One morning, a few months into our stay on Luaniua, I woke up with a severe headache. The ache wasn't just in my head, come to think of it, but all over my body. I rolled over on my pallet and curled my knees to my stomach, willing it to stop hurting, as well.
My sister and brothers began stirring with the rest of the village outside. I could hear their feet crunch-crunching on the coral stones that covered our floor, and my mom digging for the right pot for the morning's breakfast. I heard the clicking sound as she pumped the little Bunsen burner, the cadence increasing in speed until there was a little pop as the released gas was ignited by a match. On the other side of the mat wall, I could hear chickens scratching fretfully for their breakfast, as well. Underneath it all was the constant, low, rolling thunder, felt as much as heard, as the ocean continued its quest to re-claim this little atoll unto itself.
My mom came in some time later, to see why I wasn't joining the rest of the family as they ravenously devoured the breakfast she had made them.
"I don't feel good, Mom," I said. She made the low, comforting murmur that comes inherent to all mothers worldwide, and returned to me a few minutes later with a thermometer. It felt cool and alien, poking against the tender flesh underneath my hot tongue. When it was time, she pulled it out, held it up to see against the light, and frowned.
"Here, honey, take some medicine for your fever," she said, and left me to rest. The day grew hot and sticky, and my achy body found no rest on the thin mat. Every way I turned, I could feel the coral sticking up at me, hard little nubs in my back, or my legs, or my arms, or my stomach. My stomach. Suddenly I sat bolt upright, lifted the mosquito net and vomited into the bowl my mom had set there for me. After that, I felt much better, and settled down into sleep.
By the time the sun had crossed the highest point, and begun to make the shadows long again in its descent into the sea, I was feeling much better. I even got up and ate dinner with my family (canned tuna on rice), and took a trip to the women's beach to relieve myself. I lay down to sleep that night hopeful for a full recovery tomorrow.
But the next day, I felt even worse than I had the previous morning. Now I had chills, and shook uncontrollably sometimes. I would get icy cold, and my nose ran and ran. I blew it on a lava-lava kept by the side of my bed so many times that the cloth soon became crusty and stiff, but I had no other choice but to continue blowing as my sinuses continued to fill up. My bed, encased in the mosquito net, felt like a cage. The thin, green mesh hung on strings from the ceiling, pressing down over and around me, closing me in, cutting off my air. The back room of our hut in which my bed lay was close and dark, filled with dusty shadows. The ambient air steadily warmed as the sun pushed relentlessly on the leaf roof above. There was no cross breeze to relieve the stuffiness, and even if a stray puff found its way in, it was blocked by the net around me.
My mom gave me more medicine for my fever and I finally fell asleep. This time my sleep was full of strange things. A boy with an animal's face would point at me and laugh and laugh. Fish jumped in and out of the ocean at enormous heights, making barely a ripple on the smooth water. Someone held a burning branch to my forehead, and it turned into a gecko which burrowed into my skull and reproduced there.
I awoke from my nap several hours later exhausted, but feeling better. My fever was gone. My body was sore all over, but my stomach was relatively quiet. I was not too cold or too hot, just very weak. Mom fed me some soup from a can when I came from my bed and sat draped against the wall in the common room of our hut. Maybe it was a forty-eight hour sickness, and I would feel better tomorrow once I had regained my strength.
Only I didn't. When the sun rose on the third day, I felt even worse, if possible, than the two mornings prior. When it came time for our daily radio sched, Dad sent out a help cry, talking to other, more experienced missionaries in our group who were scattered throughout the provinces of the Solomon Islands. Their response was immediate; I had malaria, caught from innocent mosquitoes that carried the bug among the islands. It is a cyclical illness that shows flu-like symptoms half the day, then regresses the other half, and gains strength as time goes on. My parents had the anti-malarial medicine, Chloroquine, in their medical supplies kit, and gave me a dose immediately.
I gagged on the bitter pill, which was chalky and stuck to the back of my throat stubbornly. It tasted as if it was coated in acidic vomit which had been dried and ground into a powder. I almost threw it up. My parents urged me to gulp water, which I did, and under extreme power of will managed not to hurl it, along with the rest of the contents of my stomach, all over the graveled floor.
I recovered quickly after that, but to this day have great difficulty swallowing any type of pill. My mouth still remembers the bitterness of that Chloroquine tablet. And anyone who had taken it will know what I mean.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Island Games
There was an open area right in front of our house that the village used as a central meeting place. It had an enormous tree, the biggest on the island, probably. Three of us kids with hands linked could barely reach around it. Its wise old branches stretched over the dirt commons (called the Marai) where the village feasts and meetings were held. It was under this tree's leaves that my father, before the rest of us came to the island, stood in front of the assembled village, awaiting their verdict as they debated whether or not they needed this foreign family to come and translate the bible for them.
The Marai, as it turned out, was also where the village kids would come to play their games when their household duties were done. Each day I would hide in the shadows of our front door, watching them as they played, squabbled, and ran around on bare feet made hard and wide by the life long absence of any restricting shoes. One day I ventured out to watch them from our gravel front yard, and was soon drawn closer to watch the game they were playing.
Each child had a collection of rubber bands on their wrist, worn like bracelets. They would each contribute a rubber band to the collective pot, which were then balanced on a little gallows a few feet from the group. Each child would take their turn at shooting at the hanging rubber bands; the child who knocked them to the ground, won the pot, and the whole game started over again.
My brother, Nathan, soon became proficient at this gambling game. He proudly wore his large collection of rubber bands that reached from his wrist, half-way up to his elbow. I wasn't allowed to play with him and his friends; village customs tabooed sisters and brothers to have much public interaction. But I would sit a little ways away, enviously watching him and his cool, older friends as they bantered and postured in their little-boys-turning-into-young-men way.
Sometimes I would play an island version of hop-scotch in the dirt of the Marai with the other little girls. There was no gambling involved, as in the boys' games, but you did move up in the childish pecking order among your peers if you got good at it. I was good at it. But not the best.
The Marai, as it turned out, was also where the village kids would come to play their games when their household duties were done. Each day I would hide in the shadows of our front door, watching them as they played, squabbled, and ran around on bare feet made hard and wide by the life long absence of any restricting shoes. One day I ventured out to watch them from our gravel front yard, and was soon drawn closer to watch the game they were playing.
Each child had a collection of rubber bands on their wrist, worn like bracelets. They would each contribute a rubber band to the collective pot, which were then balanced on a little gallows a few feet from the group. Each child would take their turn at shooting at the hanging rubber bands; the child who knocked them to the ground, won the pot, and the whole game started over again.
My brother, Nathan, soon became proficient at this gambling game. He proudly wore his large collection of rubber bands that reached from his wrist, half-way up to his elbow. I wasn't allowed to play with him and his friends; village customs tabooed sisters and brothers to have much public interaction. But I would sit a little ways away, enviously watching him and his cool, older friends as they bantered and postured in their little-boys-turning-into-young-men way.
Sometimes I would play an island version of hop-scotch in the dirt of the Marai with the other little girls. There was no gambling involved, as in the boys' games, but you did move up in the childish pecking order among your peers if you got good at it. I was good at it. But not the best.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Koa
Of course, the rainbows rebuilt themselves. That is the good thing about being a dreamer; although the lows are very low, the highs are amazingly high, and the cycles continue to repeat themselves. We settled into the rhythm of our new life, accustoming ourselves to building the day around the high and low tides, whether or not the sun was shining, and the twice daily ringing of the church bell. After home schooling in the morning, my sister Anna and I would venture out into the village and see what fodder we could find for our imaginations.
One place we loved to play was the women's beach (called the ikua in language), at low tide. It was on the outside edge of the island, the one facing the open ocean. When the tide went out, it revealed the reef which circled the islands in the atoll like a shelf. It was a smooth expanse of rock, with indentations in the coral which held trapped whatever sea creatures and treasures left behind by the retreating waters.
One day, Anna and I sought out the ikua, with its steady, cool breeze coming off the great ocean, to take refuge from the heat of the day, and to find entertainment in exploring the tide pools. We picked our way out across the naked reef, collecting treasures as we found them; an odd shell, the purple spike a sea urchin left behind, bits of blue and green sea glass.
Together we spied a particularly large shell. We both grabbed for it at the same time; I got there first. "Danica, I saw it first! It's miiiiiine!" my little sister complained.
Knowing I had the upper hand (possession is nine tenths of the law, after all), I raised my eyebrows archly and didn't say anything.
"Dan-eeeeeeeek-ah!" I could see her grow frustrated and smiled smugly to myself. It was fun to bait Anna and see how far I could push her frustration until she finally exploded in anger. We continued to argue as our feet led us further out towards the edge. Anna made a snatch for the shell I was holding, and I bounded away from her, stretching my legs to leap from one exposed spot to the next.
Except, I didn't land on dry, protruding reef. I landed in water. I landed in something's home. A long, slippery, writhing something, that shot out from under my bare foot clear into the air and splashed into the next tide pool over. It was an eel, two feet long and as round as a coke can, twisting itself angrily into frenzied figure eights as it sought refuge from my rude intrusion. It was as if Jello had solidified and come alive under the arch of my foot. A great shiver of horror spread in a wave up my leg, body and to the tips of my ears. My sister and I shrieked as only little girls can, dropped the sea trash we had gathered, and sprinted to the beach, skimming the exposed reef on our tippy-toes until we reached the safe sand.
There is an island word for what happened to me that day: koa. It means 'it serves you right', or 'you got what was coming to you'. If only Anna had already learned that word, she would have said it to me.
"Koa, Danica."
One place we loved to play was the women's beach (called the ikua in language), at low tide. It was on the outside edge of the island, the one facing the open ocean. When the tide went out, it revealed the reef which circled the islands in the atoll like a shelf. It was a smooth expanse of rock, with indentations in the coral which held trapped whatever sea creatures and treasures left behind by the retreating waters.
One day, Anna and I sought out the ikua, with its steady, cool breeze coming off the great ocean, to take refuge from the heat of the day, and to find entertainment in exploring the tide pools. We picked our way out across the naked reef, collecting treasures as we found them; an odd shell, the purple spike a sea urchin left behind, bits of blue and green sea glass.
Together we spied a particularly large shell. We both grabbed for it at the same time; I got there first. "Danica, I saw it first! It's miiiiiine!" my little sister complained.
Knowing I had the upper hand (possession is nine tenths of the law, after all), I raised my eyebrows archly and didn't say anything.
"Dan-eeeeeeeek-ah!" I could see her grow frustrated and smiled smugly to myself. It was fun to bait Anna and see how far I could push her frustration until she finally exploded in anger. We continued to argue as our feet led us further out towards the edge. Anna made a snatch for the shell I was holding, and I bounded away from her, stretching my legs to leap from one exposed spot to the next.
Except, I didn't land on dry, protruding reef. I landed in water. I landed in something's home. A long, slippery, writhing something, that shot out from under my bare foot clear into the air and splashed into the next tide pool over. It was an eel, two feet long and as round as a coke can, twisting itself angrily into frenzied figure eights as it sought refuge from my rude intrusion. It was as if Jello had solidified and come alive under the arch of my foot. A great shiver of horror spread in a wave up my leg, body and to the tips of my ears. My sister and I shrieked as only little girls can, dropped the sea trash we had gathered, and sprinted to the beach, skimming the exposed reef on our tippy-toes until we reached the safe sand.
There is an island word for what happened to me that day: koa. It means 'it serves you right', or 'you got what was coming to you'. If only Anna had already learned that word, she would have said it to me.
"Koa, Danica."
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
My First Foray
After a week spent tethered to our little hut, venturing out only for forays to the potty beach with my sister or mom, I felt ready seize my relational destiny and strike out to find my new best friend. I knew some Pidgin, mostly gathered from our village living stay in Papua New Guinea, and felt confident that a new world of friendship was waiting just beyond the next pandanas tree.
So with these high hopes, I stepped out of our hut one fresh morning into the sunshine, which fell like a benediction on my skin, blessing me and commissioning my purpose. The path that led from our front door skirted the village church. It was a solid and airy building, with its painted white cinder blocks rising only half-way up to the tin roof, left conveniently open for the little daydreamers who fidgeted on its pews every day, and twice on Sunday. In front of the church was the requisite crushed coral yard, hemmed in by flat reef stones, and then beyond it a large open space of packed white sand, used as a gathering place for church functions.
This I crossed with some trepidation, trying to squelch the creeping paranoia I felt from the empty black openings of the surrounding huts. It was hard not to think of all the Islanders hiding there, peering out at the white girl as I crossed the exposed space. I kept walking, though, drawn by the beach beyond and its promise of companionship. Here the houses thinned out, and under a cluster of coconut trees sat a group of girls.
They lounged on the packed dirt like a pride of young lionesses, leaning against each other languidly, their bodies liquid and supple. The breezes coming off the lagoon saw them and loved them, sending their hair and lava lavas fluttering. One had a little ukulele, and it sang a background for their gossip and jokes as they sat there in the shade.
I realized, as I watched them, that I had no plan for what to do once I actually found some girls my age. Never one to be daunted by lack of a plan, however, I forged on, walking right up to them and plopping down on the dirt. I addressed the biggest girl in Pidgin: "Hi, I'm Danica. What are you guys doing?" A short silence followed, leaving my words dangling from the end of the question mark.
The girl I had spoken to widened her eyes at me, gave a glance at her friends, and said something to me in the native language. Everyone started laughing hysterically, their mirth rising up into the air like a flock of pigeons in a town square. Completely unseated, I jumped to my feet and beat a quick retreat back the way I had come. I could hear them shouting after me words that I didn't understand. I picked up my pace, my feet pounding the dirt path across the open meeting area, around the church yard, down the side of the church and to our front door.
I burst through the front part of our hut, a common area for eating, cooking, and visiting. Our home was divided into three areas; the front, and two back parts, one of which my parents used as a bedroom, and the other had four little pallets laid out on coconut mats, with mosquito nets hanging over each. Mine was the furthest back, tucked in a corner where the leafy roof nearly met the floor. This is where I dove, headfirst, to seek refuge and lick my wounds.
I sat there, writhing inside in embarrassed agony as the scene kept replaying itself before my unwilling mind's eye. In that shadowy corner I buried my little rainbow dream, and resolved myself to a life of relational celibacy.
So with these high hopes, I stepped out of our hut one fresh morning into the sunshine, which fell like a benediction on my skin, blessing me and commissioning my purpose. The path that led from our front door skirted the village church. It was a solid and airy building, with its painted white cinder blocks rising only half-way up to the tin roof, left conveniently open for the little daydreamers who fidgeted on its pews every day, and twice on Sunday. In front of the church was the requisite crushed coral yard, hemmed in by flat reef stones, and then beyond it a large open space of packed white sand, used as a gathering place for church functions.
This I crossed with some trepidation, trying to squelch the creeping paranoia I felt from the empty black openings of the surrounding huts. It was hard not to think of all the Islanders hiding there, peering out at the white girl as I crossed the exposed space. I kept walking, though, drawn by the beach beyond and its promise of companionship. Here the houses thinned out, and under a cluster of coconut trees sat a group of girls.
They lounged on the packed dirt like a pride of young lionesses, leaning against each other languidly, their bodies liquid and supple. The breezes coming off the lagoon saw them and loved them, sending their hair and lava lavas fluttering. One had a little ukulele, and it sang a background for their gossip and jokes as they sat there in the shade.
I realized, as I watched them, that I had no plan for what to do once I actually found some girls my age. Never one to be daunted by lack of a plan, however, I forged on, walking right up to them and plopping down on the dirt. I addressed the biggest girl in Pidgin: "Hi, I'm Danica. What are you guys doing?" A short silence followed, leaving my words dangling from the end of the question mark.
The girl I had spoken to widened her eyes at me, gave a glance at her friends, and said something to me in the native language. Everyone started laughing hysterically, their mirth rising up into the air like a flock of pigeons in a town square. Completely unseated, I jumped to my feet and beat a quick retreat back the way I had come. I could hear them shouting after me words that I didn't understand. I picked up my pace, my feet pounding the dirt path across the open meeting area, around the church yard, down the side of the church and to our front door.
I burst through the front part of our hut, a common area for eating, cooking, and visiting. Our home was divided into three areas; the front, and two back parts, one of which my parents used as a bedroom, and the other had four little pallets laid out on coconut mats, with mosquito nets hanging over each. Mine was the furthest back, tucked in a corner where the leafy roof nearly met the floor. This is where I dove, headfirst, to seek refuge and lick my wounds.
I sat there, writhing inside in embarrassed agony as the scene kept replaying itself before my unwilling mind's eye. In that shadowy corner I buried my little rainbow dream, and resolved myself to a life of relational celibacy.
Monday, April 27, 2009
A Birthday Doughnut
When I look back and try to recall my first few days on Luaniua Island, my mind fills with a whirl of shapes and colors, like a glass of water you use to clean your painter's brush in. My brain during that period was constantly whirring on all cylinders, organizing and synthesizing the rush of sensory input that bombarded it. From the moment I opened my eyes in the morning (pinpoint lights dancing through the thatched ceiling as the tropical rays found their way past the leaves), to when I lay back down on my coconut mat for 'bed' (the wind blinked past, making my mosquito net breathe a giant breath), my new world was slowly becoming part of me.
As the first and second days off the ship rolled past, Islanders would periodically appear at our door, with steaming plates of unknown substances in their proffered hands. We dined on smoked fish, fish soup, fish on rice, fish on taro, with sometimes a side of disgustingly grey, sticky, gelatinous taro pudding on the side. We would sneak out at night to feed that to the fishes, subversive and sinister as the New York mob.
The third day on Luaniua was my birthday. I woke to my mother prying open the plywood crates that had come on the ship with us.
"I am making donuts for your birthday breakfast!" she announced bravely. We all clamored round her; already the island diet had grown old, and we were starving for some comfort food, something to remind us of home. She continued to dig in the crates. A wok appeared. After that, a single Bunsen burner. Thirty minutes later, Mom had unpacked half the crates we owned, and a pile of necessities was slowly growing beside her. Us kids were starting to protest in hunger, ("Hurry, Moooom!"), while Dad had long since given up and made off into the village to start his day of language learning and relationship building. I could see the sweat droplets start to gather on my mother's face, as the stress rose within her.
You can tell that my mom is getting stressed out because it builds up from her feet. Like the old-timey Donald Duck cartoons, when he starts getting mad and the red rises from his toes, until it finally bursts his head and steam pours from his ears. My mom does this, only it's when she's stressed out.
So the stress was building, and us kids were whining and complaining. She staved us off with a plate of leftover rice and fish broth as she finally located her mixing bowl and spoons. No cookbook had surfaced yet, but the intrepid heroine of this little story quickly went to plan 'f', and started throwing ingredients that might make up donuts into her bowl. The stress was now showing in her arms, as they stiffly beat the flour and leavening just a little harder than was necessary.
Matthew and Nathan were the next to give up the wait, wandering outside to meet the ever-present spectators of 'The White Man Show'. They had commenced a game of shoot-the-rubber-band with the village kids when Mom finally got the burner started. However, a wok, as it turned out, is not designed well for deep frying. The oil never got hot enough to really cook a doughnut the way it's supposed to be cooked, and after several tries, my mother finally managed to produce one sad little circle, lopsided and still a bit chewy in the very middle. This she handed to me, with the red simmering just a little below her ears. "Happy Birthday, sweetheart."
I took the doughnut, holding it in my hand for a few beats. I could see that the only thing keeping the lid on the pot that was now boiling inside my mother was her love for me. It looked out of her eyes at me, saying, "Please be happy with this. I want you to have a happy birthday. I tried to make it special. Please don't be disappointed." And I realized, looking into my mother's eyes, that I wasn't.
I took a bite of the sweet, chewy goodness and let it sit on my tongue. I rolled it around my mouth, feeling the satisfying way it chomped between my teeth. I swallowed it slowly, and my stomach jumped as it hit, clamoring for more. I ate that doughnut probably the slowest that I've ever eaten anything in my life. I savored every bite, except the last three, which went to my siblings, whose puppy-dog looks told me that I really couldn't eat it all by myself. But I ate most of it. Because, after all, it was my birthday.
As the first and second days off the ship rolled past, Islanders would periodically appear at our door, with steaming plates of unknown substances in their proffered hands. We dined on smoked fish, fish soup, fish on rice, fish on taro, with sometimes a side of disgustingly grey, sticky, gelatinous taro pudding on the side. We would sneak out at night to feed that to the fishes, subversive and sinister as the New York mob.
The third day on Luaniua was my birthday. I woke to my mother prying open the plywood crates that had come on the ship with us.
"I am making donuts for your birthday breakfast!" she announced bravely. We all clamored round her; already the island diet had grown old, and we were starving for some comfort food, something to remind us of home. She continued to dig in the crates. A wok appeared. After that, a single Bunsen burner. Thirty minutes later, Mom had unpacked half the crates we owned, and a pile of necessities was slowly growing beside her. Us kids were starting to protest in hunger, ("Hurry, Moooom!"), while Dad had long since given up and made off into the village to start his day of language learning and relationship building. I could see the sweat droplets start to gather on my mother's face, as the stress rose within her.
You can tell that my mom is getting stressed out because it builds up from her feet. Like the old-timey Donald Duck cartoons, when he starts getting mad and the red rises from his toes, until it finally bursts his head and steam pours from his ears. My mom does this, only it's when she's stressed out.
So the stress was building, and us kids were whining and complaining. She staved us off with a plate of leftover rice and fish broth as she finally located her mixing bowl and spoons. No cookbook had surfaced yet, but the intrepid heroine of this little story quickly went to plan 'f', and started throwing ingredients that might make up donuts into her bowl. The stress was now showing in her arms, as they stiffly beat the flour and leavening just a little harder than was necessary.
Matthew and Nathan were the next to give up the wait, wandering outside to meet the ever-present spectators of 'The White Man Show'. They had commenced a game of shoot-the-rubber-band with the village kids when Mom finally got the burner started. However, a wok, as it turned out, is not designed well for deep frying. The oil never got hot enough to really cook a doughnut the way it's supposed to be cooked, and after several tries, my mother finally managed to produce one sad little circle, lopsided and still a bit chewy in the very middle. This she handed to me, with the red simmering just a little below her ears. "Happy Birthday, sweetheart."
I took the doughnut, holding it in my hand for a few beats. I could see that the only thing keeping the lid on the pot that was now boiling inside my mother was her love for me. It looked out of her eyes at me, saying, "Please be happy with this. I want you to have a happy birthday. I tried to make it special. Please don't be disappointed." And I realized, looking into my mother's eyes, that I wasn't.
I took a bite of the sweet, chewy goodness and let it sit on my tongue. I rolled it around my mouth, feeling the satisfying way it chomped between my teeth. I swallowed it slowly, and my stomach jumped as it hit, clamoring for more. I ate that doughnut probably the slowest that I've ever eaten anything in my life. I savored every bite, except the last three, which went to my siblings, whose puppy-dog looks told me that I really couldn't eat it all by myself. But I ate most of it. Because, after all, it was my birthday.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Potty Training, Island Style
We stood there on the beach for a few dazed minutes, blinking our eyes to adjust them to the blinding sunlight that the sand reflected up at our faces, which magnified every color and image we saw. At first there were predominately children pressing around us. It seemed as if the rocks themselves had turned into kids and swarmed us at once, some mystic self-defense ritual that the island possessed. But then the sharp rebukes of adults cut across the childish chatter (I could only imagine what they were saying to themselves. WHY were they staring so hard?) and the kids backed off a little.
A short, balding man came striding down the beach, and the crowd parted for him. My father greeted him, having met him on a previous scouting trip. This was the village priest, Father Nehemiah. I tried not to stare. He was wearing what looked like a skirt, but what was actually a length of cloth, wrapped towel-style around his waist and falling to his ankles. He was bare chested. "This is a priest?" I wondered incredulously to myself, deciding to reserve judgement until I had seen more of my new environment and its inhabitants. As Father Nehemiah led us through the village, I noticed that nearly all the men were wearing the cloths, too (which I would later learn were called lava lavas). They, too were bare chested. The women also wore the lava lavas, wrapped tight under their armpits, or, (gasp!) at their waists. I saw some tee shirts here and there, and a couple of shorts, but for the most part the Islanders' garb was foreign to me. Except the kids. They didn't have any garb.
I recognized a bag belonging to our family being carried ahead of us, in the same direction we were going. A second look revealed a lot of our luggage following our little caravan as we made our way through the village. We came to a halt in front of a hut that looked the same as every other hut we'd passed. It had a steep, shaggy roof of leaves that reached almost to the ground on both sides. Its walls were some sort of woven plant material, with spaces left for a few windows and doors. It looked very dark inside the hut. There was a neat yard of white stones in front, bordered by some lush, tropical plants, whose names I did not know.
This was Father Nehemiah's house. When we entered it, we saw our bags in a neat pile in the corner. Then another strange thing happened. People were thronging into the house after us, and started taking everything in it (except the white people's stuff), and walking out.
"You will be staying here," Father Nehemiah explained stiffly in Pidgin, "until we build a house for you." He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, then motioned for us to sit on some mats that had been laid out in a square on the dirt floor. "Would you like some tea?"
Why anybody would want scalding hot tea at midday in the tropics, I couldn't imagine, but was too afraid of offending to refuse. So I sat there, tracing circles in the dirt with the wet bottom of my mug as the grown ups talked. And talked. And talked. Father Nehemiah's wife was introduced, a sharp-eyed woman named Valina. Thankfully she wore her lava lava under her arms. Village kids poked their brown faces through the windows, lined the doorway, I could even see eyes blinking at me from where the wall mats met the dirt floor. I could hear their childish voices, and although I didn't know their language, I knew their tone. "Look at the white kids!" I could imagine them saying. "Look at their hair! Hear how funny they talk!" I shifted from my left butt bone to my right, impatient of the grown up ritual of meeting and greeting.
What was I to do, except fall back on the old kid stand-by for getting out of unwanted situations? "Mom," I whispered, poking her in the leg.
"Be quiet, Danica," she said, in a tone honed by years of rote repetition.
I waited a minute. "Mom," I whispered, this time more urgently. She looked at me with a sigh of surrender that I knew meant that I had won and now had her attention. "Mom, I need to go to the bathroom."
This sparked an embarrassing discussion among the adults that I didn't understand, and Valina rose. "Come," she said, motioning to my mother and me.
As we walked out the back of the hut, she shooed children away so that only a few brave ones dared to follow us at a distance. As we picked a path through the jumble of huts, I wondered what type of outhouse we would use here. I had received the jungle training given to all good little missionary-kids-in-training, and considered myself an expert. I knew that there were outhouses where you did your business on a seat over a hole dug in the ground, ones where you just squatted over the hole (I hoped it wouldn't be that type), even ones built over the ocean, so that the tide came and took your business away every day, and little fish thrived on the extra protein you provided them.
We reached the beach, and I looked around expectantly. "Ah!" I thought to myself. "It will be over the ocean! I wonder how far we have to walk to get far enough away from all the houses?" The above-water model was my favorite, anyway, because you got to watch the waves coming and going, and the fish swimming underneath you as you sat there. It was to my great dismay, therefore, when Valina proceeded to walk straight into the ocean. None of the three of us having the language skills that the men enjoyed, my mom and I could do nothing but follow her. "Maybe she has to go fishing first?" I wondered to myself. "That's pretty rude when you know someone has to go!"
We got out to about waist deep for the women (and up to my chest) when Valina started motioning at me. I stared blankly at her, then looked at my mom for support. Her face was carefully controlled, her cheeks pulled back in a polite, 'there's nothing at all abnormal about this situation' expression. "Danica, I think she means you go here. In the water," she added, when she saw my horrified expression.
Uh oh.
My goose was cooked now. I didn't even have to go, and I had made my unsuspecting mother and one of the only two people we knew on this whole atoll get wet for no reason other than that I had wanted to get out of an uncomfortable situation. So I did the only thing any kid in their right mind would do. I moved away from the adults, and winced up my face a little, pretending that something was happening. After a safe interval, I announced I was done, and we waded back through the waves, Valina leading the way, followed by my mother, and me bringing up the rear. And this was the way I was introduced to the biggest bathroom I'd ever used, and have ever used since.
A short, balding man came striding down the beach, and the crowd parted for him. My father greeted him, having met him on a previous scouting trip. This was the village priest, Father Nehemiah. I tried not to stare. He was wearing what looked like a skirt, but what was actually a length of cloth, wrapped towel-style around his waist and falling to his ankles. He was bare chested. "This is a priest?" I wondered incredulously to myself, deciding to reserve judgement until I had seen more of my new environment and its inhabitants. As Father Nehemiah led us through the village, I noticed that nearly all the men were wearing the cloths, too (which I would later learn were called lava lavas). They, too were bare chested. The women also wore the lava lavas, wrapped tight under their armpits, or, (gasp!) at their waists. I saw some tee shirts here and there, and a couple of shorts, but for the most part the Islanders' garb was foreign to me. Except the kids. They didn't have any garb.
I recognized a bag belonging to our family being carried ahead of us, in the same direction we were going. A second look revealed a lot of our luggage following our little caravan as we made our way through the village. We came to a halt in front of a hut that looked the same as every other hut we'd passed. It had a steep, shaggy roof of leaves that reached almost to the ground on both sides. Its walls were some sort of woven plant material, with spaces left for a few windows and doors. It looked very dark inside the hut. There was a neat yard of white stones in front, bordered by some lush, tropical plants, whose names I did not know.
This was Father Nehemiah's house. When we entered it, we saw our bags in a neat pile in the corner. Then another strange thing happened. People were thronging into the house after us, and started taking everything in it (except the white people's stuff), and walking out.
"You will be staying here," Father Nehemiah explained stiffly in Pidgin, "until we build a house for you." He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, then motioned for us to sit on some mats that had been laid out in a square on the dirt floor. "Would you like some tea?"
Why anybody would want scalding hot tea at midday in the tropics, I couldn't imagine, but was too afraid of offending to refuse. So I sat there, tracing circles in the dirt with the wet bottom of my mug as the grown ups talked. And talked. And talked. Father Nehemiah's wife was introduced, a sharp-eyed woman named Valina. Thankfully she wore her lava lava under her arms. Village kids poked their brown faces through the windows, lined the doorway, I could even see eyes blinking at me from where the wall mats met the dirt floor. I could hear their childish voices, and although I didn't know their language, I knew their tone. "Look at the white kids!" I could imagine them saying. "Look at their hair! Hear how funny they talk!" I shifted from my left butt bone to my right, impatient of the grown up ritual of meeting and greeting.
What was I to do, except fall back on the old kid stand-by for getting out of unwanted situations? "Mom," I whispered, poking her in the leg.
"Be quiet, Danica," she said, in a tone honed by years of rote repetition.
I waited a minute. "Mom," I whispered, this time more urgently. She looked at me with a sigh of surrender that I knew meant that I had won and now had her attention. "Mom, I need to go to the bathroom."
This sparked an embarrassing discussion among the adults that I didn't understand, and Valina rose. "Come," she said, motioning to my mother and me.
As we walked out the back of the hut, she shooed children away so that only a few brave ones dared to follow us at a distance. As we picked a path through the jumble of huts, I wondered what type of outhouse we would use here. I had received the jungle training given to all good little missionary-kids-in-training, and considered myself an expert. I knew that there were outhouses where you did your business on a seat over a hole dug in the ground, ones where you just squatted over the hole (I hoped it wouldn't be that type), even ones built over the ocean, so that the tide came and took your business away every day, and little fish thrived on the extra protein you provided them.
We reached the beach, and I looked around expectantly. "Ah!" I thought to myself. "It will be over the ocean! I wonder how far we have to walk to get far enough away from all the houses?" The above-water model was my favorite, anyway, because you got to watch the waves coming and going, and the fish swimming underneath you as you sat there. It was to my great dismay, therefore, when Valina proceeded to walk straight into the ocean. None of the three of us having the language skills that the men enjoyed, my mom and I could do nothing but follow her. "Maybe she has to go fishing first?" I wondered to myself. "That's pretty rude when you know someone has to go!"
We got out to about waist deep for the women (and up to my chest) when Valina started motioning at me. I stared blankly at her, then looked at my mom for support. Her face was carefully controlled, her cheeks pulled back in a polite, 'there's nothing at all abnormal about this situation' expression. "Danica, I think she means you go here. In the water," she added, when she saw my horrified expression.
Uh oh.
My goose was cooked now. I didn't even have to go, and I had made my unsuspecting mother and one of the only two people we knew on this whole atoll get wet for no reason other than that I had wanted to get out of an uncomfortable situation. So I did the only thing any kid in their right mind would do. I moved away from the adults, and winced up my face a little, pretending that something was happening. After a safe interval, I announced I was done, and we waded back through the waves, Valina leading the way, followed by my mother, and me bringing up the rear. And this was the way I was introduced to the biggest bathroom I'd ever used, and have ever used since.
A Portrait of My Parents
My story begins, as most pertaining to children do, with my mother and father. My dad can best be described by a mug my mom gave him in the eighties. It has a picture of a rainbow, which arches the span of the mug and ends as a cascade of bricks forming a wall. The caption reads, "Under Construction". My dad always has a project he is building either with his hands or with his mind. He constantly talks about his grand dreams and plans - some of which get done, while the rest remain gloriously incomplete as castles in the sky, untouched by reality or harsh physicality.
My mom, on the other hand, has her feet firmly planted on solid ground. She is a giant willow tree, her branches supple and far reaching, with lots of room underneath her to shelter, hide or rest. Her roots cling to relationships, memories, traditions, anything that can stay substantial in her ever-changing life.
My parents met and fell in love in the height of the disco era, although they were more flower children than club hoppers. They saw the first Star Wars movie on their honeymoon. They moved to Austin, TX to start a fledgling software company (more rainbows) a few years later, bringing my older brother, Nathan, myself, and my sister Anna in tow. There, they also began building the house of their dreams, my mother wielding a hammer during the day as she looked after the three of us and grew my brother, Matthew, in her belly. Dad would come home from nursing his new company to work late into the night, building his own private castle.
I am convinced that had Dad and Mom known Ma and Pa Ingalls, they would have packed up the covered wagon right along with them, and headed West. I would have grown up running the prairies with Laura and Mary, and mean ole' Nelly Olson. As it happened, though, there were enough uncharted territories in 1989 to fulfill my parents' wanderlust. And that's where the little island of Luaniua comes in.
My mom, on the other hand, has her feet firmly planted on solid ground. She is a giant willow tree, her branches supple and far reaching, with lots of room underneath her to shelter, hide or rest. Her roots cling to relationships, memories, traditions, anything that can stay substantial in her ever-changing life.
My parents met and fell in love in the height of the disco era, although they were more flower children than club hoppers. They saw the first Star Wars movie on their honeymoon. They moved to Austin, TX to start a fledgling software company (more rainbows) a few years later, bringing my older brother, Nathan, myself, and my sister Anna in tow. There, they also began building the house of their dreams, my mother wielding a hammer during the day as she looked after the three of us and grew my brother, Matthew, in her belly. Dad would come home from nursing his new company to work late into the night, building his own private castle.
I am convinced that had Dad and Mom known Ma and Pa Ingalls, they would have packed up the covered wagon right along with them, and headed West. I would have grown up running the prairies with Laura and Mary, and mean ole' Nelly Olson. As it happened, though, there were enough uncharted territories in 1989 to fulfill my parents' wanderlust. And that's where the little island of Luaniua comes in.
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