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Chapter 1

Into The Jungle

"Therefore go and make disciples of all nations
And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."
Matthew 28:19-20

    Descending steadily through the mist, I could see tiny dwellings nestled snugly side by side along the serpentine ridge. Hundreds of antlike dots waved welcoming antennae wildly as they moved toward the only stretch of flat, open ground-a clearing just big enough for the small helicopter.
    Closer and closer we were drawn magnetically down to the jungle village. With both excitement and dread, my muscles pulled in the opposite direction, trying to hold back the inevitable. Braced for the coming impact on hard earth, my life flashed before my eyes. I had thought there should be a bolt of lightning out of the sky about now announcing our arrival and transforming me from a weak young female to Godly Woman, the ultra-spiritual being, able to leap tall papaya trees in a single bound, more energetic than a speeding helicopter. But I heard no voice from on high saying, "This is my special missionary couple. Listen to them." Instead, while my knees knocked, the words of the Australian government officer at Erave Patrol Post echoed in my head.
"The Folopa people? Oh, yes, a savage lot. We've had plenty of trouble with them. Cannibals, you know." The official had responded matter-of-factly when my husband and I asked for information months before about these rain forest inhabitants of the Gulf and the Southern Highlands Provinces. Was this the same me about to be dropped off with my family and left alone with these, I hoped, former cannibals? I had heard missionaries tell of their experiences since my early teens. They were so impressively mature and saintly. What am I doing here? I asked myself, about to embark on this new life.
    Racing rotor wings drowned out all sound. I could hardly let myself think lest I be completely intimidated by the huge task I was about to undertake. For the last two hours my thoughts had been thankfully lost to the fascinating shapes, colors and contours hundreds of feet below. They had been busy flitting along cliffs, dipping down into sinkholes and picturing exotic creatures hiding on bushy pinnacles. Now, snatched back to reality, I saw my final destination: an orange ribbon against dark green, flashing through patches of cloud.
A sea of eager faces swarmed at the perimeter of our landing site as the helicopter finally settled on the ground. While the engine roared and the blades continued to whirl, the villagers stayed at a safe distance, but I could tell they were anxious to surge forward and get as close as possible. As they shouted and jostled one another, the intensity of their body language told me that indeed these were a strong and forceful people.
"Better head for the house," the concerned pilot shouted in his North Carolina drawl. "They're going to swamp you!"
I looked at the crowds and envisioned swarms of people overrunning and burying us in a stampede of bodies. Shrugging off this picture, I unfastened the seatbelts and bent down to give instructions to our children, six year-old Heather and Daniel, almost three, who was trying to disappear into my lap.
"Heather," I yelled, gulping with determination, "when we get out, stay with me. We'll walk up toward our house while we greet the people." I pointed to the edge of the clearing where the newly constructed log building stood.
    I had hoped to smile and sound confident while trying to reassure them that this need not be as traumatic as I was sure now it would be. Heather's wide, apprehensive eyes stared back. Daniel held onto me, his head buried in my chest as we set foot on the ground.
"Don't be afraid. The people are just happy to see us." I tensed for what would happen when we walked clear of the danger zone. Just as I had thought, the riot rushed forward. Multitudes of arms were thrust toward us from all directions, each with a dark hand waiting to be grasped in greeting.
"Haiyooo!" many shouted in wonder and amazement as they touched fair skin and light brown, straight hair for the first time. Faces pressed ever closer-faces with deep-brown, sparkling eyes above thick-lipped, white, toothy smiles. Faces all so different, yet somehow looking all the same. Wizened, wrinkled faces with stained teeth (or no teeth); gaunt, sickly faces full of sorrow and pain; tiny, dirty faces with runny noses, terrified at the ghostly pale color of the aliens who had arrived in a huge, noisy bird from the great unknown.
Unwashed bodies, foul breath, pig droppings and damp, earthy smells assailed my nostrils immediately. I faced the decision whether to hold my breath and avoid the inevitable, or breathe and accept my life as it was going to be. Breathing seemed the wisest overall choice.
    All sound was meaningless babble-loud, unending babble. Mouths were moving, syllables pronounced in rapid-fire succession. Is that really a language? I asked myself. Exaggerated expressions and gestures were directed toward me as they smiled and chatted. What could they be saying?
Ahead of me, through the crowd of dark arms, legs and torsos clothed in brown bark-cloth, I spied a white shirt. As I advanced several steps up the slight rise, I found my husband, Neil, standing beside the house waiting for us with a broad grin.
"Well, did you meet everyone?" he asked with amusement in his voice.
Throngs of greeters were not unusual to him now since several weeks earlier he had come to build our house.
"I think I did meet them all," I replied wearily. We walked together the rest of the distance to the front door. Behind me I heard the sound of the helicopter engine revving for its departure. The small aircraft had completed its mission shuttling our belongings into this remote spot in the jungle and was about to return to Ukarumpa, its home base and the main center serving Wycliffe Bible Translators personnel on this South Pacific island. With a sudden, painful awareness of isolation, I turned to wave goodbye as it eased into the air, turned and shrank slowly into gray clouds. As fog descended in its place, my imaginary umbilical cord was severed. Disconnection with the outside world was complete.
    "Let me introduce you to someone important," Neil said, leading me over to a fierce but dignified-looking middle-aged man. He was clothed in a faded red, knee-length piece of cloth wrapped around his waist. The bark belt that held it in place resembled a six-inch strip of curved, quarter-inch plywood stained dark brown and fastened with bark string. From his pierced ears dangled circlets of opossum claws, and around his neck a large, flat piece of shell hung from a bark string. Although his nose had obviously held some ancient decoration, evidenced by the gaping hole between his two nostrils, there was nothing now but space. Grasping my hand lightly in his gnarled hand, he pinched my fingertips and spoke several sentences, none of which was even remotely recognizable.
"This is the head man," said Neil. The man smiled proudly and nodded his head, though I was sure he did not understand the language we spoke.
"What's his name?" I asked. "I haven't heard it said. They just call him the topo whi, or head man," Neil replied. Then Neil extended his arm to draw closer to himself a young man wearing a white, buttoned and collared shirt and long trousers.
"This is the pastor, Yonape." The young man smiled and spoke to me in Melanesian Pidgin. Neil and I had already learned to speak this simple trade language, which was used extensively in the Territory of Papua and New Guinea (the eastern half of the island of New Guinea).
"My village is Yankuri," he said, pointing to the west. "I speak the Samberigi language. I have been here three years so I know the Folopa language as well."
I was relieved to know that someone in the village was able to communicate with us. Already I imagined all the uncomfortable situations we could get ourselves into with our ignorance of the Folopa language and culture.
"Koneo. "I repeated their greeting over and over as my face muscles began to get fatigued from holding a friendly smile. With Danny hanging heavily on my shoulders and an eternity of handshakes and pinched fingertips behind me, the front door appeared, and with it, relief.
    Heather had gotten to the house long before me, and now Danny scrambled anxiously inside to get away from hundreds of staring eyes. Neil set about to show off his handiwork. Though very unfinished, the house was impressive. Its rough, bark-lined walls were darker than I had imagined, but I could see it would be homey when finished and adorned with my decorative touches.
    I wandered around the piles of cardboard boxes, peeking into the rooms in a stupor. My brain was numb and I could formulate no plan of action other than to nod my head and repeat dumbly, "Nice." Vainly I searched for something to cue me on what came next.
' 'I'm hungry," said Danny.
Hmm, food. We would have to find something edible in the jumble of containers.
"Where's the bathroom? I want a drink of water," said Danny.
"Well, there's no bathroom yet, but I'm sure there will be one before too long." I watched Neil, now returned to work, running in and out, tools in hand. "We'll all have to be patient until we get the house finished," I added.
"Where are the storybooks? Can we start school now?" begged my anxious, first-grade daughter.
"Why are those people staring at me? Make them go away," Danny whined.
"I can't make them go away," I responded. "This is their village and they want to see how we live. We'll find some curtains somewhere in these boxes and then they won't be looking in all the time."
Squirming bodies of all sizes jammed against our windows and door as they vied for the best observation point. For now we would have to content ourselves being monkeys in the zoo-the biggest attraction that ever hit town.
I focused on the boxes once again. Where would I begin? What was most important? Food? Schoolbooks? Curtains?
A small, bark-caped figure pushed through the door and hurried to my side. With a wide, toothy smile and large, humor-filled eyes, she looked up into my face and clasped my hands in hers. I could not understand what she said, but with hand and body language I soon determined that we were neighbors.
"Hika wisi, " I said with some small confidence. I had learned this Good morning greeting from a Folopa speaker before coming here, and now sought to show that I knew at least something in her language. (The squiggly mark beneath the vowel, called a cedilia, indicates that the word is nasalized, or pronounced through the nose.)
A look of open bewilderment followed. She recovered and pointed to a small child in the doorway about the same size as my son. The little girl smiled shyly as we focused our attention on her. Then the tiny woman, with exaggerated articulation, said the child's name: "Haddi So" (Hariso).
I repeated the name. She bit the back of a knuckle and giggled. The crowd responded in unison, "Eeehhh!"
Well, now I knew the name of at least one person. Self-consciously I turned back to the boxes as my neighbor looked on curiously. I lifted a cardboard flap as if to begin the job of unpacking. A nose and pair of eyes closely followed my every move.
    "Aahhghfp· " I stifled a scream and tried to subdue my surprise and fright. Two enormous cockroaches had scrambled over my hand and down into the depths of the box. How I hated cockroaches, and I had to begin by confronting the two largest I had ever seen! I pushed the lid down, gulped and made my mouth curve up on the sides, dreading the moment I would be forced to open the flaps and face the uncertain contents of this box.
The women saw my reaction and stared in disbelief. "Who Said Ee." (Husele.) My neighbor pronounced the word in the distinctive, throaty voice of one who has breathed the smoke of hundreds of cooking fires. She glanced up at me, then rolled her expressive eyes toward the onlookers, obviously enjoying her role as mistress of ceremonies before the delighted audience.
I repeated the word for cockroach, husele, and inwardly shuddered over the concept. Squirming, I wondered what they thought of someone who jumped out of her skin at the sight of a tiny insect, and was sure I detected mocking in their laughter.
Just then Neil reappeared.
"Isn't this the best piece of real estate?" he asked as he whizzed through the house. "Right in the middle of everything. Learning the language will be a breeze with everyone speaking it all the time around us."
Suddenly I was reminded that my husband was an optimist of the first order, not to mention a radical extrovert. How perfectly he fit into the whole picture! He was not in the least fazed by bugs, nor did he seem overly aware of cultural differences and mistakes. The challenges that for me were daunting trials only appeared to spur him on to greater and more glorious accomplishments.
    It had occurred to me before volunteering for this job that it might be difficult and perhaps uncomfortable. I had left my predictable world behind where I could plan and perform at my best. But now that I was in the thick of this new adventure, it was much harder than I had imagined in my missionary fantasy.
"Haiyoo!" my visitor exclaimed, flicking a thumb nail on her front tooth.
I turned to see her examine a pile of bedding. She caressed the blankets tenderly as she mumbled to herself and clucked through closed lips. Shaking her head in disbelief, she grabbed my hands again. "Seke whi so."
    Later I would learn that this meant "tusk woman," a person with a lot of status.
The window-watchers were asking for details. After the young mother had described the riches she had encountered, everyone hooted and howled, "Haiyooo!"
Wasn't it lunchtime? Shouldn't everyone want to go home for a while? They should get used to us in a few days, I thought.
    Somehow we managed to clear the house of people. But morning, noon and night, day after day, people talked, laughed, pushed and played outside our house. Curious, open, amazed, boisterous onlookers hung around in shifts of no fewer than twenty and watched lest they miss any fascinating detail of our lives. They pointed and conjectured, analyzed and provided a news commentary for the newly arrived of the next shift. Wearily I wondered if we would ever live "normal" lives again.
I continued to unpack boxes. Slowly and with great caution, I held each item at arm's length and gave it a little shake as I watched for any unwelcome creature invading my space.
In the next few weeks schoolbooks were located, lessons begun, windows covered. The house was getting more and more livable.
"Danny, let's take a last trip to the outhouse before dark." My son peered out the window to see who was standing around.
"Don't wanna go."
"Yes, you do, now come on."
"No. Too many people."
Both children backed away from the door. "O.K. We'll wait until after dark."
"No. Too scary. Big spiders out there." Shivers went down my spine as I acknowledged the correctness of this observation.
"Now it's raining. Don't wanna go out in the rain." It was hopeless. And it was raining. Without knowing it we had planned our first period of residence with the Folopa people right at the beginning of the wettest time of the year. Since the first day there had been a little sun about mid-morning, with drifting fog and low-hanging gray clouds on either end. The rest of the time it alternated between drizzle and tropical deluge. Heavy downpours discouraged us from walking around much in the village. Besides being kept indoors, we were fully occupied finishing the house and learning to live in this new environment.
    The watchers, however, were not discouraged in their vigil. We recognized most residents from seeing them on the front porch each day. Hariso's mother became a regular visitor. Her small house was next to ours, a distance of only twenty feet. It was inevitable that we should become well acquainted, as the walls of our homes were made from thin bark, and most Folopa family life took place in the covered area in front of the house.
    Faithfully my good-natured friend pointed to an ever-present pig and pronounced with large, rounded lips, "Hupu." I would not soon forget this word, nor the phrase Hale walap6: "The rain is coming."
Fifteen years, I thought as I draped soggy, mildew-stained laundry over a wire in the living room. What will it be like for the next fifteen to twenty years, living for months at a time with a people who are as strange and unknown to me as any I could imagine? And what about spiders, dirt, noise, isolation, inconvenience and the never-ending gloom of rain clouds?
But an even more important question haunted me:
Where is God in all this? Will He be here to protect us and meet our needs?
I had experienced some severe trials getting to this point. Would God go before us now and make the way smooth as He had promised?
    Sunday was coming. In fact, this coming Sunday was Easter. How far away home was, with its fresh, blossoming trees after the drab winter months. New life springing from dark, dead-looking branches. Resurrection life demonstrated in natural symbol. There was nothing like that here. The jungle always looked the same. We woke up to fog in the morning, and more clouds rolled in later in the day to enshroud us almost continually in gray.
    Friends and family far away were preparing to meet together for all the traditional events, starting with the sunrise service-that glorious symbol of power, hope and the reality of the resurrection-and ending with the evening service, in which believers rejoiced together in the grace of God. There would be nothing like that for our family this Easter. The small church that was already in Fukutao village would see a motley collection of faithful members whose only knowledge of the Bible was through stories that the pastor had heard from other pastors in the neighboring language group. Sermons were preached in that other language because the pastor did not know how to present the difficult concepts and strange words of the Bible in the Folopa language.
    I awoke very early Sunday morning when it was just getting light outside and lay for a while in the semi-darkness. The white mosquito net was as yet undisturbed after a night of barring crawling things from our sleep. Sheets, rather than the promised curtains, hung over the windows. I could not resist the temptation. Perhaps today would be different.
    Slipping out of bed, I crept quietly to the window. If there was nothing to see, I would crawl back, pull the covers over my head and pretend I had never hoped for just one morning of blue sky, let alone a full-blown Easter spectacular.
    Neil joined me as we pushed the sheets aside, to behold a warm glow radiating from the eastern mountains. Holding hands, lumps in our throats, we beheld ranges we had not known existed until that perfect morning. The puffy clouds on the horizon reflected the beauty of soft pink, orange and lavender. Soon a golden ball began to rise boldly from its hiding place, filling the world with piercing rays of heat and light. Everything looked alive and vividly clear.
As the sun dawned, dark, misty shadows fled and a quiet answer to my deepest question began to form.

Chapter 2 >