The Mighty Big Chook that Redeemed My Culture

I bought a Mighty Big Chook, well, I thought, before it arrived, but after I had paid, it had better be a mighty big chook. It cost me a total of SBD$90! What a rip off! (In truth it wasn't, because, as I have said, it was a Mighty Big Chook).

So the Mighty Big Chook came, freshly butchered and went straight into the freezer awaiting it's destiny - the oven. Today was the big day and I took the chook out in the morning and it's been sitting on my bench all day.

And then it happened. A friend gave me another chook - freshly butchered. And then his wife said something to him in language and he gave me another one - also freshly butchered, with the comment, "they've just been killed, so use them today or tomorrow."

Ah, but you don't know about refrigeration - I have a freezer in my house, I thought, as I took the two chooks inside. In this culture, the lack of refrigeration means that when you have fresh meat, you eat it - you eat it and you share it till it's gone because otherwise it spoils. But in my culture, because we do have refrigeration, if you have fresh meat, you freeze it and use it at your leisure, for yourself (usually). It stifles generosity.

As good as it is to preserve things for ourselves and our households, as much as it epitomises the wonder woman in Proverbs 31, this thing about the way we lives (I'm still talking about refrigeration here), which has greatly shaped our culture, so often stops us from being generous. Sadly, those of us who have full pantries and full fridges, usually don't have full arms to give to others.

Myself included - as I have already explained (the two birds went straight to the freezer). Here I am in Solomon where most people would eat chicken once every two months or so (and apart from fish, that's the extent of their carnivorous diet), and the poorest people I know now (by western standards of material poverty, that is) are giving me free chooks yet I, in my self-preservation type of western mindset, am happily chucking the chooks in the chiller for the future.

All this flew through my mind in the short time it took to walk from the driveway with the two chooks in hand, inside the house, towards the freezer to shove (literally - my freezer is full - mostly bread. Sorry, no ice cream) the chooks inside.

I had a twinge of guilt about my lack of generosity that is so convenient because of my fridge/freezer. But it wasn't enough of a twinge of guilt - or rather the deep prickings in my conscience - to overcome my equally deeply cultural attitudes towards providing for myself before I provide for others.

So with the new fresh chooks in the freezer and the Mighty Big Chook totally thawed, I set about to preparing the roast. First I got out the scales to weigh the chook - she was a whopping 4.1kilos! What? That's turkey sized! True to my friend's word, she was a Mighty Big Chook. I quickly got out the calculator and did some figures and it turns out if I shoved my bird in the oven within 10 minutes, dinner would be ready at around 7:22pm. Eek.

Another cultural problem. I'm a Westerner. A dutch westerner to be precise. I eat on time. And on time is 6pm. Sharp (I didn't used to be so bad but now we have a routine toddler in the house. Hence we eat on time, or suffer the consequences of a tired, hungry toddler.).

Dilemma. If I keep to my western culture, which is so deeply ingrained in me, and keep this chook, which I already have doubts and prickings in my conscience about, then we'll eat on Solomon time - when the food is ready. If I give up my western culture to take up Solomon (or I would argue Kingdom) culture and generously give the chook away and cook up one of the smaller new chooks, which are fresh so are already thawed, then we'll on Western time - 6pm sharp.

So now the Mighty Big Chook has been the cause of two major prickings to my conscience.

Suitably pricked and prodded by the Mighty Big Chook (or, rather, the Holy Spirit gently working through events in my life) I pick up the Mighty Big Chook, walk over to my neighbour's house and say,

"Grace, what are you having for dinner?"

Grace didn't really have any plans. "Ok, well, here's a chicken. I don't need it so you can have it."

"Oh, Lauretta, Mighty (there's that word again) big blesing nao yu givim mi! Olketa ring kam lo mi and ask, wat nao bae yu bringim for kaikai lo sios tumoro. Bat mi no save tu. No eniting mi garem lo haos. Bat nao, yu bringim sikin, mi save kuki dat wan and bae mi bringim sikin fo mifala lo sios. E. Tenkiu tumas fo dat wan."*

I explain, that someone blessed me by giving me another chicken when I already had one, and I can't use them both, so you can have the big one.

She was very thankful for the blessing - and so was I. But I was even more thankful for the humbling lesson in generosity.

It will take a lot more than a Mighty Big Chook to redeem the strength of the greedy materialistic self-preservation attitude of my culture that is in me, that runs through my veins and arteries, thicker than blood, like fat the clogs and causes strokes and heart attacks (the strokes and heart attacks of course, being the failure to be generous and bless others).

But it's not too much for the Holy Spirit, who has promised to complete the work He has begun in me. God loves a generous giver and I want to be one. There's nothing like being in a country that is materially poor to learn about what generosity is really all about. Two things, when poor people are greedy about stupid things like clothes and pegs, you realise how awful that kind of greed is in yourself. And when poor people are so overwhelmingly generous with things - their food, their last bit of flour their time, their knowledge - you realise how awful your own stingeyness is.






*you get bonus points if you try figure out the pijin before looking at the translation below.





"Oh Lauretta, mighty big blessing you have given me. They rang me an asked me what I was going to bring to church tomorrow for shared lunch* and I said, I don't know! I don't have any food in the house. But now you've given me a chicken and I can cook it up and bring it* as our food for church. Oh my word. Thank you so much for this"



*When you see shared lunch in Solomon culture, don't think, bring a cake on a plate, or a plate of delicate sandwiches. Think quantity. I was very proud of my container of 30 slices of curried egg sandwiches until I saw all the other women were bringing pots and containers after pots and containers of meat curries, and roasted chickens, and tonnes of rice and pots full of cassava. I was ashamed!

*told you so.

the Long Last Step

Finally, the long last step has been completed! The long last step, both in Theresa's legal adoption and in her citizenship application has been completing the elusive Section 19 of the 2004 adoption act - registering her name as an adopted child in the Adopted Children's Register. 

A few weeks ago we found out that yes, they really wanted this part to be completed before they would make a decision on her citizenship application. So... I went to the Lawyer - NPF Plaza down in town to collect the Court order. Then I went to the Ministry of Home Affairs, where they write birth, death and marriage certificates and where they file Solomon Island citizenship applications. I mean, it seems like the natural place to go, right? So I went to their office, up on Vavaya ridge, only to find out they'd moved to the Anthony Saru building. 

Back down the hill. (BTW going up and down the hill sounds like an easy task, but you have no idea... it is no small feat going up and down that hill (even in a vehicle). Needless to say, it took a while). Enter into Anthony Saru building (which is very close to where I started - right next door to the NPF plaza!!). The first meter of the foyer was pleasant, after that it smelt like urine. Tentatively enter the lift, but considering that the Ministry of Home affairs is on the top floor (level 6 I know it's not that high - it's practically the highest building in Point Cruz!) I took the lift. It's kind of funky (and this time I'm not referring to the smell) because there's a hole in the ceiling of the elevator so you can see it being pulled up. Kinda cool. Kinda freaky. 

Get out on 6th floor, turn left, Ministry of Home Affairs. (Let's call it MHA for short). The guy, after some confusion, took the court order and accompanying cover letter and said he'd pass it on to the relevant lady and that she would make the enter in the register when she came back later on that day.

Wednesday Morning. Just after nine, Theresa and I are back at MHA to pick up the form... where I am kindly informed that MHA doesn't have the register of adopted children... it must be at the magistrates office. Other side of Point Cruz. Oh dear, plus there's roadworks on this road - and no signs so everyone's driving down this road, just to turn around right where I'm trying to get out of the car park. Argh! Puttered along in roadworks for a while then I remembered that taxi short cut - so I snuck through and jumped the cue by about 30 cars who would probably remain stationary for quite some time because of taxis (and people such as myself) taking the secret short cut. (If you want to know where it is... well it's privileged information but I might tell you ... for a price). 

Magistrates office. No one wants to acknowledge my presence, but eventually I make eye contact - hold that eye contact and then that person will help me. Which they eventually do, begrudgingly. She eventually refers me to the Magistrate (or someone) who after length (and private) discussions with her, tells me that, no the magistrates office does not have the register. Go to the high court. So back in the diabolical honiara traffic to the High Court. At this stage, Theresa's not too happy about being lugged around town (nor am I, though of course, I'm the one doing the lugging). But at the High Court, she was happy because I let her run around - so she tries to sneak into the "staff only" area, shuts and opens the door for everyone, tries to climb up the desk and grab the ink of the man that is signing and stamping statutory declarations. Luckily, I know a friend of the guy so I make small talk with him and then he's not too upset by Theresa's antics. After quite some further discussions with the people at the High Court, I'm told, go to the Ministry of Home Affairs! I've already been there, they told me, via via via, to come here!!! So back to MHA, through the foyer (still smells like urine), up the elevator and into the office of MHA, where they tell me, oh yes, this is a problem, no one seems to have the register. You don't tell me. All along, I thought that this elusive register must be in someone's bottom draw in an obscure government department in an obscure suburb of Honiara - like Lengakiki of all places. The closer (or further as the case may be) we come to finding out, the likelier this seems. 

By this stage, I'm busting to pee - having skulled a litre of water after doing laps before embarking on this adventure. So I kindly ask, and they kindly provide, the key for their toilet (no water, or toilet paper inside -mental note to self - ensure that I make an effort to carry tissues and hand sanitiser in the future). Despondent, I'm ready to go back down the lift and look who knows where for this jolly register, when I'm summoned back into the office where a kind man (from Western Province, I think) tells me, again, that yes it's a probably that no one seems to have the register, but you wait here for a while, I'll ring around and try find out. 

So Theresa and I wait - Theresa delights and entertains all the staff who don't seem to have any work to do (which is significant considering there were 4 of them - I mean four women in this government department with no work to do??! ) Eventually after a significant amount of phone calls to and from the magistrates office and other people, he tells me go see "Haelo Pelu". Mmm. Haelo Pelu. "The Deputy Registrar General". Maybe he knows and if he doesn't, go back to the Magistrates court and maybe by that stage, they'll know something. Ok, so I get directions to Haelo Pelu's office - the Ministry of Lands (what on earth would the Ministry of Lands have to do with adoption??) and since it's relatively close to the Anthony Saru building, Theresa and I walk there. I follow the directions, get more directions to go up stairs where there's a door - no entry except by appointment. I disregard the sign and no one seems to concerned that I just walked in. At the aforementioned office, I find a lady and when I explain my situation, to my utter surprise (and relief) she says, "oh yes, the register of adopted children is here. Let me look at those papers!". By this stage it's 11:30. She's go the court order - I'm still hoping to get it in the diplomatic bag by noon but that wasn't to be. 

The next day, I find out from her that the court needs to sign a schedule. Even though that's a job my lawyer should organise, I dutifully take it on in the interests of time. I return to him with the information he needs and he says he'll process it at court. I ring him every day to check the progress and each day he says, "I told you, I'll call you." Every day I say, "yes, I know, but I'm just checking - you know me. I'm white". 

Eventually (two weeks after this journey began) he rings and says, "its' ready, signed, come get it." So Jair picks it up but it's too late to take to the MOL so then the next day I go and drop it off 1 km down the road from the lawyer at the Ministry of Lands. There's a spelling mistake in the schedule, but I kindly ask them to ignore it and please spell the name like this etc etc etc. 

Thankfully the MOL follow my advice and not the court signed schedule, and the next day, last Thursday, they give me three original copies of Theresa's name in the Adopted Children's Register. I cannot be more happy. As I take them, the lady says, "so it's all finished now!" Indeed. We have now fulfilled every single obligation under the law of Solomon Islands. 

The first thing that came to mind was an old hymn, "Hallelujah, Praise Jehovah, O my soul Jehovah praise."

Theresa is the 71st person entered into this register. 

That day I said to Theresa, "Theresa you are totally, 100% adopted now. Yay! You're adopted". She was very chuffed. She kept going around saying, "Reesa adopted!" 

Yes, Reesa is adopted. And though that last step was so very long it was so very worth it.

daily water

It only took a day of not having water, less than a day in fact, to make me so much more sympathetic for the neighbourhood folk who come to the mission base each day to collect water for themselves. More sympathetic towards all the people around the world who daily gather at communal wells and taps to collect water. Jesus was in the same category, but he didn't even have a bottle or a jug!! 

 One of the wooden wood bits that hold up one of the water tanks by our house had snapped, so the water tank was emptied, pulled down so that the wooden wood bits could be replaced with new, unrotten wooden wood bits. So we had no water. At first it was fun - I had my shower,  Solomon style, in a lava lava outside with good pressure from the tank as it was being emptied. But as the day wore on, I began to appreciate so much more the convenience of having water coming out of a tap inside the house. 

For a day, I joined the queue of people lining up to fill their water bottles.

It made me realise how we've built our lifestyle around the convenience of instant water from taps inside the house. I wash my hands 28 times a day, at least. Filing up the bottle is effortless when the water's on tap. Rinsing veggies is easy when the water flows. Got a dirty nappy to clean before you soak? No worries when there's water in the tank. But when there's no water, you're carrying buckets of water to flush the toilet, you're carrying baskets with bottles to store in your fridge to drink. And you're carrying dirty laundry to the communal tap to clean. 

There's lots of people there - kids carrying 10 litre jerry cans one their small boney backs, mums carrying bags filled with 1 litre Szetu bottles with rain water from the humble tank at SWIM. Usually people seem to come in lots of 2 or 3 and they take turns to fill a bottle.

In a sense, it's kind of social. But in another sense, I'm glad that usually, I can just be "social" in my own house.

With my own tap.

Grounded.

Well, it's been way too long since I've blogged. We went to NZ on holiday/sort out things with our house etc. It was way too cold, but lovely doing life with friends and family - even if it was only for a few days at a time. And then we came back and hit the ground running. With the director of SWIM and his wife leaving in less than six weeks, our workload is increasing to compensate for the loss. We're hoping and praying that God will provide a replacement soon (maybe you...?) - there's only so long that we'll be able to do our load and theirs! But as I'm reminded daily, God gives us strength for the things He calls us to do. I'm reminded of Martin Luther, who said when he had a busier day, would spend more time in prayer. If he lived now, I hesitate to guess he'd spend more time praying and less time blogging - hence no blogs of late from me.

Anyway, I wanted to write about feeling grounded. You see as lovely as it was to be in NZ and buy chocolate and eat grapes and have all the ingredients you needed when cooking, no pot holes in the road and all those things I generally complain about here, the novelty wore off pretty quickly. It was so special to be able to meet up with people we love who live in NZ. But you're always living out of a suitcase. Always unsettled. Always thinking about the next journey to the next destination. Always remembering that this is only temporary. Always thinking that though you've had a great dinner with your sister tonight or a great day with your friend, it'll be the last one for more than a year. I think more than any other time, we both really experienced reverse culture shock. Culture shock is when you go into a culture other than your own and everything about that culture and their way of life is so different that you experience intense emotional exhuastion and anxiety etc. Reverse culture shock is the same thing, but happens when you go back to your own culture. As an example, I'd go into a supermarket that was ten times the size of the kinds of store we have in the Solomon Islands and I'd be so totally stunned and confused and immobilised by the overwhelming choice. It was too much. Or Jair gave the example of going out to Subway in Brisbane airport. All he wanted was a Foot sub and he gets bombarded with questions (and all of them said at a pace of 198 words per minute)

"What type of bread do you want? Italian, Cheese and Herbs, Oats and Honey?"
"You've got choices? I just want bread."
"What sort of cheese? Cheddar, Swiss, Edam? Do you want your meat grilled?"
"Um, cheese. Wow, you've got cheese?"
"Lettuce? Tomatoes? Cucumber? Capsicum? Red onion? Olives? Pickles? Jalapeños?"
"Oh boy. Let's just go for the works."
"What sauce would you like? Mustard, honey mustard, bbq sauce, redwine vingarette, mayo, southwest, ranch?"
"Uhhh..... (a very long pause) what would you recommend?"
"Sure. Do you want to make that a meal?"

When Jair related the story to me I thought, it can't be that bad. Then when I ordered one day while we were en route to Northland I struck the same problem. Too many choices. I just didn't know what to do with them all. And there's no time to think. So yeah, we were culture shocked.

Then we got back to the sauna that we call home, stepped inside our house and breathed in a deep breath of musty air and I thought: "ahhhhh. The welcome smell of home." I still felt a bit unsettled and it didn't take long for my thoughts to slide back to NZ and whatever our future is there, but I, we all, actually, felt like we were back home. And thankful too!

But it got me thinking, that God might/will up-route us again some time. We're not going to stay here forever (well, at least I don't think we are...). In the course of our lives God could take us anywhere - and one day, He'll take us to our real home. The home where we'll always feel settled and where we won't have any culture shock. Neither will it smell musty.

I realised so powerfully that wherever we go, we've got to be grounded in God. Being with Him is being at home. Abiding in Him, my soul is settled. With Him there is peace amidst the chaos of life. If I'm grounded in Him, I won't feel uprooted, no matter where I am living. Well, that's the theory - now I'll have to try it out in real life. But it's a daily task, to live each day, grounded. in. God.

What a Mess!

When it comes to licking out the bowl, Theresa is an expert.

When you can't get enough on your fingers, go for this approach.

Trust Theresa - she's the pro.

Twenty Degrees

Theresa and I are going to NZ on Thursday and it's been so hot here that for the first time in almost 3 years, I'm actually looking forward to the cold of NZ.

Well, was, until I looked at the weather news.

The highest daytime temperatures in the Hawkes Bay, where we'll be going first, is 15 degrees celcius. Here the day time temperature is 35.

The overnight temperatures is 2 degrees. Here, the lowest we've had for a while was 22 degrees - that was a few nights ago and I had goose bumps because it was so cold.

Pretty much there's going to be a 20 degree difference between the sauna like Solomon Islands here and the arctic NZ temperatures I'll start experiencing on Thursday night at approximately 11:05pm.

I'm not sure I can cope with a 20 degree difference.

It's just when you don't have a camera on you...

that you wish you did.

Today was a rainy day, which is unusual. So it was a cool 25 degrees. Brisk.

I just had to dash out to get some bacon for the BLT Bagels I was going to make - a real treat, and inspired by a really good bagel recipe and the fact that I had some cream cheese left over from our birthday cakes.

So I dashed out without my handbag - just carrying my wallet. Hence, I had no camera.

But I wish I did. Instead I'll have to describe (though my skills are terribly lacking) the two images that are stuck in my mind.

Honiara in the rain.

There's a line of 5 guys skirting past me, their blue work men clothes stained with oil. The sky is grey. The rain is wet. The ground, always dirty looking, is now dirty looking and muddy. They each have their own cardboard box as an umbrella. Some have just a side, ripped and left over, held tightly as a feeble attempt to keep out the rain. Others have three quarters of a box perched on their heads like a hat.

Then on the way home, just past "loss coin" (or is it lose coin or loose coin?) the brightness of the umbrella caught my attention first and then the size. The yellow, green, red and blue contrasts with the mud on the ground and the grey in the sky. This young guy's umbrella was a sun umbrella - big enough in diameter to cover 6 people abreast. But this guy walks nonchalantly under his umbrella, ambling along with it slung over his shoulder. It looks ridiculously big - he and his umbrella almost take up half the road. And next to him is a girl - her small umbrella just giving her enough shelter from the rain.

Only in Honiara.

in the good providence of God

Today we've had rather an "olabaot" day, but a good lesson, nonetheless.

It started in the morning, when I was thinking about how cold our prayers can be and I prayed that God would help me to pray with all my heart. Well He had a plan for the day that certainly made me pray with all my heart, that's for sure.

I started looking at flights etc for our upcoming trip to NZ and I was excited about finding good prices, figuring out how everything would fit in. Then I thought, I had better check when Theresa's visa would expire. In a rare moment of brightness I thought, maybe I took a photocopy of her visa before I sent her passport away. So I hunted through my file and found that I had, against my normal characteristics, been organised enough to photocopy that page in Theresa's passport.

But then I sat aghast - the expiry date was for the 21st of September 2012. The wedding that we so much want to attend, is the 22nd of September. This is just too bad to believe.

The dumb thing is that when I got the visa last year (it's a one year visa) I applied for it early, because I anticipated problems. Well there were no problems, so the visa came early - but I didn't need it that early and now my overorganisation was coming back to sting me - the visa would expire to early. I was so upset.

Mostly I was upset with God. Upset that in His providence, He hadn't allowed me to get the visa just a little bit later, knowing we'd need it for the 22nd of September 2012. But no. So I was annoyed, to say the least.

And even more, why hadn't I checked it earlier - maybe the dates could be changed. As it was, the wedding would happen without us, getting a new visa would cost $1000 SBD - not to mention all the paper work and that all our original documents, needed for a visa, are still in NZ with the citizenship application.

Poor Jair asked how he could help, but all I could say was, "this is just another paperwork nightmare, but it's always my nightmare."

I hate paperwork and I was dreading what was involved to get another visa.

It was funny, because I was so excited about the flights, but my joy wasn't in the Lord. And then I was so devastated about the visa expiry, but my joy still wasn't in the Lord. So I came before him in prayer, frustrated, angry, but you know how God works in the heart of new covenant people. Somehow by His grace, He enabled me to trust in Him, and trust that He had this whole thing in His good providence.

After praying, I sent out an email to my prayer partners. I love my prayer partners so much - they really journey with me, in prayer, through so many things. Thanks you brothers and sisters!

Then I emailed the lady at the High Commission here asking if it's a possibility to extend it just a few days. She responded asking a few questions about the visa. And I waited, and busied myself with prayer, and doing some odd jobs.

Then a response came from the High Com. Get this: the expiry date on the visa, is the last date you can arrive in NZ, not the last date you can be in NZ. You can be in NZ for a FULL THREE MONTHS after the "expiry date" because it's an expiry date for entry, not exit. I couldn't believe it. I grabbed Theresa and through her up in the air (which she loved). I was so thankful. So incredibly overwhelmed. I couldn't believe it.

I was overwhelmed by it - that in the good providence of God, there was this little piece of information I didn't know about, but which He knew about all along - even when I got the visa way earlier than I needed last year. And that little bit of information has made this really tumultuous morning turn into sunshine and blessing after all.

Isn't that just so cool. Isn't our God just so amazingly good.

So guess what, we are coming to NZ in September after all.

Yay.

Kwambu

I've saved the best part for last, in this series on our recent trip to East Kwaio. On Saturday, we woke early and went to the local market. The OBM brought us there - it was through the Mangrove passage and then on the other side of the harbour. There, standing on a pile of stones that jutted out from the natural mangrove landscape, was a small leaf house - the market. By the time we arrived, there wasn't much left to purchase - tomatoes, tobacco, betelnut, greasy looking cooked fish, and an assortment of buns. Needless to say, we skipped the tobacco, betelnut and fish, and bought some tomatoes and buns.

The market is always a great place to meet people you haven't seen for a while - and a small local market like this, is even more of a hub for the locals. People stayed to chat long after the produce was sold out. I too met up with some people that I hadn't seen in a long time, one of whom was Salome. I was so happy to see her on her own turf!

I also met a new friend, Betty, who was one of the first people to start a village for new converts to Christianity, or new souls, as they are called here. Betty grew up in a Christian home, but her and her husband started living in the village of Kwambu as a way to offer a new place for new souls to live.

I was so excited to meet her that I proposed we go over and visit Kwambu. Because it was early morning, the tide was low, so it was harder to get there - a 10 minute trudge through the mud would have started the walk. So we decided to come back later in the day when it was high tide.

We set out at 3pm in the little OBM, travelling again over the harbour. It started raining and I crept in the covered part of the boat

while the other huddled under umbrellas. We approached the mouth of the "river" and made our way carefully through the passage in the mangroves.

When we reached the shore, we gingerly got out, looking carefully around us. Not far from Kwambu, in fact, further up the mountain, is a heathen village. Two of their women were down

by the water, washing something when we arrived. The fence in the background is the "pig fence". The heathens let their pigs roam free, but they don't want their pigs going into the Christian village. They say that if the pigs go into the area of the church, then Satan won't be happy with them if they sacrifice that pig. So they built this long fence - (Kwaio's version of the great wall of China!) to keep their pigs in their area and away from Kwambu and the church. That is no small undertaking - believe me - the fence starts here at the bottom by the water - with allowance for low tide, and goes all the way up the mountain!

I thought it was strange that so many of the heathen women I saw either in the market that morning, or here by the shore, had really short hair. I thought they'd have long wild hair, but it was short. I asked about it later and I was told that the heathens believe that Satan hates life - and new birth. So when a pregnant woman is ready to deliver, she has to go into the bush and deliver it by herself. After three weeks, when she has recovered from giving birth, she has to shave her hair and the baby's hair and then she can return. The hair is too closely linked to her pregnancy and delivery - too closely linked to life - so she has to get rid of it, and come back to the village devoid of hair. I thought it was so... well, fitting, I guess. Satan hates life - he is all about death. No wonder he hates a new baby being born. Whereas God is a God of life - He gives life - both physical life - and spiritual rebirth as well! No wonder they believe Satan hates life. Life is from God.

Anyway, we walked up this stony path, over the fence a few times, past streams,

through Kwambu village, up to the church. We passed this little girl, a kastom umbrella on her head, looking at us. We found out later, we were the first white people ever to go inside that village.

They rung the bell and people started coming to the church. They welcomed us, and prayed with us, introduced themselves, and talked about their work of reaching out and witnessing to the heathen people up the hill. Many of them are new souls themselves. Including this man

who in his former life was a pagan priest. His cheeks are green with numerous tribal markings associated with that role. Now David knows Jesus and has been set free. A number of years ago already, he and wife and children, and his mother, came down from the heathen village, and became followers of Jesus instead. He proudly introduced us to his children - 11 of them! He was quite chuffed when I said he almost had as many kids as Abraham.

And then I met Salome again - and her husband and one of her children. They were so loving and full of joy. You could feel it. Though her skin bears the tattoos and markings of her former life, her face, marked by freedom, tells a different story. Why? Because of Jesus.

The people of Kwambu were so generous - even though we had come just to visit Betty had prepared food for us - good local kaikai straight from her garden.

Betty is the woman on the right, while her mother-in-law is the older woman standing next to my mother.

I felt so privileged to be able to visit Kwambu - to meet people whose lives had been changed so radically because of the gospel and who are passionate about reaching out to the heathens further up the mountain.

The church in Kwambu - definitely the hub of the village - overlooks the harbour, and itself can be seen in the harbour standing as a testimony of the changes that have come about in that area.

Remember Kwambu in your prayers, that they may be a city on a hill, a light to those living in darkness.

Life in Canaan

Living in Canaan for a week to run a sewing workshop was very special. Here are some snapshots of our experience of life in Canaan.

The leaf house we stayed - bathed in dawn's first light.

daily tasks for a little girl.

Sewing leaf for a house.

Those are actually waves in the background - there are very few of them in the happy isles.

There's always plenty of pikinini playing.

New kid on the block.

Taking a moment to pose for a photo after scampering over rocks on our beach walk turned tramp.

Meet dinner.

White sand streets.

Youth or older, every evening almost every man plays soccer as the sun sets.

Everyone else watches.

Watching the canoes coming in...

But always ready with a quick smile.

These boys spent the entire afternoon riding the waves on their dugout canoes.

And the sun goes down (still surfing!)

The entire village watch End of the Spear on a 14 inch t.v.

Sewing Workshop in Canaan

A whole week has gone by since we returned, but I've only now finally found the time to write a post about the sewing workshop in Canaan that I was a part of. It truly was a wonderful week in so many ways. There's so much to tell, so I'm going to blog about the week in three different posts. Welcome to the first one - about the sewing workshop.

A few days before we left, two Mondays ago, the team started arriving from overseas. My mum, Leida, was the first to arrive along with Peter and Lynn. Then two days later, Elaine arrived. She was the "brains" behind the operation - organising the teaching side of the workshop. The rest of us ladies came as helpers. Jair and Peter came to fix machines that were broken. That week's flight to Atoifi had been cancelled because the airfield was too wet. Well it was still raining, so we hoped and prayed that we would be able to fly there on Monday.

Our plane was the third biggest (and second to last smallest) in the fleet - but big enough to land on a wet, muddy airfield. It was more reminiscent of the 4wd driving we'd done the day before, than a place to land a plane, but no worries. We landed and got off okay, then headed for the walk to the wharf. Mum, Lynn and I were wise enough to hitch a ride with the tractor, but the others walked.

We went on a small boat - an "engine" or an "OBM" - and arrived in Canaan mid-afternoon.

Later that afternoon, I fed Theresa dinner - a dry lump of taro. Well, two actually. Taro is really not my favourite food - nor is it Theresa's but she ate it happily and quickly. Then I realised that in all the rush and busyness of getting to Canaan she hadn't eaten anything since our early lunch at home. No wonder she loved the Taro.

Anyway, Tuesday morning we started the workshop. We said we'd run the workshop for 20 women - in the end we had 43 participants! And Jair and Peter were busy fixing around 13 sewing machines over the next 4 days. It was busy.

Each morning we'd start the workshop with a devotion to challenge and encourage the women to be busy in the home. Then we'd start the morning's sewing. We were planning to do sewing in the morning, have lunch with the participants, then relax, maybe teach a bit of crochet in the afternoon. That first morning, it wasn't till 2 O clock before we managed to get down to lunch, and then some women wanted to keep going. It was 4pm by the time everyone had finished for the day! Island time.

The first day, Elaine had organised for us to teach a few basics of using a hand sewing machine, and making a bag, and a pin cushion. That kept us very busy and gave the women a chance to make something simple in a day - one thing by hand and one thing by machine.

After a late dinner, we retired for hot chocolates to the leaf house where Elaine, Leida, Peter and Lynn were staying, and decided that the next day, we'd definitely finish around 1.

But Wednesday was market day. Or rather market morning. Before dawn, people were already out in the canoes, heading out to the market in another part of the bay. Market morning is a big thing for the women - whether they are buying or selling or both. They get up early so that they can be in quick enough to get what they want. Produce is limited in the area. It's the early birds that catch the worms, right? But, because they had to paddle back as well, it wasn't till 10am that everyone had arrived back and was ready to start the workshop. Island time, that's ok. But it did mean we didn't get the 1 O'Clock finish we were hoping.

So day two, the participants had the choice of making a pair of trousers, a skirt, or a dress, for a child.

They split into groups according to what they wanted, and as the instructors, we split up in to what we could teach.

It really was so thrilling to sit down with women, who'd never sewed anything in their life, and teach them to make a skirt for their daughter or niece or themselves. The women were so motivated. And while we may have quietly longed for more (well, not more. "A") cup of tea break, or tables to sit at, the participants were just so happy to be there and learn something to help their families that they didn't mind where they sat!

By the end of day two some people had already finished one article of clothing. Someone wasn't too happy showing off her new skirt that her auntie had made!

On Thursday the women could finish what they hadn't completed the day before, or start another item of clothing. I snapped this photo

- three generations in one family learning to sew, though for Heta, only four, it was more about trying to get me to take photos of her! She couldn't wait to wear the new blue skirt her mum was sewing for her. At one point in the morning I stepped outside the church, where we were running the workshop, to take a photo of the view.

A beautiful place to go to church!

By Friday, we'd pretty much ran out of fabric. With double the number of women we were counting on, it got used up very quickly. So the women finished what their two items of clothing and then we taught crochet or appliqué. Crochet was a real hit! The women loved to learn how to use crochet to embellish clothes, or make edges for food covers.

I learnt a few more words in pijin - "hook" is the word used for crochet. I asked someone if she'd crocheted before and someone, rephrased it for me "Yu holem hook bifoa?" Have you held a hook before? I love the way these little phrases develop in pijin.

We finished the workshop by handing the women a piece of nice, new fabric for them to make something after we'd gone. On Sunday, in front of the whole village, we handed out some community sewing machines that had been donated through the compassion catalogue.

We left by challenging the women to continue using their skills for the benefit of the whole family - and to share their skills and knowledge - getting alongside other women to help them, and teaching them to their children.

We learnt a few things that we could do differently next time. We had a lot of laughs, have made many great memories, met many wonderful women who already are like the woman in Proverbs 31 that we'd talked about in devotions. I was humbled that God could use the little knowledge and the few skills I did have to enrich and help these women in a remote area of Malaita.

I'm already formulating plans for another sewing workshop in a different area. Anyone keen?

Redlands Team

Last Thursday we farewelled a youth team from Redlands (CRC). It was real exciting to have them here at SWIM! The 8 of them spent 9 days here - doing a kids program for the local kids on the first three mornings. In the afternoons they busied themselves painting our Transit House - and they even had time to start on the Deed House - where we live. It was exciting to see the colour transformation. 13+years had worn the original paint of the buildings considerably, so the place is looking great now.

Then, during the second week, on Monday to Wednesday mornings, the team split up into boys and girls. The guys did a sport program with the youth in Lungga, and the girls ran a crochet class for local women. It may seem a bit of a simple thing to do, but it was so appreciated by the local women. Crystal, pictured below, told us how for a long time she's wanted to learn how to crochet but no one would teach her.

"They want to keep the knowledge to themselves," she said. She was so thankful to have the chance to learn.

Rose is another woman who is excited about her new skill. She's pictured here pinning up a hem for the first time in her life! She's working on making this food cover. She'll crochet the edges and then do cross stitch or sew something on it to embellish it.

While all us ladies were sitting around doing crochet and hemming the edges, we talked about how good it would be to meet regularly - to encourage each other to keep busy with our hands, to pass on skills or new ideas.

A lot of the ladies in Lungga community (where SWIM is located) don't have paid employment, so apart from the daily chores of working in the garden, washing dishes and clothes, and cooking food, they don't have much to do - and certainly not much money coming in either. They were excited about the prospect of being able to learn a new skill to be busy with while sitting around at home.

I led devotions at the beginning of each session, focusing on the Proverbs 31 woman and the ways she put her skills and hands to good use for her family. By the end of the third morning, we decided to meet back at the end of the month, bring whatever we're working on and discuss how we can make this a more regular thing.

I'm so pleased about this! A) because I love creating things and I've wanted to find a way that I can serve God here using the talents I already have and B) I've always wanted to find a way to help people to become good stewards of their gifts and resources, using them to provide for themselves and their families. This seems like a road forward! So thanks to the Redlands Team - you've really started something good here.

Harvest

Probably almost exactly 2 years after planting a pineapple head, I've eaten my very first home grown pineapple. It's grown and grown since the last you saw of it and the last few days it really started yellowing up. Today was the day, I felt, and I harvested my pineapple.

I'm immensely proud of it. For one thing it's huge. It's a $35 - 40 pineapple for sure. At its widest point its 13.4cm in diameter! Last night we had fruit smoothie with our pineapple, and some paw paw and bananas. But I couldn't resist cutting some up as well to eat. It was the sweetest yummiest pineapple I've ever tasted. For one thing it was fresh. Picked at 9:16am, put in the fridge at 9:17 and stored there till the afternoon when I ate it so it was deliciously cold. But because it hadn't a full day in the back of a truck, on a ship, and then a few days sitting in a pile on the ground in the market waiting for me to buy it, in other words, because it was fresh, it was amazing. I thought pineapples were generally yummier here than I've ever tasted but I've just found out they're even yummier straight from plant, to fridge, to mouth.

There's still over half left, so come over if you want and have a taste. Theresa was real excited about the prospect of eating the pineapple:

In other news, we also harvested our first passionfruit. They are rather spherical as opposed to the oval ones in NZ, and are pink in colour on the exterior. They were a tad sour for me, but Theresa slurped all the delicious seedy stuff down.

Jair and the boys have been very busy lately with a number of jobs on the base: building a new tank stand for bore water, replacing the roof on the director's house just to name some of the major jobs.

And holidays are here - so this commences the busy time, with stacks of teams coming and going. So far, since the 18th of June I've been to the airport 5 times to pick up/drop off teams and that number is only going to grow. I'm estimating that me or someone from SWIM will go to the airport a further 12 times at least before July is over. That counts for a lot of hours of waiting! But, no worries. The airport has joined the band wagon of tourism, by providing a local panpipe group to greet guests with beautiful melanesian music. It makes waiting for people so much more lovely, as panpipe music is so beautiful.