Accidentally landing in a (minor) tribal war

Brian and his teammates arrived in Nemnem, a village found in the Bosmun language area, ready to work. The community leaders were already present and a large group of men were buzzing about excitedly in the haus boi, a structure that in many areas of PNG is built to house single men. In this area the haus boi serves a higher function as the “men’s house” where major community and religious events occur with men only. Women are punished severely for entering these types of structures. The first thing the team did in Nemnem was sit down with the leaders to figure out a good time to come together for the presentation on PBT’s new translation project their community was being invited to join. This discussion was interrupted when someone yelled from the bush and all the men ran off intent on a fight. Brian and his teammates were left alone with one community leader who quietly stated it would be safer for them to find another village to sleep in that night.

Animosity has existed between two Bosmun villages, Nemnem and Dongan, for a very long time. On this particular day an incident occurred at the primary school in Dongan where several children were hurt by an out of control young man from Dongan. Just two days before the two communities had come together and found peace about this individual. Dongan promised Nemnem they would control this boy and that no more violent episodes would occur. Nemnem promised to wait for Dongan to deal with the issue without getting involved themselves. When Nemnem was told about the beatings at the school, they felt Dongan had betrayed their promises to take care of the problem and chose to respond in the only way they knew how; by sending a raiding party to Dongan to destroy the property of this boy’s father. It was now Dongan’s turn to feel betrayed after the peace talks and to respond in kind. Apparently they chose to do so right when Brian’s team arrived. The team quickly left the area and spent the night with a family PBT knows well in a neighboring language area.

This seems like a dramatic event to us coming from cultures where retaliation and revenge are not so violently enacted by whole communities. For the people of Nemnem and Dongan this incident was one of many and perfectly normal. Everything was progressing by the book. The next morning a community leader from Dongan called Brian and asked the team to come back to the area. Both Nemnem and Dongan had agreed to call off the fight until after the team completed their work in both villages. So in one day they presented in both villages, spent the night in Dongan, and left the area the following morning where presumably hostilities resumed.

Some of the Nemnem men after the presentation.

In order to be part of this new translation project, the Lower Ramu Project, each language group invited is required to create a board of leaders that includes representatives from each village, dialect, church, and school. Though PBT is involved in the training side of this project, the weight of responsibility is on each language group to organize and direct the project. The Bosmun people are desperate to have God’s word in their language, and despite being encouraged by their willingness to step away from their anger for one day in order to hear how they might get God’s word in their language, it is just one day and one small fight. It will take the work of the Holy Spirit to truly bring them into the cooperative relationship required for this project.

Please be praying with us for our branch as they seek to reach four language communities in a new way with various complications within each group (not all quite as severe as tribal war). Pray specifically for these two Bosmun communities, that they would find love and peace where there is now anger and hurt. Pray that God would open their hearts to His ways of peacemaking through the practice of translating portions of Mark into their language.

Rewiring my brain

I'm 17 weeks pregnant. That's just three short weeks away from the halfway point. I've had three check-ups and each time we've "seen" the baby. First it was a bunch of black and white shadows that made no sense to me. Then it was a bunch of black and white shadows that made no sense to me, but included one pulsating splotch that our doctor said was the heart. I believed him. Finally, we saw the clear form of a baby, and even though he or she looked a bit like a creepy alien, I felt overwhelmed with fuzzy emotions.  

Despite all the baby sightings, this next appointment will be my first real appointment. So far I've been seeing the doctor under "confirmation of pregnancy" appointments. Really?? We're still confirming it after seeing splotches that tell you there's a baby forming (they didn't tell me... it's just my nauseous body confirming it), after seeing a heartbeat, and after seeing the little alien baby outline?!? But, indeed, my first real appointment is in three weeks when I will be halfway done.

The first time we visited Dr. Bolnga I had no idea what to expect. We turned into a small compound protected, like everything else in Madang, with a steel fence and barbwire. The guard opened the gate for us and pointed down the gravel road to the back building. It reminded me of medical offices in the States, in that there are no obvious signs to help guide and direct. There's just the building, which looks unfortunately like all the other buildings nearby, and it's up to your resourcefulness to find the right glass doors. Only there are no glass doors to Dr. Bolnga's building or office. We parked and walked around to the back of the building which faces an empty field and the Astrolabe Bay. After figuring out that the bottom offices belong to World Wildlife Fund, we made our way up the concrete steps decorated with various potted, tropical plants and found the door marked "Hope Specialist Health Care Limited." We added our shoes to the pile at the door and made our way down the poorly lit hallway to the cramped waiting room. It was already full of women and, despite the small air conditioning unit, it was hot. There are no set appointment times, it's simply first come, first serve. So we waited and waited, again not unlike our stateside prenatal visits. For that first appointment we had Ray with us and smack in the middle of the room was yet another leafy potted plant with an oh-so-enticing-to-a-toddler-if-they-could-read sign that said "Do Not Touch." Of course she wanted to touch. She just knew it was forbidden with her toddler radar. While we waited we intermittently kept Ray away from the plant and watched her get cozy with our fellow patients in the waiting room. The exam room was small, like most. Unlike most it didn't feel like an exam room. It just felt like an office with a bed in it. No stark white walls or paper sheets on the bed. No scale. No obvious medical paraphernalia or anatomy class pictures on the walls. Just a desk, a bed with regular sheets, an ultrasound machine that looks like a 1980s computer, and some chairs. In my cultural framework, that doesn't inspire confidence. I'm trained to equate knowledgeable medical practitioners with pristine facilities and paraphernalia. And labelled pictures of the muscular system. 

Dr. Bolnga's office building

We met Dr. Bolnga back in 2011 when I spent a couple of nights in the Madang Hospital for dysfunctional ovarian cysts. He was good then and he's good now. In fact, Dr. Bolnga is one of the best in the South Pacific. He trained in Australia and received the highest score (they call it the gold medal) of everyone that took their final test in the South Pacific Commonwealth nations that year. That means he beat students from places like Australia and New Zealand, and this test is apparently quite difficult. He's good. And though I know this about him, our appointments have felt haphazard and not at all what I grew to expect from my doctor's appointments during Ray's internment in my belly. So they feel wrong even though they aren't wrong. They're just different.

I walk away from each appointment less disconcerted than the last. I'm slowly becoming more accustomed to the vast cultural differences in how Americans treat pregnancy and how Papua New Guineans treat pregnancy as manifested through my highly competent but completely laid back PNG doctor. My brain is rewiring itself to accept this new kind of medical care as "good" even though it looks totally different from what I culturally define as "good" medical care. In the end, I would have no qualms staying here for Baby Garbo's birth if I knew that Dr. Bolnga would be the attending doctor and if the medical facilities he had to work with at the hospital were better equipped for complications. Neither of those is true, so we'll head to Australia with his blessing and thank God that in the meantime Baby Garbo is in unfamiliar, but excellent hands.    

Our little joey

This coming January we'll be heading south to Cairns, Australia (pronounced "cans") to welcome our beautiful second born into the world! I'm feeling all the same emotions I felt when we found out about Ray, just muted a bit. I stay mentally and physically tapped out keeping Ray alive, so it's not until the end of the day that I turn my thoughts (and anxieties) fully to Baby Garbo.

Which brings me to our nickname. Almost all pregnant women know about the online sites that send you a weekly update saying, "Your blessing of life is now the size of a kumquat!" to which you inevitably reply, "What the heck is a kumquat?!?" I'm not sure why they don't pick blueberries or apples or lima beans, but every email we got during Ray's months inside involved a quick trip to Google images to see exactly what foreign produce they were comparing my offspring to. When we added Baby #2 to our chosen website, we received the first of the emails. To our great relief they compared our tiny one to a garbanzo bean. Hey! I know what that is and have actually eaten it. Multiple times! So Brian started referring to Baby as Garbo. It's growing on me. Slowly.

Ray's completely rational reaction to the news.

Our child's citizenship has been the most common follow-up question to our news. Although we would love to give Ray fodder in future fights - something along the lines of "you're not even the same nationality as the rest of us" - it doesn't work that way. Just because Baby Garbo will be born in Australia does not automatically make him... or her... an Australian citizen. Just like giving him... or her... the gift of Australian citizenship wouldn't automatically give him... or her... a coveted Australian accent. So if we can't ultimately give our child the gift of an Australian accent, why have the baby in Australia instead of near family in America? Lots of reasons.

1) Getting to Cairns involves two flights. A one hour flight to Port Moresby followed by another one hour flight to Cairns. Done and done. Getting to the States involves at least four flights, one of them being as long as 16 hours. 34 weeks pregnant with a toddler? I don't think so. 

2) The expense of the flights is night and day. We'll be paying a tenth of the almost $10,000 it would take to get the whole family to the States and back again. No brainer.

3) The medical care in Australia is excellent. It's also significantly less expensive than comparable care in the States. We'll be paying thousands of dollars less to bring Baby Garbo into the world by choosing Australia.

4) We have two different insurance rates: overseas and stateside. If we go home our monthly premium will double. If we stay on this side of the world we get to keep our lower overseas rate.

5) "Our home" is now Madang. Just like most of my mom peers in the States, my nesting instinct is fully functional. Unlike most of my mom peers in the States, I can't leave my home when I go into labor, have the beautiful bundle in the hospital, and come back to my home a day or two later where I settle my two children into a comfortable routine. Instead we'll be living in a beautiful, but very unfamiliar city out of our suitcases. I'm going to want to get my family back to Madang and our home as soon as possible. We can mitigate how much time we spend away from our home by going to Australia where we know no one. However, if we spent the money to go all the way back to the States we would stay longer to reconnect with people. In order to stay healthy as a family, our plan is to be in and out in 3 months (mostly limited by the length of our medical visas).

6) Along those same lines, Brian will be working remotely while we're Down Under. He'll be more than ready to get back to PNG where executing his work will be easier.

7) Ray gets to see koalas.

8) Ray gets to see kangaroos.

9) Ray gets to see wombats.

10) Brian and I get to eat Bikkie Magnum Bars, the most amazing ice cream bar created. And it's only sold in Australia.

Many, many, many American missionaries living in PNG have gone before us to have children in Cairns. We're already connected to a doctor that will handle the birth and he's highly experienced in helping missionaries in PNG through this process. My parents are coming to Cairns to visit around the due date (hopefully it will be timed well), blessing us with family time. Then we look forward to seeing Brian's parents later next year in PNG. Though it's devastating to us that we can't share this with our loved ones, going to Australia for this momentous event is the right thing for our little family.

Swallowed by a fish

What was it like to be in the belly of a fish? I've wondered that ever since I was old enough to comprehend the story of Jonah, and I still wonder. The reality of it is simply gross. There must have been slime and stench. And what did he live on for those days? Did he sleep in the middle of the organ where gushes of stomach juice were churning around him? Or was his back propped against belly muscle? Did he even sleep at all? What about food and water? Going to the bathroom? Despite my many questions (and there's more) I have no trouble believing this story actually happened; I don't believe it's just a parable or tale. There are many major and minor stories in the Bible I have not the slightest ability to explain scientifically, but I'm not the type of person that cares so much. I'm okay not knowing and simply trusting that He did it. Somehow.

We read Bible stories to Ray each night out of a book that has wonderfully disproportionate pictures and one of the stories is about Jonah. Along with long toes and tiny eyes, the people in these books are colored oddly and are sometimes faceless. Sometimes toeless too. As he's reading, Brian never fails to add adjectives to the narrative where he deems appropriate. "And Jesus laid his hands on the orange children" or "the previously five-fingered but now four-fingered man got off his donkey" or (my personal favorite) "the permed angel from the 1980s came to Mary." I grew up on these books and never noticed the uniqueness of the pictures until Brian started adding their weirdness to the storyline. They are strange.

Some of the creative artistry in Ray's books. This is the story of blind Bartimaeus.

So in these books Jonah is swallowed by a prototypical cartoon whale. Not a whale that actually exists in real life, but the kind of whale always used to depict the benevolent monster that swallowed Jonah. This nonexistent creature looks to be a mix between a blue whale, a humpback, and a sperm: giant square head, blue body, striped white belly. It's just the thing for swallowing men whole, but it doesn't actually exist. So what swallowed Jonah and what in the world was it like to live that? 

Whenever I dwell on the story I put myself in Jonah's place. I'm fairly certain I would have perished inside the fish the first day, nevermind being stuck in there for three days. But Jonah didn't. He made other mistakes, and many of them, but he didn't doubt God's presence when he was lounging in digestive liquid. I habitually doubt that the circumstances I find myself in are actually strange solutions provided by God, rather than another notch in the "things going wrong" belt. In Ray's book they end each story with a lesson. For Jonah's story, the wrap-up lesson is that God knew just what Jonah needed and provided it. Really? He needed to get swallowed by a huge fish?? But in looking at the small glimpse we're given of Jonah and his personality I think, "If ever there was a guy that needed to be swallowed by a fish, it's Jonah!" God is consistently giving us what we need, but I often miss it for what I think is a justifiable pity party in the face of "bad" circumstances.

Last night the power went out. This is always frustrating, no matter what time of day or night. When it happens at night, we know as soon as it goes out that if it doesn't come back on within 30 minutes Ray will wake up screaming. Then she fights going back to sleep once the power does finally return. It's a long, sleep-depriving process that doesn't go over well at 3 in the morning. A few months ago I switched the kind of malaria prophylaxis I take. The new pill brings with it lots of vivid, unpleasant dreams. Last night I had a series of about five dreams that were disturbing enough to keep me from getting quality sleep. The power went out three different times; each time allowed me an opportunity to escape the dreams and collect myself. Ray only woke up once, just to cry out briefly; a small baby curse to the electric company's powers that be and then back to sleep. I'm still tired today, but who knows how many other disturbing dreams I would have endured had my sleep not been interrupted by the still darkness? Normally I would choose to place both of those events, the power outages and the dreams, into the same bad category and simply say it was a bad night. Jonah must have thought that both the storm and the fish were equally unfortunate at some point in his experience. But eventually he chose to see them as God's provision for his true needs. I hate power outages, but perhaps last night they were just the fish to swallow me.

Clouds

I've been hoping to avoid the inevitable forever. Hoping I would be special enough or strong enough or happy enough to never feel it. The pull of America. The distaste for PNG. The general discontent that eventually happens to people living away from their home country. My discontent exploded on me when I wasn't aware it was lurking and wasn't prepared to ward it off. It came in the form of a loving mother and grandmother. She brought with her the essence of America and all it means to me right now. Comfortable homes, delightful summer trips, yummy food, and family connections. All the devil had to do was put one little seed in my heart. One little tug and my whole happy world unravelled. 

I started asking hard questions about why we're here and coming up with flimsy answers. Not because the ironclad answers don't exist, but because my flaky heart can't see them right now. As I wallowed in my dark cloud of "why is my life here and not there" Brian encouraged me to take these moments to write out the things I love about PNG. To remind myself of our happy reality, partially as a practical exercise and partially to derail my thoughts from obsessing about a fake life in the US. If I'm thinking hard about the good things of this home I can't think about the longed for things of that home. Here's my list so far:

1.   The imported New Zealand cheese here is infinitely better than comparable cheese in the States.

2.   The pineapple is sweet, juicy, and readily available for anywhere from $1-$3. Economical yum.

3.   I love kaukau (perfect mix of potato and sweet potato) in various forms and have zero access to it in the US.

4.   I have a home here.

5.   I have work here.

6.   Ray will grow up knowing that the world around her isn't always physically comfortable. And she'll just deal. 

7.   Ray will grow up knowing more than one language.

8.   Ray will grow up knowing that in order to eat chicken and pig, you must first kill the said chicken or pig. She'll be tougher for it.

9.   We hear outside noises 24/7 since the house is never closed.

10. We smell outside smells 24/7 since the house is never closed.

11. I'm inside God's will and residence.

You'll notice that many of the items on the list are pretty shallow. It's the best I can do right now, and I'm trying to be patient with myself because I know that this inevitability, the disenchantment with exotic PNG, will be followed by another inevitability: true acceptance of my life here. God will bring me there.

As I struggle through this phase, He's already sent assurance of His watchfulness on my heart. I've been reading through a book by David Crowder called Praise Habit, which has not directly spoken to anything occurring in my life until last night. In his rumination of Psalm 84 (the psalm that includes the well known "better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere") he says:

We have not been promised palatial housing, but we have been promised His presence. We often find ourselves in spaces that seem the last spot on earth we would have picked to insert ourselves, engaged in things we never imagined ourselves having to do, but we can know this comfort: that wherever we are, we are in the very residence of God and this is sweeter and greater than anywhere without Him. We carry His residence into these spaces. Perhaps we're on our hands and knees with sponge and soap because someone has just made a mess of things or maybe we've just noticed that most places we inhabit are in need of cleaning. Living praise often leads us close to the ground. To dirt. It often leads to industry that is unglamorous and unromantic. It often leads to sweat and toil and lonesome valleys. But around the bend are cool springs. These moments are holy because we know that wherever we find ourselves we are in the very house of God. And there is space and comfort here exceeding anything offered elsewhere. Even if it leads us to dark places on our hands and knees, it is sweeter than lying on a beach in Greece because the sunshine of our Maker's presence is brighter and stronger than a thousand stars, and it reaches to wherever we are.

It was just the reminder I needed to help pull my thoughts out of the swirling clouds of discontent. And I added number 11 to my list.

Deferred love

The verdict on the dog decision isn't a yes or a no. It's the worst kind of verdict: wait.

About two weeks ago we went up to the highlands to visit some friends and see the dentist. Our trip ended up reminding us of dog owning headaches. At the mission station people have many dogs of various shapes, sizes, personalities, and occupations. While we were visiting it was suspected that a puppy died of Parvo, so most dogs went on lockdown. Vet care is sporadic and/or do-it-yourself. Despite being a missionary, I'm not really a do-it-yourself kind of person. Being vet-less would undoubtedly take away years of my life in needless anxiety about our four-legged friend. A Parvo outbreak with no vaccine readily available is just one of many potential health hazards facing dogs here. On top of being reminded of the realities of life without a vet, we stayed at a house with a dog and were reminded of what it's like to have barking outside your window at night. These were obvious points against.

Ray's "Sammy" will be her dog for now.

Then on Sunday we went to a new friend's house. He's British, his wife is Canadian, and they're inviting anyone and everyone to come watch World Cup games at their place. They have two enormous dogs, a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd. We all attended closely as Ray made herself known to these behemoths, and I'm not sure which creature liked the other best. Ray squealed with delight any time one of them looked at her, and they doted. After the brief meeting, they were put outside where the Rottweiler watched over her from the window. When Brian started playing "too rough" with Ray, the dog let him know. For Ray's part, her whole body lit up in reaction to being so near dogs, especially one that would "talk" to her through a window.  

It's quite clear that Ray is enamored with dogs, maybe to her detriment. She'll have to learn that many of the dogs around here are not friendly; we always keep a close eye on her when her dog alarm (outstretched arms, bright eyes, a torrent of baby words) goes off. We don't want to prevent her from knowing the joys of dog ownership just because it's a difficult and sometimes heartbreaking task in PNG. However, we'll wait until she's a bit older, during a time in which we can all give solid attention to training the dog. 

That doesn't mean it's easy to say no right now. I saw a little white puppy during our run this morning, and my heart broke a little. I wanted him (or her) as much as I wanted the Doberman Pinscher puppy I saw in the pet shop when I was 10 years old. And I don't even like Doberman Pinschers. The magnetic tug of dogs on my heart never abates and knowing that I could give a dog a lovely home that might otherwise have a very terrible life makes the tug almost override sense. But sense keeps telling us not now. So we wait.

Cats, dogs, birds... and decisions

We're thinking about getting a guard dog. The pros and cons of dog ownership in PNG have been waging a war in my head ever since we started entertaining the idea. During our first term we house/pet-sat for dear friends while they were on furlough. Their collection of animals included an outdoor dog, an indoor dog, and a cat. I decided to post a journal entry I wrote while I was living at their house which has served to remind me what my life is like as an animal owner. Perhaps it will help us make the dog decision...

"I'm not a detective. I don't have good observation skills. I often see clues indicating that abnormal things are occurring in my normally normal world, but my mind refuses to see them as the warning sign God intended them to be. Instead I choose to accept the first ridiculous account that pops into my Sherlock-less head to explain away what I see, and I wind up unawares. When I came home from work Tuesday night a series of events played out that should have warned me my evening would be interesting. Per usual, I ignored all the signs and ended my night stunned. Laughing, but stunned.

To set up the general atmosphere, the bottom of the sky dropped on Tuesday. All afternoon. There had already been almost five inches of rain on Monday, so Tuesday was really just more of the same. The gravel road was treacherous as I plucked my way home, arms gracefully balancing three bags of groceries and a floppy umbrella. I was desperately trying to keep my hair smooth for Bible study, but the weather was obviously against smooth hair so I let go of that lofty ambition. As soon as I entered the house my mood went from cranky to downright irascible. The first thing I saw were tiny paw prints all over the dining room table and the kitchen counter. More often than not I'm able to peacefully submit to the fact that the cat makes adventurous little forays onto furniture when it knows no one is in the house to reprimand him. But on this particular frizzy-haired Tuesday evening, I'd had it with the cat and its blatant disregard for my feelings on the issue. It didn't help that right on the edge of the dining room table, closest to where I consume food, was a tuft of cat hair. This was the first piece of evidence that should have tipped me off to strangeness, but instead of seeing the perfect tuft of hair and thinking, "What could be the cause of this?" I saw the tuft of hair and thought, "Grrrrrrrrr cat." I had just grumped my way to the bathroom to clean the mud off my feet when I heard some thumping noises. As soon as I finished cleaning up, I went back into the kitchen to investigate and found the cat sitting on top of the kitchen counter right next to the stove. It was too much. I snapped. It was unusual for the cat to commit this manner of crime right in front of me, but this second clue went totally unheeded in my rage. There was yelling and lunging (the details are a bit embarrassing, really), but he was too quick and darted downstairs before I was remotely within range. When I next saw him, I decided to communicate my displeasure by hissing at him. The result was fairly satisfactory and I started to feel better.

Even though we are dog people, I developed a special place in my heart for Mic when he watched over me through an illness.

As the evening progressed, the cat continued to act odd in the general area of the kitchen. I chalked it up to him processing my impressive hissing performance and put it out of my head. 

Directly above our stove is a small spice rack containing basic spices, olive oil, and apple cider vinegar. Each level of the rack is narrow and the spices are set up as far to the front as possible, leaving a small space between the spices and the wall. Earlier that day we were given ground cinnamon that I reached up to put away. Before I started shifting spices to make room for the cinnamon, the spice rack fluttered. Spice racks aren't really known for fluttering, so I, of course, immediately panicked. I pride myself for not being a screamer, so I bottled all my panicky emotions inside and took one brave look at the empty space behind the spices. Instead of seeing the wooden rack, I saw a sleek black object, rather long. The scream sitting in my belly jolted as if to come out, but I swallowed it back down. Instead, heart pounding and slightly light-headed, I walked into the living room to calmly ask my husband to check if there was a bird on our spice rack. He laughed at me. And then he looked behind the oregano and saw a dirty black bird.

The rain, the bird, the cat, and the spice rack had created a perfect storm of weird. The bird, finding the weather to be a little too wet, flew into our dry house through the fireplace. Instead of finding a haven of peace, it found a cat. After an epic battle that raged through the living room, dining room, and kitchen (traces of which were found after the bird's discovery), the bird found some solace on the spice rack. For mysterious reasons, the cat had not aggressively pursued its victim while it remained on the spice rack. Once the bird found this effective hiding spot, it thought it would top off all of our days by getting its head stuck behind the jar of apple cider vinegar.

At first, Brian was sure the bird was dead. While he was checking for life, I banished the dog and cat to the basement. After quickly dispatching that duty, I ran back into the living room to be as far from the bird as possible when Brian freed it. Sure enough, the bird was very much alive and started flapping around the house banging into things. Hard. Brian valiantly chased it while I, equally valiantly, ran around yelling choice words trying to avoid the winged monster coming at my head. Eventually, Brian was able to catch the bird in the laundry basket and we freed it with strict instructions to stay away from the chimney.

You have to look close, but the bird's there!

For the next half hour, we frantically bleached the kitchen and did a thorough search of the floors and furniture for feathers and poop. There was an abundance of both. After that, I spent a good portion of the rest of the evening mulling two questions. Why am I a language surveyor, a job that requires impeccable observation skills, when I don't notice the aftermath of a National Geographic battle waged for who-knows-how-long in my own living room? And for what possible reason did the cat not finish off the bird when it was such an easy kill? I don't have an answer for the first question, but I am quite confident that the answer to the second is God's intimate knowledge of me and what I can handle. Coming home to a dead, bloody bird on my stove may have broken me that day. Instead, it was all just a good laugh."

So... guard dog? Sigh. I still don't know.