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.