Samasodu

One of the best things about living in the Solomon Islands is being able to go out of Honiara and spend some time in a village, seeing and living the way most of the people here live. It's easy to think Honiara is the norm when you live here, but when you get to go out a bit, you see the Solomons as it really is. 

And as it really is, I like it.

I was really blessed to be able to join a team who went to the village of Samasodu on the west coast of the island of Isabel. It is actually marked on the map so if you own one check it out.

I had never been on a boat for longer than maybe 5 hours, so the expected 16 on a good day or 20 on a bad day trip was a bit daunting to think about.

Turns out it was a bad day. A really bad day. 

We boarded in Honiara the ship at 5pm on a Thursday night.

When it got dark we slept, although it took a while to get Theresa to sleep in the cockroach infested cabin. I have to remind myself that sleeping in the cockroach infested cabin was better than sleeping outside on the deck.

It was pretty rough between Guadalcanal and Isabel. Jair didn't come with us, so I was trying not to vomit and trying to settle Theresa down to sleep. I was very thankful when she did sleep, because then I could lie flat, think about sleeping and try not to vomit. 

No vomit. Yay.

Then after a while I noticed that the ship wasn't moving. It was about 2am and in muffled voices I heard that we were at Kavanga - the bottom of Isabel, but that the ship was broken down so they were repairing it.

I drifted back to sleep and woke up while it was still dark, took a look outside, could see water running, so went back in, assuming we were happily sailing up the coast.

I woke up a while later, still dark and looked on the otherside of the ship this time to see - men playing cards by the light of kerosene lamps on the Kavanga wharf  - and to hear  - the unmistakeable sound of mechanics trying to fix the ship. 

The next morning I got out at 6 or whatever, went for a look around the buzzing (not) township of Kavanga. The streets were lifeless, but for a few chickens pecking the ground for food.

I think it was 8:30am when we left Kavanga and started the long, torturously slow journey up the coast. Every time someone wanted to get off, the ship stopped, waited while a smaller dingy powered out to drop them and their cargo off, and then chugged away. Really chugged because evidently it wasn't quite 100% so it limped up the coast.

At 3:30pm on Friday, Samasodu was in sight, and that same little dingy took us the village. 

So you see, it was a bad day for the ship ride, over the expected 20 hours.

Anyway, we were greeted by naked boys painted with red mud and wielding sticks, spears and axes. Theresa was terrified and for the next few days wouldn't leave the house without asking whether the warriors were going to come and attack us.

Anyway, I'm getting a bit side tracked because what I wanted to write about was some of the things I love about daily life in a village.

Morning and evening prayer services.

The brightly coloured inside of the church.

Children singing.

Children praying.

Children playing.

I love the outdoor showers. Obviously people swim (swim is the pijin words for wash) with their clothes on. The funniest little experience was that I was chatting to some women and I asked them whether it was true that when you hear the beating of the drum in the evening, you had to quickly go inside so that people could have their showers in peace. That's what the other expat had told me. The ladies laughed at this. Of course it wasn't true. I thought so, I said, because no where else in the Solomon Islands do you have to retreat into your house when the drum goes for shower time. I mean, it's not like people shower naked or anything. What a ridiculous idea. I explained that that is what the expat probably thought. 

The ladies thought it was hilarious. Couldn't stop laughing about it. And eventually as I went to leave, I said to them with a wink, "Well, I better go now, I heard the drum go." I left them in stitches.

I love that big kids grow up cuddling little kids. Older pikininis often have a responsibility to look after younger pikininis. Now there is a flaw in the system when it happens to often. A ten year old can't adequately discipline and train a four year old - the wallop the four year olds often tend to get from their older siblings doesn't seem to do much in the way of teaching obedience in the younger one. Nor does a seven year old always giving the two year old what they want help the two year old learn not to be greedy. 

However, to me there is something very special in this culture in the way children are taught to treasure and look after younger children. It brings maturity, teaches selflessness, encourages responsibility. I find in our culture, it seems to me, we teach our children to treasure themselves - their own experiences, their toys, their right to do what they want. If it's a hassle for them to find a way to entertain the two year old, oh well. They're only kids. Let them just be kids. If they don't want to have to play with that annoying neighbour next door who has no other friends but desperately wants someone to play with, ok, fine deary, go back to your crayons instead. Instead of sharing their time, we teach them to hoard it. Instead of sharing their toys, we teach them to hide them, in case they get broken. Instead of growing selflessness in them, we let them stay selfish.

Then again, maybe it's just that that's what we do as adults, so naturally that's what we teach our kids.

In any case, I love it about Solomon Island culture, that the girls will have a baby falling asleep in their arms, that older boys will play soccer with the little ones who have just learnt to run, that when a younger kid comes along, they don't run off to play, but take her hand and let her join them.

I love sitting down with someone just storying, passing them time talking. 

Like the time spent in this lady's kitchen, chatting, while she stripped the fern leaves off the stem for their dinner. The sun shone in hot, but the wind, blowing in the open sides, cooled us while we talked.

While we talked she told me about this nifty way of cooking.

This is a bucket, lined with concrete and it has a grate half way through. For people who don't have time or access to lots of wood for making a fire to cook with, and who don't have money for a gas cooker, they can take (or buy) a whole lot of wood, burn it, then motu then charcoal. Motu is the local oven - cooking on hot stones on top of the ground then covering the hot stones and the thing you're cooking. 

Once the charcoal is cooked in the motu it will be dry and a whole sack will last two months if you budget it carefully. When you want to cook, you put a few pieces of charcoal on the grate, add some fire and put your pot on top. 

Ingenious.

I love it!

And I love that in a village you pass the time just passing time. 

Those slow deep breathes of time infuse life into our swamped, harried days.

Mint and Not Mint

Jair is now the proud owner of a mid 70s Nissan Datsun Roadstar ute. It's a good resto car, and it's a good excuse for Jair to do something that's not "work" but rather fun, in a place where most of what he does it work. It gets him out of the cluttered, mugginess of the "office" and into the fresh clean air space underneath a car. 

So, the Datsun.

He towed her home from her previous storage facility - underneath a mango tree behind a house in Chinatown where it resided for 8 - 9 years.

It's mint - in colour that is. In condition? Well, not so mint. The Datsun is so rusty - Theresa had to balance on various bits still left in the floorpan to be able stand up for the photos.

But boy is she cute.

Well, Theresa too. But this post is about the Datto.

Look at this retro dashboard. Isn't it enough to make you go weak at the knees?

It's a good thing Jair married me. Where Jair's loves (understatement) cars (the rustier the better, it seems), I have a weakness for them. Especially geeky ones. Think back to the Holden Kingswood in wedgewood blue. Jair picks me up for our first almost date - well, not even a date, the occasion he's going to ask me to court him - in this ugly as anything Holden Kingswood, that has no carpet and sounds like a helicopter. I almost turned around and walked back into the house. No actually, literally. I almost did.

Thankfully I didn't. Because that was the day I fell in love.

With classic geeky cars.

And Jair. Well, mostly with Jair.

But while I'm a one man woman, I'm certainly not a one car woman. (Neither is Jair a one car man.  Unlike marriage, fidelity in cars is more about love for the whole race of cars rather than one particular model - well the whole race with a few exceptions, e.g. Fords).

There's been the Kombi. The Sunbeam Scepter. Honestly, I still wipe away a tear when I think of my parting with her. The Morris 1100 was pretty dashing in my eyes, even when she didn't start first pop on those cold Hawkes Bay mornings. 

Then think of my ultimate heart throb of a car - the 1963 Citroen DS. Not that that's one I've ever owned. 

Yet.

Ah. close your eyes and think about her.

Those curves in all the wrong places. Those awkwardly large eyes. The bumper that puckers like a frog's lip.

I love it. I just love it.

So when my latest baby came home... 

it was enough to make my heart skip a beat.

Even though she was full of rust.

*sigh*

Best Ever Mosquito Catcher

One Sunday morning, while Theresa was having a bath in the shower, she asked if I could reach her bath book for her. So I took it down and out jumped a frog.

Theresa screamed. She is a girl, after all. And I screamed too. I don't know why, I love frogs. And Jair came to take the frog outside in the tree.

Frogs are quite rare in the Solomon Islands, so I love it when I see frogs here. Not usually in my bathroom though.

Anyway, after Jair took him away, I realised that I hadn't seen any mosquitoes in our shower recently. Obviously I don't want mosquitoes in my shower because they carry and pass on things like Malaria and Dengue fever. But since I had come back from being away, there hadn't been any in there. Aha. It's because we happened to have the Best Ever Mosquito Catcher in there - the frog. Doh. The Best Ever Mosquito Catcher that we had just rehabilitated outside to a tree. 

No worries. Five minutes later when Theresa had come out of the bath, I shut the shower curtain and out jumped another frog:

So he stayed in our shower for a few days. It was kinda creepy being spied on having a shower by this little frog. 

And after a few days I think he was getting sick of it because he was jumping around, and we tried to catch him and put him back to no avail. The next morning I found him by the kitchen, sitting on a louvre, looking out longingly through the fly screen to the wide open space of our backyard. 

So, reluctantly, I picked him up and brought him outside to a tree.

And every day when I go outside, there he is on the same tree, catching mosquitoes.

Maybe I should put the tree in a pot and back in our bathroom.

Now there's an idea. 

the Real key

This photo doesn't really relate to this post, but I uploaded it, so I might as well include it as a prelude: 

Iron Bottom Sound 

Ok. So, the post. Recently I was with some people who had done a significant amount of development work in a isolated village. They had built a clinic, tapped running water from a river 45 minutes walk away to the village and given a number of helpful resources to the school.

In the closing speeches before we all left, amongst the thank yous and last words, one resounding message rang out clear. Education is the key. If you can get a good education, then you're set. Value your education, work hard at school, look after and use the resources well, because that makes up a good education and if you have a good education then you can get a good job, earn a living, pay for things you need or want, be responsible, have a part to play in the future of Solomon Islands. If you're educated, it opens up better job opportunities. You can become a teacher or a doctor or the next prime minister of the Solomon Islands. Education is it. Education is the key.

Jair had a similar experience a few nights ago while he was in Auki, staying in a transit house with a whole lot of principals. They kept talking about how education is the key to lift Solomon Islands out of its current state. One of them mentioned that he wanted to run for parliament so that he could do a better job than the current politicians. But when Jair asked how he, an educated man who ostensibly wants to do what is right, would stop himself from being corrupted by the influence of power and money, he had no answer.

As I sat listening to the speeches, it didn't sit well with me. Education isn't the key. Education won't solve the problem, I mean, the real underlying problem of poverty, discrimination, hardship, corruption and the wantok system. There are plenty of people with a good education who work as teachers, and fail to fulfill their responsibility to teach their students well, or even to turn up to class most of the time. There are doctors here who have a good education, who don't treat some needy patients because they don't have the time, don't think they get paid enough, so they busy themselves signing medical forms (without even checking the patients first) at the detriment to people who really need help. The prime minister has a good education and he (hopefully I won't get in trouble for saying this on my blog (read the papers!!)) is constantly getting in trouble for corrupt dealings. On Solomon Islands currency, there's the motto ' to lead is to serve'. Sadly, most people, people with a good education, who are in power lead by serving themselves, not God, and not the country.

Clearly, a good education isn't the key. It might help somethings, but it's not the key. If people don't have Jesus and don't actually follow Him, then sadly, education is just going to help a corrupt person do corruption more deviously.

While I sat listening to the speech, I remembered something I read in John 7:15. Some people had been asking "How has Jesus become learned, having never been educated?" Many people in the Solomon Islands fit into that category. They would say "Me man me no school". Though they know many things and have learned many things, they never have had a formal education. And it struck me, listening to speeches on how education is the key, how misguided that thought is. Jesus is the key, not education. Education might lead to better job opportunities, but it's not going to make you a faithful doctor, or a faithful teacher or a faithful prime minister. The current prime minister has an education and... well, read the Solomon Star! He has an education but he doesn't seem to have Jesus. Jesus didn't have a "good education", he could have said "me man me no school", but He had fellowship with God, God taught him and He was faithful before God to his calling. 

So in my speech, though I had planned initially to say other things, this is what I shared. And then I said this and this was the amazing part - the last word just came out and I didn't even think of it. I said, "it's good to have a clinic, but we can't forget that it's Jesus that heals. It's good to have running water, but we can't forget that Jesus is the living water. It's good to have an education but we can't forget that Jesus is the Truth." 

Talk about good rhetoric, a sterling example of the use of tricolon, ripper parallelism. Not that I can take the credit for it. 

Jesus is the Truth. And Jesus is the only Way. The only way to salvation, but also the only way to a life here on earth where, empowered by the Holy Spirit, you won't be a slave to sin, a slave to corruption, but set free for a life of holiness and obedience. 

Jesus really is the only hope for the Solomon Islands.

And for me.

Brisbane - March/April

So I know this was a looong time ago. Too long. But I can't really not write about this on my blog! So here it is.

In March this year we went on holiday to Brisbane. It's the closest place to the Solomons to fly so it was the obvious choice and holidays in the Solomons can be rather expensive. Also, we needed to see a doctor.

Jair had a hernia - I think he got it in October - and because of all the work he did over Christmas, building a house among many other things, it certainly didn't get better in a hurry. But we weren't getting anywhere with the health system here either, so we thought, our holiday in Brisbane will be a good time to get this "thing" checked out. The insurance company thought so too.

We were able to stay with friends in Brisbane, who actually weren't home most of the time so we had their house and their car. They're amazing. And they connected us with a GP from their church. Jair had an appointment with her - again another amazing person (is it just something about Brisbane??) - and she got him to have an ultrasound and referred him to a specialist. The specialist said that yep, it's a hernia, and yep it needs to be repaired. Easy as. 

Surgery was scheduled. Insurance company was informed. Insurance company pulled the handbrake. Big time. Jair might have got another hernia from all the stress the insurance company gave him! So then someone else said, go ahead and get the surgery, we'll pull the money from somewhere. But then we'd only received one of the invoices - not the invoice from the anesthetist, or the one for the hospital stay etc etc. So it was going to be more than double what we originally thought.

So we went back to our kind and caring GP who referred us to another specialist who worked privately in the public system, so the bill would be less. By this stage it was Easter Tuesday (the day originally scheduled for surgery). The next day was Wednesday and we had originally planned to travel away and go have an adventure on Fraser Island for a week. So much for that plan!

Jair saw the other specialist, who way more thoroughly pursued the ultrasound report (or rather, actually looked at it - the previous specialist hadn't even asked to see the report!!) , and concluded that while Jair did have a hernia, it was clearly healing itself and it would be unnecessary and in fact, inappropriate to do surgery. 

Wow.

It was amazing because having prayed for months that God would open up a way for surgery to happen successfully, we found that actually the whole time He was busy, behind the scenes, healing Jair's hernia himself.

It reminded me that God supersedes my expectations, again and again.

So, not needing surgery anymore, we went to the supermarket, bought groceries for a week, tanked up the 4wd drive, packed our bags and went on holiday to Fraser Island.

It was amazing. We were so blessed in that someone lent us their 4wd drive and someone else let us stay in their beach house on the island. I would have loved to be camping, roughing it in a tent, digging my toes into the sand as I watched a campfire die down under the stars, but it was hideous weather, so coming back to a nice, warm, airconditioned house with a fridge, a dryer, electricity that worked(!!) was actually really fantastic.

Here are some of my favourite photos from our adventure.

Theresa and Jair doing cartwheels on the sand in a sandblow we visited. This photo wasn't a set up. Somehow they both were in the same point of the cartwheel process at the same time!

Jair and Theresa are that little speck in the middle of the sandblow and I'm taking the photo from the edge where the bush meets the sand. And you can't even see the whole sandblow in the picture. It was amazing. We were the only ones here and we had such a blast rolling around in the sand! 

A lace monitor in a tree. I was fascinated with these guys and kept trying to take photos of them to the point that Jair had to tell me to back off or they would come after me!

This collection of photos wouldn't be complete without a picture of a dingo (that's a deeengo, not a dungo). Dingoes on Fraser Island are the only pure breed dingoes in Australia. There are warnings everywhere about being careful about them because they're not friendly dogs, but ferocious wild animals. We went for a walk along the beach with Theresa one evening and then put Theresa down on the sand to play. Seconds later a dingo came out from where we had just been walking and made a beeline towards us! So we picked Theresa up and tried to look calm and casual. Dingo kept coming. We did the whole, back to back walking thing and I said to Jair, "Do dingoes swim? Maybe we should just go in the water." 

When the Dingo figured out that we weren't going to let the little tike down on the ground again he sauntered off. 

Turtle in Lake Alom.

We went to the other side of the island one day and found this vast flat estuary type thing. Again, no one else was there.

Coming back was a bit hairy. Driving on the beach meant you had to mind the tides. High tide had only been an hour before, so there were a few patches where we had to hold our breath. Jair loved it!

The beast - next to another beast - the Maheno wreck.

Fraser Island was the best place ever for Theresa. It's a sand island so it was perfect for sand castles. 

We had a fantastic week in Fraser Island and definitely recommend it if you happen to be traveling to Queensland. One thing I don't have photos of much is the incredible trees and plant life. It was so varied from coast, to inland and even in different areas in land and it's not a huge island. One of my favourite driving tracks we did was actually a wide walking track, and it was this dense rain forest. Very still. Very quiet.

We want to go back one day - maybe give it 10 years or so and walk from bottom to top, and then meet someone (maybe you?) at the top and then that someone can walk down while we drive down. So, I know it's a long way off, maybe you want to start training now, but we recommend you pencil it in your diaries, because we'll need to start looking in a couple of years time, for another crazy couple/family to join in the adventure.

What I Notice

Today I'm in Australia. Sometimes (but not for a year now) I'm in New Zealand. But usually I'm in the Solomon Islands. Solomon Islands is a relatively *different* country to live in. Perhaps the difference is more distinct not in a description of what I notice in the Solomon Islands but of what I notice in New Zealand or Australia. Everytime I step out of the customs protected areas in the international airports and officially into the "West", I notice something different.

By notice, what I mean is that there is always one thing that strikes me, one staggering reality of life in the West that is different, just one thing that hits me hard in that whole trip.

The first time I went back to the West I noticed the fashion. Back then it was the embarrassing (well not for me because I didn't partake of it) revival of ridiculous coloured tights, dresses that looked like long tee-shirts and long undies, or should I say shorts (?) that girls wore in public. Obviously their mothers forgot to mention some things to them (and for the sake of today's post I'm not talking about modesty - I'm talking about distasteful fashion!!).

The second time I went back to the West I noticed how everything smelled so nice. One member of a Short Term mission team said to me in the Solomons, "it just stinks like the masses of unwashed humanity." Sadly, when I live at home (by which I mean, the Solomon Islands), I, too, smell like unwashed humanity. My clothes are mouldy and sweated in beyond repair, deodorant lasts about 10 minutes, and my house always has that musty smell of the tropics. But in the West - even the airport smelt deliciously fresh and inviting. People smell nice. Buildings smell nice. Even dogs smell nice!!

The third time I went back to the West I noticed how biting the cold was. It's like the wind hit you in the face, the hands, the neck, whatever part of your body that was exposed, and went right into your body, streaming through like a bolt of electricity and leaving you energised and shaken into motion. It was spring, the flowers were out, the trees had changed colour - pink and white and green; it was a new season. At home we have hot and dry and hot and wet. That's it. And those two seasons are really rather indistinguishable, except that in hot and dry your body feels hot but the sweat runs off, and in hot and wet your body feels hot but the sweat sticks. In NZ in the spring, particularly the beautiful Hawkes Bay in the spring, the wind came rushing down from the hills, searching for people to give a cold slap of a kiss on the cheek, and leave them flabbergasted and flabbergusted.

The fourth time I went back to the West I noticed that the houses seemed insecure. I couldn't believe that there were no bars on the windows, no fences securing the property, no guards at the gate to screen people coming in. You could open your window and exit via the window. This may sound like an odd idea to you, but in our house if their was a fire or a burglary where would we exit? We have two doors on the same side of the house, but all our windows are barred. At first I felt unsafe in Australia living in a house that had not bars on the window. You could actually see what was outside without the obstruction but, the windows felt naked.

The fifth time I went back to the West (my current trip) I notice that I can put mascara on and it doesn't smudge all over my eyelids and upper cheek. It's fantastic. There's no mugginess here so it dries straight away.

Fancy that!

Happy Mother's Day

So I know this is really late, but I've been meaning to write about Mother's day. I'm very happy that because God put this adorable little girl...

...into our family, I can celebrate Mother's day. 

I guess the hard part about infertility is that it doesn't go away. If it were up to us, we would have had more kids join our family long ago! Maybe the pain of "secondary infertility" is lessened when you have one child, but it's still there. Theresa always talks about having a baby, and she prays for a brother or a sister, but apart from our prayers, there's not a whole lot we can do about it. 

Having said that, prayer is powerful. All I have to do is look at her... 

... and I remember that God did answer our prayers. 

I love her so much and for me Mother's Day wasn't about me, but about the incredible blessing I have.

While we wait for God to answer our prayers, I suppose, Theresa's always got her cat - 

Theresa and her baby - the cat

... to whom she sings "rock a by baby", carries like a baby and teaches children's action songs (even clapping hands - poor cat!). And because she smiles 74% of the day while she's awake, any lingering sadness quickly dissipates.

Anyway, that isn't the main reason for this post. I particularly wanted to talk about Mother's Day here but I thought it'd been a while since I showed some pictures of our pikinini. 

Two things happened on Mother's Day that I wanted to share because I guess it's good for mothers in Western Culture to see how other mother's live.

First story is that at our church on Mother's Day, the person preaching was talking about submission and how wives ought to submit to their husbands. I think he chose this topic in particular because recently one of the leaders of the women's group in our church  approached our pastor because her husband, also a leader in our church, had been out late at night with other women, drinking, and then beating her. The pastor didn't really know what to do and didn't think it was such a bad thing. Domestic violence is terribly common here. 64% of women between the ages of 15 - 49 say they have been sexually or violently abused by a partner. The stats are terrible here. Sadly, I think the preacher thought the women ought to be put in their place. He said that if your husband is a drunk, beats you, wastes all the family income on alcohol, you need to tell him that you love him and you need to forget about all those things he does. 

I'm not sure whether the preacher read the subsequent verses, you know, the ones about husbands loving their wives like Christ loved the church. Because you can't read a verse like that, remembering what Jesus' love drove him to do for us, and not squirm in your seat if you're the kind of husband that abuses his wife. I do obviously uphold the Bible about submission, but women in the Solomon Islands don't struggle with submission, they struggle with being abused! 

The second story is that the day after Mother's Day one of the women who work here told me what her pastor preached on in their church. He got all the women up the front of the church and he said to the congregation, "I'm going to pray for these women. Men these women are precious to God. He loves them. He died for them. They are temples of the Holy Spirit. And men, you need to love your wife, care for her, look after her, treat her well, uphold her, teach your children to respect her. God loves these women and they are very precious to Him." 

Then he prayed for the women.

And my friend told this to me like she was so astonished, like she was surprised at what he said. What? Women? precious to God? loved by God? Temples of the Holy Spirit? She almost couldn't believe it. It sounded too good to be true. She's one of those 64%, you could say, and the truth that the pastor spread that day was beautiful to her. 

too much food

Recently Jair joined a mission team that were installing water tanks at Su'u National Secondary school - so it was just Theresa and I at home for the 6 days. On Day Two - Saturday, I made some hot cakes and fried a few then kept the left over batter (and there was quite a bit left over) for the next day.

It was only while eating them that I realised quite how much food a man consumes. Theresa and I? Well we packed away 4 and then we were full. I didn't really want left over cold hot cakes for lunch, especially since I still had lots of batter, so when I went out to do a bit of work around the place that morning, I took them with me on a plate, knowing I'd come across some hungry soul.

Five steps out of the bottom of the stairs leading up to our house, we came across Gerry - and he was hungry. He wanted to do a bit of work on his bike or something, so was after the workshop keys. So I said, "Gerry, do you want a hot cake? Well, actually, do you want three?"

He gave me a big grin. That meant "yes". And, his hand shaking, he reached out and took all three and quickly ate 'em up. Then he was off, with a "Tagio tumas!" to grab the key.

I couldn't get out of my head, though, the shaking hand thing. I mean, so often his hands are shaking, and the other mechanics too, and even our office staff, their hands shake. Sarah, our office girl, said it's because she doesn't eat much sugar, in fact, I don't think she eats before 12pm.

I can't imagine going without breakfast! The locals often joke about our eating habits - you know, breakfast at 7am. Morning tea at 10am. Lunch at 12:30pm. Afternoon tea at 3pm. Dinner at 6pm - and then more tea - or hot chocolate, whatever just before bed!! They think it's crazy. I can't help thinking that not eating before 12pm and then having maybe only one other meal, is pretty crazy. No wonder their hands shake. No wonder they do everything in Sunday-drive mode. They don't have as much energy foods pouring into their diet.

Anyway, it's just different. And sometimes I'm interested in things that are different because we can so take for granted that people are actually different, thinking that their lifestyle is similar. When you start to understand the differences, then you can understand why certain things happen the way they do.

And that helps when you're a stranger in a different culture!

The Al-Phe-male of SWIM

I thought my last post was a ridiculous story (though a true one) about Laki, who is the Alpha Male of Lungga. Then I started writing this post and checked back on my blog realised that my last post hadn't published. oh brother - internet connections in a developing country. I wonder how many other posts haven't been published...

So For Your Information, Laki, our dog, is the Alpha Male of Lungga- the area we live in. Whenever I go for a run, I take him with me for security and he runs proudly down the road, urinating about every 40 meters. At first we come upon three dogs next door. They're just small, so Laki runs past them, growls them here, teaches them a few tricks, and then carries on. Then there's another mangey dog that always emerges from the bushes at the end of our road just before we run past. Laki barks and continues.

Then we have a long stretch of straight where the dogs have learnt not to come out anymore. When we get to the Lose Coin Corner (so named after a store there. At first the store was called Loss coin and then Lose coin, because they didn't know how to spell Loose. To be fair, Loose is a ridiculous way of spelling the word Loose.  It should be luse, or, no wait, that wouldn't work... Seriously, it does my head in. The idea of the store was that if you had some loose coins, spend them here.) 

At Lose Coin Corner, there's a few dogs who try their luck against Laki. One day Laki had seven dogs on him, Laki pulled out his "Dog-With-Rabbies" face, which was pretty scary, bit, and chased a few of them, dodging their blows and jogging proudly with his head up, and just carried on. 

A hundred meters later there are a few more dogs out and if they haven't already heard that Laki is on the road and thus gone to hide, boy, they're in for a hiding. Laki spots them and sprints off to show them who is the Alpha Male. If the dogs are lucky, they will remember which day it is and hide under their house until after 7am, when Laki and I are back home. 

Then on the stretch of road past the short cut, there are another two dogs. Laki entices them from their home, and they take the bait. And then they take a hit. Laki has this, "Yes you can smell my doggy cologne" kind of expression on his face as they sniff and bark and he carries on. 

After that no other dogs bother us. I run to the gate of the Taj Mahal, touch the gate, at which Laki gives me this expression of "Oh bother, why not just turn around at the driveway, Lauretta", and then we go home.

On the trip home, the other dogs are too busy licking their wounds and nursing their broken pride to come out again. Now they know. Laki is the dog.

 Inside the gate however, he is a harassed, frightened dog under the despot Rocky.

Rocky is an old, arthritic, hairy, mangey, tick infested dog who ate a cane toad when he was a puppy. That explains a lot about him. He looks like he's constantly hungover. But he is the oldest male dog on the base and he has psychological control over Laki. I say this because Laki could whip him in a fight. Rocky can't even walk down the road, let alone stand up to Laki in a fight. But Laki feels like he's the underdog, like he's the runt of the pack whenever Rocky is around. Rocky runs the pack of dogs at SWIM like an autocratic ruler with an iron fist. And Laki cowers in submission.

That was what the last post was supposed to say, but our internet must have glitched before it got published.

2 months later... Today's post: 

Outside SWIM Base Laki is the dog.

Inside SWIM Base Laki is a bit pathetic. 

And then we got a cat. 

The cat made Laki even more pathetic. 

I couldn't capture it because I wasn't quick enough, but Laki was literally quivering in fear of the kitten, Quece. Quece (though properly spelt Kwis) is the Kwara 'ae language name for cat.

She may be small. She may be only feline. She may be only female - but she is the Alpha female of SWIM Base.

However, Theresa is the Protector and Defender of Cats. She thinks the dogs want to eat Quece (which is true - but we don't always get what we want, do we) so if Quece is outside, Theresa rescues her. We've told her (but she refuses to believe) that one scratch from the cat is enough to bring any dog (even Rocky) to its knees.

On other matters, as I am sure you are aware, I haven't posted a blog for a long time. I'm still trying to decide how far up the priority list blogging is. Anything after a number seven is pretty much doomed to the "When-I-become-Elasti-girl" category. Obviously, being Elasti-girl would mean I would have enough time to do anything after number seven on the priority scale, because the numbers one to six would be way more easier. (For example, Theresa, stop holding pussy by the neck -stretch my arms from my chair at the office down the hallway into Theresa's room to ensure this is done - wah lah! It would make life so much easier).

So either I need to become Elasti-girl, or I need to be convinced that blogging is higher in the priority scale. 

Then again, maybe with posts like Laki the Alpha Male you might be happy that blogging has been shuffled further down on the priority list.

Leaving Fields

We've been here now for three years and one day.

Three years.

We've slowly eased our way into the category of expats who have been here a while. I mean, it's not that long, but most people stay here for under three years. Besides, we'll still be here for a few years yet.

It's been a long, arduous, difficult at times three years. The rewards seem few in comparison to the work. Few, but very precious. And totally worth it. I wouldn't change the last three years, despite the rocky uphill climb. I wouldn't change it for the changes I've seen.

Nevertheless it's taken a whole three years for God to finally get through to my numbskull of a brain, that I've left. Not that I've left family and friends, my culture and the way of life as I know it, comforts, food, hobbies. No I've known for a long time that I've left and in some ways lost those things.

I've finally realised that I've left my fields.

You see as a missionary, I'm a "volunteer". I would hate to consider myself as employed - because that would make me being paid grossly under the minimum wage. I'm a volunteer. We get enough money to cover our needs and we are very grateful for that. We are so thankful to God for his provision - even a volunteer provision, because it's his hand that multiplies the fish and bread we hold in our hands. And our volunteer provision reminds us of the people who love and support us back home and sacrificially give so that we can continue to serve God here on this field.

Nevertheless, it's been a mind battle for me the last few years - I work hard, harder than I've ever worked before in my life, yet it doesn't show in my paycheque. The director used to joke that he'd half my pay. Ha ha. You can't half zero. I told him I'd double his if he did an errand for me in town. Which he did, and I doubled his pay too. Still zero.

We have food to eat and enough food to share. We can buy clothes at the second hand clothing stores here (which I must say, people go to exotic places to buy clothes - honestly, you don't need to go further than the bale shops in honiara!); we save up for our twice a year weekends away. But it bothers me that I can't have long term saving goals. I can't work extra hard, scrimp here and there and wahlah, we can knock something off our mortgage, or buy that new electronic device we've been eyeing up for ever so long, or buy a pair of shoes. And then there's the problem of toys and books, or even just presents for Theresa (ok, it was nice not having any presents at Christmas time, but her adoption day is literally around the corner.) Anything of quality that I want to buy needs to be purchased overseas, but obviously, I'm not overseas. (Insert a comment here - writing this is really boring. It feels like I'm complaining, which I'm not really, it's all part of a long convoluted story (my signature style, as always). Believe me - there is a point to this). I remember someone once saying she always wanted to have matching underwear so that if she was in a car accident she wouldn't be embarrassed when they had to cut her clothes off. Believe me, matching underwear is the lest of my underwear problems. (ok, this is just getting crazy).

I think you get the point. Being on a volunteer allowance is wonderful for growing your trust in God for everything and seeing how simply you can live life. But it's not so wonderful when you're part of a material culture thats on high speed to get more stuff. better stuff. or just stuff that you like and need.

And then I read again the verse in the Bible, I stumbled upon it. Matthew 19:29. When I read this verse, a dear friend of mine comes up. She's a missionary here - she's single, she's given up the comforts of life back home, she works so flippin hard. Maybe coming here has closed the door on possible relationships for her. She gives tirelessly to the poor, the downtrodden, the prostitutes, who are scorned, the illiterate, and gives them hope, the hope that comes from having the word of God and being able to read it. She is amazing. She is the most effective missionary I have ever met in my entire life. I wish I could be like her. And she embodies this verse. She has left her family. She has left her home. She has left behind the possibility of marriage and a family of her own. She has left behind her job. She has left behind her life. To serve God here. Wow. She is the person in Matthew 19:29. And one day she will receive a hundred times what she has given up. And I am so happy that God will give that to her for her sacrificial service in love for him.

I mean, I left my family, but hey, I had Jair. And now God increased our family - now we are three.

But as I read it again I stumbled upon one further clause. Leaving fields. This list of things people leave for God includes leaving fields. "Everyone who has left... fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much..." Hang on, I'm in here too. I have left my field. As in what earns me money, what helps me to survive and prosper and make a living and gain satisfaction and sit back at the end of the week with a beer in my hand (a beer? did I say that?) and say, "aah. Another day, another dollar." I have left that. I left it three years ago. It's ironic in a way that with my qualifications I could walk into any school here and get a job. Heck I could probably walk into the international school and get a job. A well paying job. And get remunerated for my hard work. But actually, I realised the other day (see I told you I was a numbskull) I have left my fields, for the sake of serving God.

Now probably at this point, you're thinking I'm boasting. Honestly, I'm only boasting in God that somehow he's managed to get that point across to me, through that numbskull head of mine. You've left your fields for me Lauretta? Great. Now let's get over that, don't get your knickers in a knot (as my friend Jasmine would say) and get over the hardships that leaving your fields might bring, and focus on the task at hand. Namely, the task he's doing in my heart. Get over it. You've left your fields. I mean, look at the fields - or rather, oh boy, how do you describe it. Look at what Christ left for me. How could I ever look back? See what I mean. There's nothing to boast about in me. It's all Jesus. All Jesus.

But I must say, now that I've realised that I've left my fields, it's easier to accept things. Now there's a reason for not eating chocolate. Now there's a reason why I can't have feta cheese when I want it. Now there's a reason I get nits when I go to a village. It has hallowed my underwear (excuse the pun). Now there's a reason I own no whiteware - including the dress. Now there's a reason I don't even have a beloved piano. It's all for Jesus. It's for Jesus' sake. And that's the sweetest reason to do anything.

Let that reason motivate me.

Let that reason motivate you.

I'm not the only one who has left my fields. Some of you have too. I have the deepest respect for my brother-in-law who chose not to take a certain good job in order that he could take a different not-as-good job. For the sake of Jesus. For the sake of having the time to be a loving husband, a devoted dad, a servant in his church. I deeply respect his choice to leave his field for the sake of Jesus and I pray that God would bless him for that.

I deeply respect my sister - and all those other Godly women I know - who have left their fields. Who have left their fields and the satisfaction that paid employment, adult conversation, accomplishing things that have significance brings. I mean really, sometimes it's hard to see the significance in wiping babies bottoms. Or spending 25 minutes getting your toddler's (or barbarian as my friends and fellow mums here like to call them)  teeth brushed, dry caked on weetbix chin clean, hair brushed, clothes on, new clothes on because they wet their undies and they're still getting the hang of this whole potty thing, socks on, and shoes on, yes both socks on. Different feet, and bag packed and somehow out the door. There's very little uplifting and inspiring about sitting around hearing the same childish stories all day. No wonder so many mums are frazzled, starved for contact with adults who can move beyond topics like the sandpit, potties, more chocolate please, and hop on pop. And I know women who've given up good jobs, satisfying jobs, lucrative fields, the feeling of importance and professionalism and the money all those things bring for the sake of Jesus.

They could earn more than they are now, and pay the nanny, or at least day care and have someone else worry about the bottoms and the socks and the sandpits. Then they could have whatever they want. But instead, they've left their fields, the career, the money, the satisfaction, for the sake of Jesus. For the sake of the future. To raise children who are going to be strong lights in a dark, dark world.

Leaving your fields means sacrifice. But don't think you have to go on the mission field to leave your field. We have many fields. Which do you need to leave for the sake of Jesus? Because Jesus left a hang of a lot more than our measly fields for us.