When I stepped out on the deck Mary greeted me with a wide grin. “Good morning. I knew you wouldn’t be put off by a little rain.”
If she only knew how “put off” I was by everything I’d seen so far. But I was here for Sam, and I wasn’t going to disappoint him. And if they knew, they would be shocked that not once had I thought about the possibility of disappointing God.
We climbed into the boat that held a good three inches of accumulated rain. The men bailed with a large plastic bucket as the rain fell in blinding sheets, obscuring our view of the village. It looked better from this vantage point.
Even with the plastic raincoat I was already damp. A raindrop hung off the tip of my nose, refusing to release. I sighed and squeezed rain from the soaked hair plastered to my cheek. Was I mildewed? I must be. I was wet 90 percent of the time, with either sweat or rain. This was not the way I wanted Sam to remember me …
That’s all I would be when the experiment was over: a mere memory. I’d already made up my mind to break it off with him when I left. By then he would see the wisdom of going our separate ways. Would the realization tear at him as it did me?
The sounds of a village couple in heated argument drifted to us. A woman’s high-pitched squeals contrasted with her opponent’s guttural tones. For once I was grateful I couldn’t understand a word of their language. From the tone of the argument the discussion threatened to turn into a tropical storm. Even in this remote corner of the world, tension between male and female was obvious. But then, why wouldn’t it be? It started in the garden of Eden and escalated from there.
The din of barking dogs grew louder as we approached the shore. Village animals ran wild, prowling about and challenging everything and everyone they met.
Bud brought the boat onto the bank, and Sam jumped out and grasped the mooring rope, fastening the craft to a stout post. The Laskes climbed out and I followed. We slogged up the steep incline in ankle-deep mud, struggling to retain our balance. There was nothing to hold on to — not a twig, not even a tough clump of grass. The bank leading up from the water was shale and volcanic rock.
And mud. Everywhere I looked I saw mud. Eva and Frank informed me we were blessed to have the lagoon. It sheltered our huts from the winds and rough sea. The main part of the village faced an unprotected rocky beach, and even in mild seas, landing or putting a boat or canoe in the water was a test of endurance.
The dogs had ceased barking, retreating to drier quarters. The fighting couple was silent too, giving no indication which of the village hovels housed them.
We stopped at the first hut. A man, lips stained red, his teeth almost rotted away, came out to meet us. A small girl stood at his side. He opened his mouth wide, bowing and scraping his hands in my direction. I caught myself bowing in return. From all appearances he was delighted to see me. I made a note to ask Sam later what caused his disfigurement. Bud talked to him, if you could call it that, using exaggerated facial expressions, loud sounds, and much arm waving. Sam winked at me. Bud had his own method of communicating, but if it worked, who was I to complain?
When we departed, Bud left a bag of jelly beans with the exuberant native, who was pleased.
Next we came to the hut of a man who sat beneath a brushy overhang carving a bamboo comb. I pulled Sam back to lag behind so I could question him. “The other man’s mouth? I notice many of the men have lost all their teeth. Is it disease?”
I didn’t voice the question foremost in my mind: Is it contagious?
“Betel nut.” Sam explained. “Men use the betel nut like American men chew tobacco. When mixed with lime the nut is a mild intoxicant and stimulant. It’s the coffee, tea, beer, and whiskey of many of the natives of Papua New Guinea. When the ground is dry you’ll notice many bright red spittle patterns. It’s a way of life for the villagers. When they lose their teeth and are no longer able to chew, they resort to crushing their betel in an elaborately carved handheld mortar bowl. You’ll see the men carving the paraphernalia from time to time.”
“Why would they want to chew something that destroys their teeth?” Some of the men had ragged stumps in their mouths.
“The nut is addictive.”
“They’re all addicts?” Figures.
“We’re all addicted to something, Johanna.” Sam shook his head. “There’s always something that keeps us from being solely yielded to God.”
I started to protest and then closed my mouth. Who was I to criticize someone else’s weakness? How did I know when my own frailties would enslave me? In fact, wasn’t that what was happening to me at this very moment? Weren’t my weaknesses blinding me to the world as Sam saw it?
I took a closer look at the men’s stained mouths and stumps of teeth as I walked through the village. The villagers seemed to have no regard for health issues. I couldn’t live like that. I did all I could to avoid doctor or dental visits. For one thing, I didn’t like them. For another, the cost of insurance and copay was astronomical. I’d worked my way up to a decent salary, and I was cautious with my money. I planned ahead. I’d never allow myself to fall into such an addiction as the betel nut —
Yes, but what about security? Could you be addicted to that?
The thought hit me with the force of a clap of thunder. Even worse thoughts came next: Could you be a possession addict? Addicted to the things you own, the things you’ve convinced yourself you couldn’t do without?
The unwanted questions rushed through my mind, like a blazing comet in a dark night sky, startling me with their clarity. Was that the way Sam saw me?
My heart chilled at another realization …
Was that the way God saw me?
I pushed the ugly thought away. I did value my possessions. Who didn’t? I’d worked hard to gain them. There was nothing wrong or unbiblical with being thrifty with what God had given me.
Frank Millet joined us, and the villagers crowded around him, calling him something that sounded like boom.
Sam explained. “Bum means grandfather. It’s a sign of great respect.” After twelve years, the man had earned, if not clear communication, at least great respect. He deserved a citation.
The rain stopped as suddenly as if someone had turned off a faucet. The sun popped out, turning the village into one gigantic sauna. I didn’t know I could sweat so much. I peeled off the plastic raincoat and draped it over my arm. A woman villager reached out to rub the thin, clear plastic between her fingers. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but her intention was obvious. She wanted my raincoat.
I gave her a stern look, trying not to focus on her bare chest. “No.”
Her eyes widened. Mary came to my rescue, waving the woman away. The woman shrugged and turned loose of my coat, shooting a disgruntled glance my way.
I thanked Mary for intervening. “How did you make her understand?”
She laughed. “I prayed that she could identify the gesture.”
“Well, thank you. I can’t give away my raincoat.” I glanced at the brightening sky. “Does it rain every hour or so?”
“It seems that way.” Mary made no mention of my refusal to give the woman the raincoat. Did she disapprove? I had no doubt she would have given it away, along with anything else the villager wanted. But then, I wasn’t Mary. She and the others were working to garner full trust with these natives, but I wasn’t. Besides, it rained constantly here: I needed the raincoat. That woman was comfortable running around loose as a goose. A little rain wouldn’t affect her.
“I don’t know how you do this, Mary. You’re a saint.”
“Far from it. Look around you, Johanna. The villagers’ ways are not our ways, but they are warm, accepting. Our ways must be very odd and funny to them, just as theirs are to us. Somehow God’s love causes them to sense that maybe they need what we have to offer. In time, others — or who knows, maybe even we — will collapse the communication barrier. Until then, we’re their friends. We know enough to gain their trust; this is good.”
I co
uldn’t keep the scorn from my voice. “Look at these living conditions. It’s awful.”
“Seen from the eyes of someone who hasn’t adjusted to the culture, I suppose it is. But if you think we haven’t made a difference here, you’re wrong. Remember that Simon Peter said, ‘Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have I give you.’ ”
I knew the verse she quoted. “You’re talking about the gospel, aren’t you? That’s what you have to give.”
“Exactly. You’re thinking of earthly treasure, and we do try to improve their living conditions, but most of all and in due time, we’re here to bring them the hope of eternal life.”
At her simplistic faith I fell silent. I glanced at the raincoat — now a serpent in my hand.
The men had walked ahead. Mary and I continued on until we came upon two men sitting beneath a palm, eating pineapple. One pointed to another man and grinned, revealing teeth stained with betel nut juice. “Taik.”
I stared at him, biting my lip.
“Taik, taik,” he insisted.
Once again, Mary saved me. “This is one word I comprehend. I believe he is saying that the other man is his brother — sibling of the same sex. I think.”
I smiled and nodded, trying to convey I understood. “What would he call his sister?”
“That would be luk, and mam means father. That, my dear sister, is the full extent of my knowledge of their language. Those are the only words they repeatedly use. It’s taken Frank and Bud years to make the connections.”
“Years. I would have given up long ago.”
Dear, sainted Mary gave me a look that spoke volumes. “Just try, Johanna. That’s all anyone could ask.”
My face burned. Had Sam brought me here to humiliate me? I didn’t have his faith — not to say that I didn’t want his faith, but I was trying, and I wasn’t getting spiritually stronger. If anything, I realized, I was sanctimonious and weaker. And that realization didn’t make me feel any better. What must one do to be sold out to God like Eva, Frank, Mary, and Bud? And Sam. Dear love-of-my-life Sam. Burdened with a worm like me. How could God do that to him? And how could Sam not be resentful?
That night my frustrations boiled over. Sam and I were outside the hut, soaking up the beautiful night. Rain had taken a leave of absence, and the dry evening reminded me of how few we’d had. Out of the blue I blurted my feelings.
“I’m sorry, Sam, but I warned you before we made this trip that it wouldn’t work.”
He didn’t seem startled by my declaration. “You haven’t allowed sufficient time to make that decision, Johanna. I was hoping you would give it a week or so before you came to any firm conclusions. Mary and Eva are content here.”
“I’m not Mary or Eva. I am Johanna Holland — a self-centered, materialistic, sheltered librarian and only child from Saginaw, Michigan. If God meant me to be a missionary, it’s slipped his mind. I’m sorry, Sam. As much as I love you, I would be a detriment to your work.”
My breath caught in my throat and hot tears sprang to my eyes. I was sure I looked a fright; my hair was frizzed beyond getting a comb through the tangled mass. My glasses were cumbersome and miserable after getting used to contacts, and they were always fogged over in the high humidity. After two days in this godforsaken land, there wasn’t a place on my body that wasn’t sunburned. The blistering equatorial sun bore right through clothing. And you could forget false eyelashes in this climate.
My feet hurt from the unaccustomed heavy hiking shoes, and I itched from pesky mosquito bites in places I hadn’t known existed. And because of the chamber pot I withheld needed trips until I was prostrate with need. If God didn’t work a miracle and change me inside and out, I knew I couldn’t be the person Sam deserved.
“I refused to give a village woman my raincoat today. Now how selfish and immature is that? A piece of thin plastic that cost less than five dollars at Wal-Mart, and I was too stingy to give it to her.”
Sam reached over and drew me close. “You do a number on yourself, Johanna.” He lowered his mouth to my ear, and his whispered words caressed my cheek. “If you were that wretched, do you think I would be in love with you?”
“Oh, Sam.” I turned into his arms, determined to do better. But I didn’t know how. I only knew I would stay the week. I owed Sam that much.
And I owed God more.
A crowd of village children descended on me the following morning, grabbing at my pant legs, grasping my hands. The child I had spotted the day before hovered close, trailing my steps. My first instinct was to shrink away from the contact, but the little urchins with black eyes won me over. Dirty, thin, but endearing, they clung to me, jabbering.
Sam was running the clinic that morning; Bud, Frank, and Mary helped. They suggested that I wander around the camp and hand out candy, which I did. Johnny Appleseed planting orchards. Soul orchards. That’s me.
I looked at the children and the lunging dog still tied to the tree. (I hated that particular mutt.) I realized I must look like King Solomon to them — though they’d never heard of the biblical monarch. A digital camera dangled around my neck, and a tape recorder was strapped to my wrist. Back in the hut I had more shoes and clothing in my suitcase than they had ever seen in their entire lives. My garish display of wealth shamed me. Mary and Eva dressed and looked as humble as Amish women.
I distributed the jelly beans, trying to give each child one. The kids’ eyes lit up, but the brightest gaze was that of a child the natives called Poo. I wasn’t going to worry about the candy rotting their teeth. If these children followed their parents’ habits with the betel nut, they wouldn’t have teeth much beyond age thirty anyway.
As I passed the snarling dog, I acted on impulse and tossed a packet of jelly beans to it. The animal tore into the wrapping and downed the treat so fast it made me blink. The poor thing looked half starved. With a quick glance around, I tossed him another morsel, then walked on.
A half-grown shoat wandered around the side of a building, grunting and rooting. The children ignored him, but I cast a wary look in his direction, cutting a wide path around his general vicinity. The last thing I wanted was to step on one of their spiritual symbols.
I’d never get used to pigs running loose. What stopped them from wandering into the huts? Not one thing that I could see.
The sun beat down on my unprotected head until I was light-headed. I had forgotten my hat, and nobody had reminded me to bring one. No doubt they were getting sick of babysitting me.
The blistering sun didn’t seem to affect the others, but I couldn’t catch a clear breath in the humidity. Around noon, Sam appeared from the clinic and saw my distress. He suggested we go back to the Millets’ hut for lunch. Steam rose from the water and the lagoon vegetation. As soon as we arrived at the landing I clambered out of the boat and hurried inside the hut. A blessed coolness washed over me. Utterly drained, I sank down on one of the kitchen chairs.
Eva turned from the stove. “You’re here! Lunch is about ready. How was your visit this morning?”
“Hot.” I fanned my flaming face with my hand. Never before had I realized what a wonderful invention air-conditioning was. The man who dreamed it up should be enshrined on Mount Rushmore. He’d done more for the world than some paltry president.
Lunch was fish, and more pineapple and papaya and bread.
“Don’t you ever just want a McDonald’s Big Mac and fries?”
Eva giggled. “No, but I would give all I own for a plate of General Tso’s chicken, all white meat, extra sauce.”
We ate with hearty appetites, though Bud kept consulting his watch. “Sam, I think I’m going to check on the landing strip this afternoon. Can you make do with Mary and Frank’s help?”
My ears perked up. “The landing strip?”
“Once every two months a small plane brings supplies,” Bud explained. “It’s our job to keep the strip cleared. The rain and wind last night may have blown limbs and other debris onto the strip. I’ll need to check.” He
looked up. “Johanna, you might come with me and see where the strip is located.”
I could get out of here. Today.
Mary must have read my thoughts. “The aircraft is for supplies and emergency use.” She set a glass of tea on the table.
“Oh.” The thought of a plane every two months appeased me. I would be long gone by then. “Okay, I’ll go with you, Bud, if Sam doesn’t need me.”
Sam shook his head. “Go with Bud. You’ll enjoy the walk.”
Bud and I bypassed the village and followed a narrow path through the jungle. Long vines dangled from trees crowding close to the trail. Vegetation brushed against us, dense foliage loaded with parasites. Bud forged ahead, apparently unconcerned about bugs, snakes, or wild animals — all the fears dominating my thoughts.
We walked for what seemed like miles before we reached a large clearing. I gazed at the overgrown weed patch they called a landing strip and realized it would be a huge undertaking to keep it mowed. The rain and hot sun grew the grass at an alarming rate.
“It needs mowing,” Bud conceded. “Too wet to work today — maybe tomorrow morning. Plane won’t be here until late next week.”
“What do you use to cut the grass?” Probably scythes. Or maybe they tied a goat on the strip to let it eat one patch before moving it to another.
Bud motioned to a small thatched hut sitting off to the side. “Got a little power mower we use. Keep it stored in there and locked up tight so the natives won’t get it.”
A villager with a power tool. Scary.
“Lucky for us, they’re afraid of the machine.” Frank came to stand beside me. “If they weren’t, I’d expect it to come up missing someday.”
“Are you saying the natives steal?”
“Well, let’s just say they’re naive to the concept of personal possessions.”
Great. I made a mental note to lock my suitcase every morning. The villagers could swim the lagoon with ease.
Monday Morning Faith Page 12
