blue hue fairer-skinned people take on after death. Aside from the muscle stiffness made obvious as people stroked her and tried to hold on to her hands and fingers, Bettie could very well have just been sleeping peacefully.

But she had better things to do.

Less than an hour before her heart attack, Bettie had been worshiping at the weekly youth group meeting … squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. Experiencing but a foretaste of the pure joy on which she was soaring now.

A few minutes after I left the house, I found a beautiful moth on the ground, his wings gently opening and closing. I placed my finger under his feet and he crawled on, allowing me to carry him as I proceeded toward the Primary Campus for my morning class. While I walked, I studied his velvet black wings with their bright orange stripes and fluorescent blue and purple spots. Surely, days ago, I thought to myself, he, too, was experiencing life through a fog, bound to this earth by stubby little legs.

Then, as I stood in the middle of the road, transfixed by his gracefulness, he lifted off and flew breezily, freely, into the sky.

*This entry was originally published in our January 2011 newsletter.*

In the Company of Greatness, Part 2

2010-02-23T11:31:00.001+10:00

“If you only look at us, you might well miss the brightness. We carry this Precious Message around in the unadorned clay pots of our ordinary lives. That’s to prevent anyone from confusing God’s incomparable power with us.” 2 Corinthians 4:7, The Message

“Greatness is not manifested by unlimited pragmatism, which places such a high premium on the end justifying any means and any methods.” ~Margaret Chase Smith

“As human beings, our greatness lies not so much in being able to remake the world … as in being able to remake ourselves.” ~Mohandas Gandhi

Baluka had met us at the Port Moresby airport back in August when we arrived in country. I remembered him as a very nice young Papua New Guinean man who had helped us with luggage and kids and escorted us from the international to the domestic terminal. Before he left, he helped us through security and made sure we got checked in for our flight to Madang. Now, bright and early at 3:00AM, he arrived at the mission guesthouse to help me once again.

The ride to the airport was pleasant as we talked - in Tok Pisin (he knows English quite well, but was determined not to let me off the hook, and told me as much!) - about our families, where we were from, that sort of thing. Once we arrived, the wait was much longer than I expected, though Baluka didn’t seem surprised in the least. He and I had the opportunity to talk some more. Finally I asked him how he came to know the Lord. A wide smile spread across his face.

“Yu laik harim testimoni bilong mi?”

Yes, I’d like to hear your testimony.

He told me of growing up in a religious, but non-Christian home where, deep in his spirit, he felt the tug to do God’s work. He prayed often for this, but since his insides were of the “old way” he was unable to follow through. Time and again, though, God answered specific prayers regarding things such as his ability to continue school, and finally, after getting caught up in the college party scene for a while, he found himself at a dead end and gave his heart to the Lord. When he returned home at the end of that term, his family could tell that he was different.

He still longed to do the work of God, and continued to pray to that end, but when the chance came for him to play on the national rugby team, he didn’t hesitate. The situation, however, proved to be too much for him, and he struggled to stay in right relationship with God.

Finally, the opportunity came for him to work for a Christian mission. Knowing that he needed to remove himself from his present environment, and still feeling the desire to work for God, he jumped at the chance, even though it meant a bit of deception on his part. After three months on the job, his conscience got the better of him, and he approached his boss to confess and ask for forgiveness. He was met with a smile and the words, “I’ve known for some time.”

Apparently the boss was just waiting for him to admit the deceit. He told his embarrassed employee he would get some counsel on the situation and get back with him the next day.

It was a very long night.

Allow me to paraphrase the verdict:

Because you’ve worked three months under the cloud of this deception, said his boss, you must now work three months in the light of the truth. It will be on a probationary basis, and at the end of the three months we’ll reevaluate.

This was about 15 years ago, and Baluka has served the mission ever since, with a smile on his face, and the truth on his heart.

A few years ago, as his father was getting close to death, he had the opportunity to, one more time, share with him the Gospel. Always before he had been antagonistic to it, but now, as his body was failing him, he allowed the truth of Christ’s love and the power of the cross to sink in, and he gave his life over to the Lordship of Christ.

The next day, though he had previously been bedridden, he was up and about. He had a spring in his step and a radiance about his face the likes of which Baluka had never seen. Baluka found his father sitting on a pier overlooking the water – one of his favorite spots – and approached him only to hear these disconcerting words delivered with a smile: “Tomorrow I will be leaving you.”

The next day, his miraculous strength gone, his father was confined again to the bed. He told Baluka and his cousin to go fishing – to get out of the house. And he reminded him again that this would be the day he would die.

Against his wishes, Baluka went fishing, expecting to come home to the worst. However, upon his return, his father was still alive, though barely. Sometime before midnight he turned to Baluka, who was sitting on his left holding his hand, and his nephew, who was sitting on his right, and asked about “the three of you.”

No, Dad. There are only two of us here.

His father disagreed and indicated his son, his nephew, and, with a beaming smile, “the man standing at the end of the bed.”

The boys could see nothing.

But the dying man could. He was smiling at the man who, moments later, would escort him into the Afterlife. All because his son had been willing to share Christ with him one more time.

This, too, is God’s story.

This, too, is God’s greatness.

Two very different men with two very different stories. It’s not what they’ve done that makes them great. It is His Story as it emanates from faces of different colors and bodies of vastly different ages and physical abilities. It is the image of the invisible God which, despite their personal histories or life’s accomplishments, seem to seep out through their every pore.

And in their presence, I was, most certainly, in the presence of God.

In the Company of Greatness, Part 1

2010-02-23T11:25:00.005+10:00

“I was unsure how to go about this, and felt totally inadequate – I was scared to death if you want the truth of it – and so nothing I said could have impressed you or anyone else. But the Message came through anyway. God’s Spirit and God’s Power did it …” 1 Corinthians 2:3-4, The Message

“Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events ...” ~Robert Kennedy

“No one who has come to true greatness has not felt in some degree that his life belongs to the people, and what God has given them He gives it for mankind.” ~Phillips Brooks

He was quite unassuming, the man sitting next to me at dinner that night. Imposingly tall, yes, but the wrinkles on his face and the slow labor of his walk betrayed his increasing age. And because he was so soft-spoken, I was having trouble hearing him.

“I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”

“Jim Parlier.”

I was in Port Moresby, spending the night at a missionary guesthouse en route to Buka. The heat was getting to me and I was sure I hadn’t heard right.

“His wife,” prompted my friend, “wrote the book, Poking Holes in the Darkness …”

“Yes, of course. I’ve read it.”

More than once.

As we were planning to come to Papua New Guinea, this book opened my eyes to the lives of translators in the bush of PNG. People who sacrificed their lives not only to go to another country, but to go to another country and live among a distinctly primitive people with a completely different culture, all for the sake of bringing them God’s Word in the language that speaks to their hearts.

After nineteen years of living and working among the Managalasi, Jim and Jaki Parlier, along with their national co-translators, dedicated the Managalasi New Testament.

Other than when I was a kid in a candy store, I have not often felt like a kid in a candy store. But I did that night. Now, of course, if you know me very well, you’ll know that I was determined to be in total control of my face, vowing not to betray the enthusiasm that was welling up in the pit of my stomach. I was, in fact, hanging on his every word.

Oh my goodness! I’m in the presence of greatness!

“So, Jim,” I calmly began, “what are you and Jaki doing these days?”

We chatted for the better part of dinner, and I was no less intrigued by him when we finished than when he’d repeated his name for my benefit. In fact, I was even more certain that I was, in fact, in the presence of greatness.

Since completing their translation work in the 1980’s, they’ve returned several times to visit. On one such occasion, about ten years after their translation work was finished, they arrived to find that the several denominations in the area were fighting. Apparently they were disagreeing on various points of scripture, and criticizing those who thought differently. (Sound familiar?)

Jim was at a loss. For the next five years he prayed for God to show him what he could do to help the situation. Finally, in the darkness of early morning God awakened him with His answer.

Get them together and teach them.

Despite the obvious hindrances to such a gathering, within a couple years they had started a Bible school in the area. Before they could ever ask for money, people began offering it. Someone would call Jim up and ask what the need was, and as soon as he rattled off a figure, they were dropping a check in the mail. So certain is he that God alone is doing this work that Jim told the financial administrator of the school, “When we have to ask for money, we’re closing the school.”

They have now graduated three classes totaling about 120 people. However, there have been concerns about decreasing enrollment, so in January of this year, when they were opening registration for the next two-year course of study, Jim prayed with the leadership of the school that God would bring who He wanted to enroll. More than 100 people registered! Some staff expressed concerns about space and suggested they cap the registration numbers. No, said Jim. We prayed that God would send who He wanted to be here. This is His work, and He’ll make it work.

True. His work. His story.

His greatness.

A-Flying We Will Go

2010-02-23T09:25:00.016+10:00

“Heavier-than-air flying machines are impossible.” ~Lord Kelvin

“Flying is hours and hours of boredom sprinkled with a few seconds of sheer terror.” ~Pappy Boyington

Here in Papua New Guinea, you can never quite be sure what you will encounter when traveling. I knew that in a theoretical sense, of course, but when we arrived in Port Moresby back in August, and our connection to Madang was cancelled, it was a surprise. Fortunately, we were booked on the next flight up and we only had about a 4-5 hour delay in the airport. They said the cancellation was due to “mechanical problems,” and maybe that was so, but it’s possible, too, that not enough people were booked on the flight, or even that someone was just having a bad day. Around here you never know for sure.

When I got the call last Friday that my flight from Ukarumpa to Port Moresby (via the aviation department of our mission agency) had been changed, I wasn’t too disturbed. In fact, it was good to know that I would not be picked up at 7:30AM. Instead, I could have a normal morning with the kids and my husband, and even run a few errands before it was time to go.

I managed to say goodbye to the kids as they left for school, but they were either embarrassed by my attempts at affection or eager to get to school (I’ll assume the latter), and they each shrugged me off with an annoyed “ok, bye Mom.” After checking off the things on my list, I came back to the house to wait for my ride to the airstrip. In the twenty minutes I sat waiting on the front porch, I got better quality time with the kittens than I’d had with the kids.

Other than an equipment change (the Kodiak was grounded for some mechanical work, so we rode on the King Air), we took off shortly after our (new) scheduled ETD of 1100 and about 50 minutes later were making our final approach into Port Moresby. The wind was whipping at, the pilot later told us, 25 knots, so it made the approach somewhat, shall we say, tremulous. The gal across the aisle from me was holding her stomach “so it wouldn’t move around so much.”

Well said.

Ukarumpa from the Air

When we arrived at the guest house (three of us were overnighting in Moresby and had been assigned to stay together), we ate lunch and then sat down to watch “real time TV” in the common room. We caught up on the news of the world for a while, but each of us at various times, helped along by the heat, dozed off in front of the broadcast. Gripping news day; what can I say?

I was determined not to stay up too late after dinner because, as I had just discovered, my Tuesday morning departure for Buka was scheduled for 5:20 … A.M. Now, we think we have it bad in the States, but here, even for domestic flights, you have to be at the airport two hours in advance. So, I was told I would be picked up by our mission shuttle at 0300 hours. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for, say, sleeping. (I got exactly three hours and forty-three minutes, but who’s counting?) Normally there is only one flight from Port Moresby to Buka (around 9:30AM), thus my surprise to find that the agent had made a reservation for oh-dark-twenty. But, these early flights do have one thing going for them – their on-time record – and I would eventually arrive in Buka, on time, at about 7:00AM.

I boarded the flight and found that there were only ten passengers on the Fokker 100 (seating capacity: 98). The journey was peaceful. Apple juice and cookies were served –yes, the breakfast of champions. I watched, in between cat naps, the breaking of dawn and took in the sight of West and East New Britain as we passed by to the South.

Bougainville Island on the Left, Buka Island on the Right, with Airstrip

For the next two and a half weeks, I would be grounded on a beautiful tropical island, serving out my days as the conference kitchen manager and meeting some fascinating Papua New Guineans. Should all go as has been arranged, my return flight schedule would take me through East New Britian, in and out of the Rabaul/Kokopo airport, hopefully within sight of the volcanoes so famous for destroying the city of Rabaul.

Currently that was scheduled for February 19.

Flying around here, though, you never know for sure.

Bookmarks

2010-01-27T13:12:00.007+10:00

“As the first printed books were quite rare and valuable, it was determined early on that something was needed to mark one's place in a book without causing its pages any harm.” ~Wikipedia, “Bookmark”

“Old friends pass away, new friends appear. It is just like the days. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful: a meaningful friend - or a meaningful day.” ~Dalai Lama

I could have been friends with them.

Imagine the scene. A family is leaving your town for good. A good percentage of the population turns out at the airstrip to bid them goodbye. There are hugs, smiles, tears, “don’t forget to email me” …

You are standing toward the back of the crowd watching the single engine plane rumble down the grass runway. As the wheels leave the ground and it soars into the sky, disappearing over the mountains, you think to yourself,

I could have been friends with them.

Shortly after we arrived, one of the leaders here told us that he has found himself in this situation more than once … experiencing regret for what could have been.

“How long are you here for?”

I’ve been told that some people have asked this question of newcomers, not necessarily out of friendly curiosity, but out of self-preservation. If you don’t say you’re here long term, then, well, it’s nice to meet you, but I gotta get going. And don’t expect a call from me. I’m not interested in building a relationship only to have my heart ripped out when you leave.

I can understand why someone might feel that way, but how sad.

Transience is just part of the culture here, but I don’t want to be one of those people who watch the plane take off and wonder about what could have been.

Before I left the states, independently of each other, two of my best friends gave me small gifts: bookmarks. One friend bought two, actually – one with pink and green beads and the other with blue and green beads. She showed them to me and just as she, I thought, was about to hand me the green and blue one (‘cause she’s the more girly girl), she pulled it toward herself and thrust the pink one in my direction. “The pink one for you to remember me by and the blue and green one for me to remember you by,” she said.

Yeah, like I could forget.

A few weeks later, unaware of this previous gift, another friend gave me a lovely suede bookmark with beads and a miniature picture frame attached. With my mother’s help, I shrunk and cropped a tiny little picture of me and my friend to put in the frame.

And thus equipped, I left for PNG.

Two weeks ago, a new family arrived in country and moved, temporarily, two houses down from us. In addition to a thirteen year old boy and a four year old boy, they have a ten year old girl and a seven year old boy, the exact ages and genders of our own kids. When we heard this, even before they’d arrived, we offered to have them over for dinner to welcome them and answer any questions they might have about the great POC expedition upon which they were about to embark.

But, it didn’t end there. We greatly enjoyed each other’s company, and we really came to care for and love this family as much as you can in twelve days. We were very sorry to see them go, but glad for them that they are starting the next phase of the adventure God has for them. Following POC, they will not be returning to Ukarumpa, though. Rather, they will be moving to Alotau on the far southeast corner of the island of New Guinea where they will serve as regional center managers. We don’t know if or when we will see them again.

Yesterday they boarded the Cessna for the trip to Madang. Before they left, however, Kim handed me a small, bulging envelope. Enclosed was a sweet thank you card for all of the really selfish things we’d done to create a social life for ourselves while they were here (they thought we were just being nice, I guess), and a handmade beaded bookmark.

A wide smile spread across my face and I told her the story of my two friends who had given me bookmarks before I left the States.

She apologized. Guess she thought I had more than enough bookmarks.

No, no, no, I insisted! I think it’s great! A little twinkle from God’s eye, the way I see it. I love it! (Besides, someone who reads a lot can never have too many bookmarks, right?)

Each of these friends has been a very special part of my life, in very different ways. Each of the bookmarks they have given me, likewise, are very different, and will forever mark the pages of my life that these friends have graced. What if I hadn’t bothered because I didn’t want to have to say goodbye? What a treasure I would have missed out on!

No, the story of my life is still being written.

And I’ll take all the bookmarks I can get.

A Little Better Off Than Gilligan

2010-01-24T16:42:00.014+10:00

"Now sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip ... ~Theme song from 1960's TV show, "Gilligan's Island"

Gilligan: Hiya, Professor. What are you doing?

Professor: I'm making notes for a book. It's to be a chronicle of our adventures on the island... I think it's a book people will want to buy, don't you?

Gilligan: Sure, I'll buy one. I'm dying to find out what happens to us.

I gotta get off this island.

No, I’m not certifiably insane … yet. But, I will be taking a mission trip from my “mission trip” very soon. And to do so, I gotta get off this island.

A few weeks ago, a center manager on the island of Bougainville issued a request for people to volunteer to go (transportation paid) to work as a kitchen/business manager for some 2-3 week long conferences over the next several months. I decided the one listed for May sounded appealing to me (music and youth together) so I expressed my interest in that one.

She replied that that would be great, thank you, but is there any way you could possibly come for the February conference, also?

Oh yeah. That one was labeled “urgent need.” I guess by “urgent” she actually meant … well, “urgent.”

So, long story short, I’ve made my travel arrangements and I will be leaving here on Monday, February 1. Despite a bit of envy on my husband’s part, I am scheduled to fly on the brand spanking new, nine-seater Kodiak plane to Port Moresby. (If I remember right, we got the fourth one off the production line.)

Tuesday I will get on a commercial airline and fly to Buka where I will be supervising cooks, driving into town on shopping trips three days per week, helping prepare meals for conference participants, washing linens, organizing duty rosters, dispensing medicine, handling the finances, writing reports, and doing inventories. On Friday, February 19, I will fly commercially back to Port Moresby where I will catch a six-seater Cessna back home where I will sleep for three days.

Now it’s true that flights in this country can get cancelled on a whim, as we found out when we were trying to get to Madang back in August. But, I figure that still puts me a step ahead of Gilligan, Skipper, and their rag-tag gang of island-dwellers. They had to wait for a ship.

Oh, and except for episode #46 where, after getting hit in the face with a crate, Gilligan begins picking up radio signals and broadcasts a weather bulletin announcing an approaching typhoon, they had little communication with the outside world. Well, now that I think about it, they did have a radio made from coconut shells and bamboo, thanks to the genius of the Professor who, for some reason, was unable to also fix the two foot hole in the SS Minnow.

I’ll have email, and a digital phone that even works sometimes. No coconuts for me. No sir.

Which brings me to the food prep part of this adventure. Some of you will remember from a previous post how very bad with meal planning I am. That would seem to be a problem since one of the main reasons I am going to Buka is to coordinate all the meals for an entire conference full of people. But, they tell me that all of the menus are set! Recipes are provided, as well as two national ladies to prepare most of them! All I have to do is watch and learn! (Oh, and all that other stuff I already mentioned, of course.)

So, stand back, Mary Anne. Put down your script, Ginger. Lovey and Mr. Howell, step aside please.

I’m leaving the island.

Oh yes, wait a minute Mr. Postman ...

2010-01-09T16:59:00.001+10:00

“Please, Mister Postman, look and see if there’s a letter in your bag for me. Why is it taking such a long time …?” ~the Marvelettes, 1961

“Every once in a while, someone will mail me a single popcorn kernel that didn't pop. I'll get out a fresh kernel, tape it to a piece of paper and mail it back to them.” ~Orville Redenbacher

It’s official. I am pathetic.

And I think I’m going to need a new computer mouse pretty soon. The left button is getting worn out from clicking on “Send/Receive” no less than 2,196 times per day.

The good thing is, for a flat rate, we can be constantly connected so as to send and receive as much email as we want, and it’s even set up to send/receive automatically, if I’d ever give it a chance.

The bad thing is, as you may remember from the last post, I’m “not doing anything.” And that leads to lots of extra time to feel disconnected from the world. It was New Year’s Day before I heard about the Christmas Eve airplane incident near Detroit. That’s how out of touch I am.

Don’t hear me complaining, because I’m not. I am thrilled to be here! This place is beautiful, the people are precious, and we know God wants us here. I’m just looking for new reasons to laugh at myself, that’s all.

But, let’s face it. Almost everyone reading this post lives at least 8,500 miles from where I’m sitting.

Now, while I am not as bad as, say, a certain snack food magnate, who apparently puts faulty kernels in his popcorn bags just so he can get a few letters in his box, I am still pretty pathetic. We have message boards here where people can post things for sale, wanted items, etc. I have found that if I post, for example, that I need to borrow a basketball pump and needle, that I will get three emails almost immediately. And if I post that I am looking for a small piece of lumber to make a swing seat for the kids, there will be nine replies in my inbox within fifteen minutes.

One day I found myself looking for stuff I could sell. I justified it by calling it “simplifying,” but on one very real level it was a desperate, backhanded attempt at attaining some kind of socialization. When the new flip flops I posted for sale didn’t go (my son had outgrown them before we received our shipment), I amended the post to say “make an offer.” I could have just said, “please, won’t someone send me an email saying you’ll pay me even a dime for these shoes? In fact, I’ll pay you to take them! Just so I get to communicate with a real human being ……”

Pathetic.

I tried a different approach with the Turbie Twist:

****************

“We got these for my daughter because she had a terrible time trying to wrap up her hair with a big towel after a shower. She used the purple one briefly. Now she just doesn't wrap it up at all, but I'll save my commentary on that. :)

“It is a terry cloth head wrap thingy with a little elastic loop for holding the end after you twist it up. Yeah, think "info-mercial."

“I've tried the purple one and it works just fine. I'm pretty sure the problem was operator error.

“The white one has not been field-tested, but I suspect it will do the job. I'll save the purple one just in case we have a break through.

“White Turbie-Twist
New
K4”

****************

This attempt at lighthearted salesmanship brought no email replies. :(

The Christmas packages sent by family back in the states finally started arriving last week. It’s fine, of course … things just take a while here. But, my son was despairing, and day by day, as Christmas approached, his desperation grew.

“Mom, can we go to the Post Office?” (*insert pitiful face here*)

I didn’t want him to get his hopes up, and fortunately, he did eventually come to understand that the mailbox was more likely to be empty than it was to be overflowing with little yellow slips of paper indicating that packages were waiting behind the counter. But, still the dream was alive.

“So what if something comes after Christmas? Can we open it?”

Yes, honey. Of course.

It’s not been so bad since the kids got out of school for the holidays because, frankly, they don’t leave me much time to be bored. They, on the other hand, are always bored, but that’s another story. Still, in some slower moments I find myself going back and forth between Outlook and Skype, (*insert pitiful face here*) thinking, “Is anybody out there?”

Click. Open Skype. Click. Open Outlook. Click. Send/Receive. Click. Back to Skype.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Pitiful.

I’m sure the fact that it is the Christmas season has a lot to do with it. Someone here in Ukarumpa called us on Christmas day to see if we were doing okay being away from family for the first time during the holidays. I had to confess, though, that out of the last ten Christmas days, we have only been with family twice. And out of the last ten Thanksgivings, never. With Paul working at UPS so many of those years, and us living so far from everyone, seeing family on Christmas or Thanksgiving just didn’t happen.

Instead we spent most of those holidays with friends, and as my mother graciously acknowledged, it was them that we really missed this year. Not that we didn’t miss our families, too, of course, but you understand what I mean.

I’m sure this is a normal part of adjusting. And I have come to know in the last few days that I am not alone. Two other gals from my POC group have confessed to very similar feelings. So, as pathetic as I am, I am glad to report that I am actually “normal.”

I think.

Now stop laughing at me.

‘Cause it’s my birthday.

Which leads me to the final, long-awaited conclusion of this post!

I had written up to this point a couple weeks ago (it’s been edited since), but I could not find a suitable manner in which to wrap it all together in such a way that it didn’t sound like a shout out for mercy mail. What I had so far was one big pity party, and that was not at all what I wanted to convey.

Then, a few days ago, I got three emails from people who should have had no way of knowing when my birthday is; each of them wished me a happy (early) birthday.

OK, someone’s up to something.

I accused my husband, but he denied it, so I figured it must be my mother. Sho’nuf, she confessed. Well, not actually confessed…

The Skype conversation went something like this:

[1/8/2010 1:11:38 PM] Me: Did you rat me out?

[1/8/2010 1:11:55 PM] Me: You're hesitating ......

[1/8/2010 1:12:19 PM] Mom: huh???

[1/8/2010 1:12:59 PM] Me: that looks like a guilty huh??!

[1/8/2010 1:13:18 PM] Mom: I think it looks like a clueless huh!

[1/8/2010 1:13:45 PM] Me: You didn't tell people my birthday was coming up?

[1/8/2010 1:14:13 PM] Mom: moi??? (and then she added the little sweating emoticon)

Now, I know she took French in high school, but that was a guilty “moi???” if I ever saw one.

Anyway, so for the past few days, I’ve been getting birthday wishes from all over the world! As of this writing, if I include Facebook emails, I’ve received 41 Happy Birthday wishes!

Appropriate. :)

Thank you all for filling my inbox and my heart.

And we didn’t even have to bother the postman. :)

Shaking Things Up in Time for Christmas

2009-12-26T10:30:00.003+10:00

A couple weeks ago, I was invited to a cookie exchange with eleven other ladies, each of whom would bake and bring twelve dozen cookies. At the risk of acquiring a Santa-belly, I knew it would be nice to spend time with some friends and make some new ones, too.

Though I had to take some liberties with the recipe as not everything is available here, I took these cookies, the recipe for which I found online at allrecipes.com:

Cinnamon Oatmeal Cookies

Original Recipe Yield: 78 servings (I must have made them smaller, because I got about 13 dozen from this recipe!)

2 1/2 cups shortening (I substituted 2 ½ c margarine and used no salt)
5 cups sugar
4 eggs
1/3 cup molasses (I substituted ¼ cup brown sugar and 1 1/3 tsp water)
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
4 3/4 cups quick-cooking oats (I used rolled oats)
4 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
4 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt (which I did not use because I substituted margarine above)

In a large mixing bowl, cream together the shortening and sugar. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in molasses and vanilla. Combine the remaining ingredients; gradually add to creamed mixture. Drop by tablespoonfuls 2 in. apart onto greased baking sheets. Bake at 350^oF for 10-12 minutes, or until edges are firm. Remove to wire racks to cool.

Unfortunately, it is rainy season and it was, in fact, raining when I came home from the party. I managed, with the help of plastic wrap, to protect the goods from the rain, but I couldn’t protect them from myself. When I was only about eight yards from our door, my foot slid on a metal grate. My feet slipped out from under me, and I flew into the air and fell flat on my back. I promise you, it was just like the cartoons, except I didn’t manage a 360.

I did, however, toss my cookies. All over the lawn.

My husband found me sitting in the wet grass, picking up cookies and extracting blades of green from them before putting them back on the tray. By golly, I was determined, despite my bruised back, that not all one hundred forty-four cookies were going to be lost to the neighborhood dogs.

On Christmas Eve, I went to take some Orange Juice cake to a neighbor (a yummy moist cake recipe! Let me know if you want it). Standing on her porch, I heard a roar. Then the floor on which I was standing began a rolling shake. Finally the dishes in the house started to rattle.

“That was a good one!” my friend said.

It took me a moment to process that this Christmas Eve tremble had been an earthquake. I stopped and concentrated on it and I could still feel the ground lightly tremoring beneath my feet.

Things were just getting shaken up around here. Take that word, “tremoring,” for instance. You see, I have always thought it was a word, but my spell checker is putting a wavy red line under it.

Anyway, turns out it was a 5.4 magnitude quake, the epicenter of which was pretty close to Goroka, PNG.

I had been standing in the kitchen preparing for Christmas all day. We had some friends – three single gals – coming for dinner before the Christmas Eve service. Since we had eaten spaghetti for Thanksgiving, I figured we could have Mexican for Christmas Eve, si? The tortillas had already been rolled and cooked, so I chopped vegetables and made fresh salsa for dinner. In addition to the Orange Juice cake, I also made Puppy Chow (aka, Muddy Buddies) and Mocha Mousse Pie. Since no graham cracker crusts are available here, I had to make the pie crust from crushed up Australian Bush Biscuits and melted margarine. That worked out alright, but then I goofed up the pie recipe and had to improvise. It turned out kind of more like a Mocha Cream pie, but no one complained. (I know what I did, if anyone is interested in a Mocha Cream Pie recipe …)

Paul teases me that he always knows when the holiday season is upon us when the first half-gallon of eggnog comes home from the store (typically during the first week of December.) Well, I have managed to keep off the pounds this season (no, I didn’t eat all 144 cookies) as there is no eggnog to be had. But, then again, it just wouldn’t be Christmas Eve without it, so to the recipe boards I went. I found this delicious concoction …

Eggnog (makes 3 quarts)

12 eggs
1 cup sugar
6 cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1 tsp ground nutmeg
1 Tbl rum flavoring

In a large bowl, beat together eggs and sugar. Beat with mixer on medium speed for 3-4 minutes. Add 2 cups of milk and beat to mix for 30 seconds. Pour mixture into a large saucepan and add the rest of the ingredients, except the rum flavoring. Heat over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture starts to steam. DO NOT ALLOW TO BOIL!

Remove from heat and stir in rum flavoring. Chill completely in refrigerator and stir before serving. Garnish with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top of each serving, if desired.

You can’t see the blissful expression on my face, but let me just say …. Mmmmmmmmm.

Another of our Christmas traditions, which the kids had asked about, is to have Sausage Balls on Christmas morning. However, someone brought us a wreath of cinnamon rolls (complete with maraschino cherries) on Christmas Eve day and our Christmas day houseguest cooked Papaya Coffee Cake, so we waited until December 26 to have our sausage balls … after all, it was still Christmas in America, right?

Sausage Balls

16 oz hot ground breakfast sausage

12 oz grated sharp cheddar cheese

2 – 2 ½ c Bisquick

4-5 T hot water

Preheat oven to 375^oF. Mix all ingredients (you will probably have to knead ingredients together with your hands.) Roll into ¾” balls and bake on ungreased cookie sheet for about 15 minutes until golden brown. Serve warm!

OK … time for another personal earthquake. Breakfast sausage is not available here, and neither is Bisquick (and if it was, I don’t think I would want to pay the price for it.) Gotta get creative; time to search the recipe boards again. Fortunately, I had paid the price for shortening after having to substitute for it in my cookie recipe. I figured shortening would last a long time, right?

Bisquick Equivalent (1 cup)

1 cup flour

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon shortening

Mix dry ingredients together, and then cut the shortening into the mix.

Breakfast Sausage (1 lb)

1 lb mince (ground pork or beef)

2 t salt

1 t sage

1 t fennel seed

½ t cayenne pepper

Dash pepper

Dash garlic powder

1 large egg, beaten

Ahhhh … it took longer to prepare everything, and they were not the golden reddish-brown color that comes from using American breakfast sausage in the roll pack, but, yep. They would do.

I guess we’re getting used to life here. Though, this holiday season, things were a bit shaken up, so to speak, and we were unable to be with our families, we had a very blessed Christmas. I pray that yours was blessed, too, as you celebrated the birth of our Lord.

Merry Christmas!

A Purposeful Existence

2009-12-16T22:19:00.004+10:00

“Nonu Godinu sinana me ibene ibene ibeibisu, Godinu bukaroma eno wasu, i sinana Godinu kotofu sina.” ~1 Peter 1:25a, Yareba language of Papua New Guinea

“…but the Word of the Lord stands forever.” ~1 Peter 1:25a, English, NIV

Since arriving in Ukarumpa, many people have asked me what I’m “doing.” By this they generally mean something along the lines of,

“We really need a warm body to fill such-and-such position(s) in our department, and you seem to be qualified!”

Whether or not I am warm may be debatable. But if you know me, you know that I am not one to sit around very long. I am trying very hard, though, to take the advice I received months ago: take it easy at first, make sure everyone is happy and settled, and then find a ministry you want to be committed to.

The general consensus is that this should go on for three to six months, so, I’m “not doing anything” … yet.

But, I have been taking on small, temporary jobs to fill the time between hanging the laundry out to dry, rolling tortillas, and marinating the crocodile.

Before we arrived, I had not heard about the Bible Translation Association (BTA) of Papua New Guinea. However, the more I learn about it, and the more people I meet who are involved in it, the more excited I am that Papua New Guinea nationals are being called to the task of Bible translation! According to the BTA website, “The PNG Bible Translation Association (BTA) is a national organization in Papua New Guinea committed to translating the Bible into the languages of the country. It is also involved in literacy -- teaching people to read and write in their own languages.”

One of the tasks I have agreed to do is to edit for publication the bios of about twenty BTA administrators and translators. I am having a great time, for it is truly fascinating to read these people’s stories!

Last week, I worked with a team doing a final edit on the brand new Malei New Testament which, until we redlined several dozen pages, was camera-ready. They plan to publish and dedicate the text in 2010.

Because editing in a foreign language wasn’t challenging enough, I also volunteered to type 1 Peter. Apparently, older texts such as the Yareba New Testament (published in 1973) are being typed up by volunteers so they can be published online. I don’t know this language at all, of course, so the way I figure it, between spell -check underlining every word and my mad typing skills, these five chapters will only take what … a year or so?

I consider it an honor and a blessing that I can be involved in these small ways, considering the fact that the reason we are here is to support the cause of Bible Translation in Papua New Guinea. However, in addition to these logical tasks, I have also agreed to a few things that, at least at first, don’t seem to be quite as pertinent.

I shipped my sewing machine, so in addition to working on a few things of our own (including taking in my only pair of jeans to try and make up for the thirty pounds I seem to have misplaced at POC), I have taken on a few sewing jobs for other people. Not that big a deal, I know, but it helps those people, right?

And two weeks ago, a plea went out for someone to organize appointments and an “office” location for a visiting veterinarian. Since all I was doing was sitting around watching soap operas and eating bonbons, I figured I could manage that. In twenty-four hours, I had two solid days of appointments scheduled. After going to the clinic to purchase some syringes, I took the doctor to the “exam room” which had been set up in an office behind someone’s house. I had been told we would just need a table, a good light, and a roof overhead, so an enclosed room – sterile or not – was actually a step up.

We had several appointments that were innocent enough – immunizations, canine manicures, equine oral hygiene … that sort of thing. But, we also had several spays and neuters scheduled. The doctor used quite a bit of his sedative on a dog that needed to be put to sleep, so he ended up cancelling all of the spays until he could come back another time (probably January, he says) with an adequate supply. But, the surgical procedures for the poor little boy doggies would go on.

And with the words, “Here – hold this,” I would become the surgical nurse.

Anyway, all this to say, I am trying to find my place in this here world. I know God has me here for a reason, and I am certain that in time He will make it clear to me what He wants me to do here. Long term, anyway.

In the meantime, let’s just say, I never expected to be able to add to my resume, “pulling dog testicles tight while a vet ties off the blood vessels.”

Did I mention he’s coming back in January?

I may try to find a job after all. :)

Cooking Up Whole New Traditions

2009-11-30T08:41:00.011+10:00

“If you ever have to support a flagging conversation, introduce the subject of eating.” ~Leigh Hunt

“Whether one eats a cat or not is a personal choice, and I don't want to sway anyone one way or another. But if you do, there is one obvious cooking tip: always remember to remove the bell from the cat's collar before cooking.” ~Mike Royko

Eight dollars a pound.

If you want to have turkey for Christmas here in Ukarumpa, you can order one, but that’s what it’s gonna cost you.

Gone are the days of getting a free turkey when you spend fifty bucks at the grocery store.

Many people have asked about food here, what we can get, what we can’t get. What’s new and different? How expensive are things?

I think just about anywhere you go in the world, you will find new and different culinary tastes and traditions. For example, go to Louisiana and you get hot sauce. Boston, cream pies. Kentucky, fried chicken. California, mixed nuts.

That kind of thing.

Things are like that here in Papua New Guinea, too. Different areas of the country have their own varieties of traditional and available foods (we especially enjoyed snake beans, fresh pineapple, and pomolo during Village Living). And now we are here at this missionary center where, because of the store trying to cater to eighteen different nationalities, foods from all over the world converge. Or, I should say, converge from time to time, for example when an infrequent shipment from America happens to coincide with one of the more frequent shipments from Australia. Black and Gold brand foods are imported from Australia, and Sunny Select from California, so, disregarding Vegemite, we do have many things available to us that we are used to.

There are, of course, some things that are simply not available. And some things that may be available today but you may not find again for four months. Everyone including the POC cook has been waiting for popcorn to arrive in country ever since before we did.

When we were preparing for Village Living, a shopping trip into Madang would take several hours. Not because it was all that far away, but because it just takes that long to shop. You may have to go to six or eight stores to find everything you’re looking for. And even then, you might not find all of it.

Here in Ukarumpa, we don’t have the variety of stores, so either we have it or we don’t. A few days ago, my husband came home with a wide smile plastered across his face. “It’s Christmas!” he announced excitedly as he shoved several bags of rolled oats and popcorn in my direction.

This is the stuff of fairy tales, people.

Many things are comparable in cost, but overall, prepared foods (canned vegetables, Old El Paso taco kits, salad dressing, cake mixes, etc.) are significantly more pricy than you’d find in the states. At the same time, fresh fruits and vegetables at the market, unlike your favorite produce section, are very affordable. Twenty-five cents for a large handful of green beans, sixty cents for five good sized potatoes, forty cents for seven or eight medium sized carrots, twenty-five cents for a large head of leafy lettuce. Basic kinds of meat – the cows, chickens, and pigs – being enrolled in entry level marketing classes led by the turkeys – tend to be expensive.

Many things here must be made from scratch, either because it is not available any other way, or because it is otherwise cost-prohibitive. We have made our own salsa, as well as our tortilla chips. Mmmmmm … the salsa is really more of a pico de gallo, and the chips are made from wheat tortillas rather than corn, but I tell you what: chips and salsa never tasted so good!

And I never would have guessed that a homemade wheat tortilla, topped with refried beans (canned, though I’m sure if you wanted to you could make these from scratch, too), and this very same pico de gallo would be just as good as any taco, without the cost of meat. Try it sometime!

One day Paul got a good deal on some meat, so we planned to eat that for dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans. Just your good ol’ basic meal plan, right? Yes, until you find out that this particular meat used to be inside the tail of a crocodile. Evan didn’t seem to mind. Seriously, it wasn’t bad. It tasted like chicken. Tough, chewy chicken, perhaps, but chicken nonetheless.

Thanksgiving day was a normal work and school day here, but of course we Americans have traditions to uphold. Our (also American) next door neighbors, Wayne and Maggie, invited us over for spaghetti, garlic bread, salad, and steamed vegetables. We took carrot cake for dessert, which, of course, fell in the middle because of the high altitude. Now if that isn’t a traditional Thanksgiving menu, I don’t know what is! (Remember, eight dollars a pound, people.)

The food was scrumptious, the company fabulous. The kids watched the Peanuts Christmas special, and the adults talked and laughed.

And, though we missed our families, we have no regrets.

Just new traditions.

Miscellany

2009-11-25T21:15:00.006+10:00

Trees

By our son (age 7)

Trees, trees, and more trees -

They swing with the breeze

With ease.

Loved Ones

By our son (age 7)

The ocean is blue.

The sky is, too.

Some fish are blue.

My eyes are, too.

And I am blue

‘Cause I miss you.

Irony

Twenty-four Papua New Guineans

And I –

Sweat pouring forth from the sun

Up high –

All planting yams – I’m sure quite

A sight.

Then from the radio sitting

Close by

Michael Jackson puts a gleam in

My eye

Singing, “It doesn’t matter if you’re black

Or white.”

Sweat Sonnet

I go to get water and from all my pores

I feel drippy, sticky stuff begin to pour.

Working in the garden I start to sweat

And when I am finished, all my clothes are wet.

A quick trip to market, a wokabout,

The building of a haus win makes me shout.

I can walk to the beach or to the river

To cool off or bathe, but I will not shiver

For before I return I am again

Covered with sweat from toes to chin.

I can taste it on my lip, running down,

And hear it as it plops onto the ground,

But the worst of all, I think, really must be

Feeling it dribble down the, um, “backside” of me.

Shaving

Before you move to a village

You must be very wary

For if your beard grows fast

It can be very scary

When you’re snagging all the spider webs

‘Cause your face is so hairy.

Insanity

Sand flies, mosquitoes, and fleas.

Won’t you stop biting me, please?

When I no longer scratch,

I just get a new batch

Of sand flies, mosquitoes, and fleas.

Homesick

Sofa, freezer, Smudge the cat,

The game “Zooreka,” a welcome mat,

McDonald’s fries and autumn leaves,

Weather prime for longer sleeves,

Stove and toilet, Frigidaire,

Oven, car, table, and chairs,

Washer and dryer for my clothes,

Nice soft tissues for my nose,

Air conditioning, my own room,

Fabric softener, Starbucks at noon,

Running water, electricity,

Showers, friends, and family.

Becoming Culturally Well-Versed

2009-11-25T21:14:00.016+10:00

We have encountered many new foods here in

Papua New Guinea

. Some are quite delicious while others are, well, not so much. Though we rarely cooked kaukau or yams for ourselves, we’ve eaten plenty.

I am certain that persons from other cultures, should they spend any amount of time faced with burgers, pizza, tacos, and pasta, could write similar verses about their encounters with our food. Yes, including French fries. :)

Anyway, we enjoyed this poem in particular, not as an insult to PNG food, but because it is always possible to have too much of even a good thing!

In order to understand it best, you will need to know a little bit of Tok Pisin. Translation will follow. And yes, every fourth line rhymes. :)

Kaikai Tumas

Muli

Melon

Ananas

Pomolo

Pis

Snek Bin

Kakaruk

Popo

Pitpit

Kumu

Marita

Laulau

Aibika

Yam

Tulip

Kaukau

Traut

Kaikai Tumas = Eating Too Much

Muli = generic term for various citrus fruit

Melon = generic term for various melons

Ananas = Banana

Pomolo = a sweet citrus fruit that is kind of like a cross between an orange and a grapefruit

Pis = Fish

Snek Bin = “snake bean” – a cucumber-looking bean that can be two feet long or more –

very delicious!

Kakaruk = Chicken

Popo = Papaya

Pitpit = a stalk vegetable that, when growing, looks like corn, but tastes totally different

Kumu = generic word for garden greens

Marita = a kerneled seed pod from a tree that is used to make sauces; comes in red and yellow

Laulau = a tree fruit, some of which taste similar to an apple

Aibika = a green that tends to be on the bitter side

Yam = a dense, starchy cousin to our yams

Tulip = a green that is not on the bitter side

Kaukau = a dense, not-so-sweet PNG sweet potato

Traut = this word has nothing to do with fish; instead it is the Tok Pisin word for vomit :)

Almost every evening of our village time, one or both of us would sit with our wasfamili (and sometimes with others, as well) and “story.” This “shooting the breeze” could last well into the night, especially if we’d made tea. One thing that is ingrained in PNG culture is the value of relationships, and this is regularly demonstrated by the time spent storying with one another. A Papua New Guinean would never turn someone away for that would send the message that the person was not important or the relationship was not worth investing in.

However, occasionally, culturally appropriate or not, we would catch one of them yawning. :)

Storying

I make some tea, the sun goes down.

Soon at your house I will be found.

You cannot just turn me away

So we talk and drink ‘til the break of day.

And no one gets much sleep at night,

For want of trying to be polite.

Fat Cat

2009-11-25T21:14:00.010+10:00

It was intended that we would be the only residents of our village house. However, for much of our Village Living time, we had one other tenant: our waspapa’s cat, “Pieces.” She was a sweet little cat, charcoal gray, and very petite. Until I found out differently, I assumed she was just a kitten, but as it turns out, the pusi (Tok Pisin for “cat”) was three years old.

She spent much time at our place, which, of course, the kids loved. She played with us, slept on our floor, and even ate our food. Typically, once our dinner was finished, she would run off to Papa’s house for a second course.

Soon she was visibly gaining weight, and we began to wonder if maybe the pizza and refried beans (among other things) were adversely affecting her.

But, soon we were able to write another poem:

Surprise

Pusi, Pusi was a cat.

Pusi, Pusi came and sat

In our house upon a mat.

But soon her stomach was not flat.

We could see her getting fat.

As for the reason we did spat,

But then her belly we did pat

And there were kittens!
How ‘bout that?

Pieces was, indeed, pregnant. We were able to watch the kittens moving and kicking inside her belly, and soon we were wondering if she might have them before we left. We could tell they were a few inches long already.

The kids were praying she would have them before we left.

At our house.

In a box they’d prepared for her.

It was a long shot.

On the last Saturday before we left the village, we were all sitting outside talking after dinner. Our daughter brought Pieces outside, but instead of sitting quietly on her lap as usual, the cat jumped down and went back inside the house.

We could hear her crying in there, which was also unlike her.

Our daughter went in to check on her, and as she entered the house, the cat, who had been sitting at the top of the stairs, turned and went into her box to lie down.

“Mom, she’s acting funny.”

When I checked on her, there was no doubt that she was in labor. I know … I’ve been there. :)

With every contraction, as her belly would swell and harden, she would whimper in pain. Forty-five minutes later a foot emerged. Then a tail. Then the rest of the little black kitten was born.

And we got to watch the whole thing.

For twenty minutes Pieces cleaned the kitten and took care of all of the … er, unpleasant things associated with kittenbirth. Once kitten number one began nursing, labor quickly brought forth kitten number two. They were almost perfect twins of each other, black females with a spattering of gray hairs and a white triangular patch under each of their chins.

What a fun, unexpected blessing to liven up our last five days of village living!

A New Twist for Chicken Little

2009-11-25T21:13:00.010+10:00

“The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” ~Chicken Little

“A told B and B told C, ‘I’ll meet you at the top of the coconut tree!’” ~Chicka Chicka Boom Boom

Since arriving in Papua New Guinea, we’ve been told many times that one should never hang out under a coconut tree.

I know, I know. You’re thinking of those picture postcards with the white sand beaches, rolling waves, and someone swinging gently in a hammock strung lazily between two coconut palms.

Utter foolishness.

It’s reportedly true, unfortunately, that some people (at least some children) have been killed by falling coconuts.

This must be widespread information in PNG, for one day my wasmama and I were walking home from another village when the wind began to pick up. The trees were swaying madly overhead and before I knew it, Mama had grabbed my hand and was all but dragging me at a full trot the last kilometer or two to the house.

She was scared of falling coconuts.

I tried to reassure her that everything would be alright, that she needn't worry too much, but the wasfamilies have a strong sense of responsibility for the well being of the missionaries in their care. If something happened to me, it would be on her head.

At least that is how it felt to her.

Fortunately, we made it home with no skull-cracking incidents.

A few days later Mama was sitting on the “bet” (a low outside table designed for preparing and/or eating food) outside our house. I and some others were standing around talking with her when it happened.

Now, I’d been observing this phenomenon ever since the wild coconut-avoidance routine a few days earlier, so it didn’t totally take me by surprise when a coconut came crashing through the branches of several trees and landed with a solid *THUD* about eight inches from Mama.

Please understand, these people are smart and would never build a house or “bet” or anything of the like directly underneath, or even close to, a coconut palm. This coconut, like so many others, just had a mind of its own.

This incident and others like it led to this humble composition …

(*Bubu is the Tok Pisin equivalent of Grandma)

The Coconut Tree

Bubu told Mama and Mama told me,

“You’d better not sit under the coconut tree!

A safer place there really must be

Than sitting underneath the coconut tree.

A smart decision is really the key

When hanging around under the coconut tree.

For in the middle of town or as you walk by the sea,

The coconuts fall from the coconut tree.

They might hit your head, though they could hit your knee,

The coconuts falling from the coconut tree.

When you sit down to story or drink your tea,

Just don’t do it underneath a coconut tree.

And should you hear a crash, before you cry, ‘Oh, gee!’

You’d better run away from the coconut tree!”

But, I’ve been watching and I think I see

A pattern to this problem of the coconut tree.

They usually bounce on a branch or even two or three

And fall far away from the coconut tree.

So for what it’s worth, you can take it from me,

The safest place may be right under the coconut tree!

Our Apologies to Shel Silverstein

2009-11-25T17:05:00.004+10:00

“If you want to find out what a writer or a cartoonist really feels, look at his work. That's enough.” ~Shel Silverstein

“Never explain what you do. It speaks for itself. You only muddle it by talking about it.” ~Shel Silverstein

We found the pace of life to be notably slower and more relaxed in a village setting. Coming from a western society where time is money and relationships are expendable, we suddenly had a great deal of free time on our hands. In addition to washing all the laundry by hand, Sharon read several books that she brought. The POC school sent some books for us to read, in addition to the kids' assigned homework, as a family (The Sign of the Beaver, My Side of the Mountain, I Heard the Owl Call My Name, and A Light in the Forest, all appropriately chosen by the teacher because of their cross-cultural themes). Paul brought James Michener’s Alaska, which he started before we went to the village and finished a week after we returned.

Yeah, sure. He started lots of fires, hauled gallons of water, and built a shelter with bamboo and leaves, but it wouldn’t have mattered. The book’s that long.

Our very cultured daughter brought some Calvin and Hobbes books for her reading pleasure. But, our son brought A Light in the Attic and Where the Sidewalk Ends, both by Shel Silverstein, and it was these that would become our inspiration.

Together we wrote, partly as an act of survival by finding the humor in things, what we’re calling our “Village Living Anthology.” We based it loosely on Shel Silverstein’s style of poetry (though one was more Shakespearean, and another was fashioned after Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, to which Silverstein has no relationship that we’re aware of.)

We hereby, while offering some of these works for your enjoyment over the next few days, offer our apologies to these professional writers.

So, without further ado we offer you …

Ode to the Rooster

Ol kakaruk of this fine town -

My feathered friends who peck the ground

And who can walk without a sound –

Oh, how I love you, Roosters.

Your temperament is sweet as honey.

Your plumage, it is bright and sunny.

You strut about so very funny.

Yes, you are charming, Roosters.

At half-past-two in the afternoon,

In October, November, and even June,

You all crow out a little tune –

The singing of the roosters.

Then somewhere close to ten-til-four

You strut and crow a little more

Lest we think your life’s a bore

And you’ve nothing to do, Rooster.

At four-fifteen and five-oh-eight,

As the day is drawing late,

It seems as if you just can’t wait

To announce the morning, Roosters.

By half-past-six you speak much less.

We’re quite relieved, I do confess,

To get the evening’s brief recess

From the crowing of the roosters.

But at ten-eighteen you’ll cry again

And sixty more will soon join in

And thus create the dreaded din

We’ve come to expect from roosters.

In the early night we’ll grumble some

And wish that you would all stay mum.

WE can count the hours before the sun,

But apparently YOU can’t, roosters.

For at twelve-oh-eight and one-fifteen

And ten-til-two and at three again

And three-forty-five, though no light is seen,

We’ll wake to all the roosters.

Then from four until six-forty-five

You’ll do that incessant “Rooster Jive”

And we’ll wish that you were not alive,

You very annoying roosters.

It seems to me it would be sweet

To every day have chicken to eat

Until the noise gives way to meat

And we no longer hear the roosters.

But of course we can only wish

To serve up rooster in a dish

‘Cause for now they serve their village niche …

Those darned ol’ crowing roosters.