Level 3

I've taken many steps on this runway by now

They say culture shock has 4 stages. First is the honeymoon phase, where everything is new and exciting and anything that is different from what you’re used to is considered novel. Stage two is where you find yourself getting frustrated with those differences, and realizing that you really do miss home and familiar things. If you stick it out long enough, you’ll work through the third stage of learning how to adapt and function and understand your host environment. Your network of community begins to grow and you begin to develop your everyday life routines. Finally one day you will find yourself realizing that you’ve crossed the long bridge from “I want to go home!” to “Hey, this is normal life.” They say this fourth and final "acceptance" stage doesn’t mean you’re an expert on your host culture, but you’re at the point where you are starting to become bicultural and are able to really start participating fully in your host culture. Life has taken on a normalcy and you feel a sense of belonging.

The Parts Room is much less lonely these days

That’s my spin on the four stages (and you can do a web search to read more descriptions of them). Lately I’ve been thinking about my own journey through these stages and it’s interesting to see how far I’ve come since landing in Papua a year and a quarter ago. I haven’t quite made it to the last stage in the progression, but I’m happy to have made it to where I’m at, as I continue to slowly learn the language and strengthen friendships. It hasn’t been easy getting this far, for sure. Just read my blog entry from a year ago, where I briefly showed a glimpse of what I was experiencing while in the midst of the second stage, which ironically had very little to do with culture. It’s been a one-of-a-kind learning curve.

But back to culture. Each month I jot down ideas that pop into my mind about what I could write about for this blog and this time I’ve just been remembering some of the amusing language and culture lessons I’ve learned over the past year. So let me share a few that come to mind.

First off is a Bahasa word that gave me a good deal of perplexity early on. It seemed that everyone liked to use the word “already” for everything. I would get on the back of a friend’s motorbike, and he would ask “Sudah? (Already?)”. I would finish eating and someone would ask, “Sudah?”. The person who borrowed a campus vehicle would announce in the WhatsApp group that the pickup had “already” returned. To my English-speaking mind, the word seemed to imply impatience or prematureness.

I finally made the connection that since this language doesn’t have tenses like English, the word "sudah" gives the sense of something having been accomplished rather than still being in the works. This little insight into the way of speaking has been helpful for me when it comes to understanding what my friends and colleagues say when we talk in English, as they tend to carry that mode of expression over from Bahasa. So when an office worker asks me “Did you already send me the document?” and it was only requested just a short while ago, they’re not trying to rush me. And likewise when someone says that they “already came back from town”, they’re not trying to say they came back early. They simply came back.

Another somewhat unique expression to me is the announcement that someone is going to “go first”. My housemate would tell me “I will go first,” when he was getting ready to head out the door to work. Again, to my English-speaker’s mind, associating the word “first” with “Me”, “Myself’, or “I” instantly sets off warning bells in my mind about lessons learned in childhood—it’s better to let others go first. But it has nothing to do with pushing to the front of the line or competing to see who will be first. The expression is simply the polite equivalent of the English way of saying, “I’m going ahead.” It’s just a way to let the other person know you’re heading out, and "dulu"—first—is really just a filler that reiterates the obvious, that you’re going ahead of them.

There are many such examples of how direct translation doesn’t always work out. Just as my Indonesian friends will use English words to say Bahasa phrases, I try to use Bahasa words to communicate English phrases and sometimes people just stare at me, trying to figure out what this bule is trying to say. Like when I learned the word for “when” and would try to use it try to talk about stuff that happened in the past. That usually injected confusion, and I eventually discovered it seems to be more a word to be used for asking about something that hasn’t happened yet and there was another word I needed to use. But, hey, it’s just all part of what makes learning a language intriguing and fun! And of course there are those hilarious language faux pas moments that everyone has. I haven’t had too many—yet. But at least one possible accident comes to mind, as I think I told a villager that I don’t drink cow’s milk but rather donkey milk. The word for soybean—kedelai—and donkey—keledai—are too awfully similar.

Getting ready to go on Staff Picnic in style!

So far, I’ve been finding the Indonesian culture to be welcoming and easy to adapt to. Some things I find amusing. Like how it’s considered essential to have a banner for any and every event that your organization or church is putting on—and if you put English words on it, the better. Or how an introduction of a new individual in staff morning worship is always followed up with a question as to the person’s status—are they single? Or some specifically Adventist ways of doing things that have developed in this local setting, like the MC picking a group of people on the spot to do the musical selection in church. “Today the song of praise will be given by…(picks something randomly out of his/her head)—all the men!” (or all the women, or all the singles, or all the fathers/mothers/young people, etc.).

I’m still learning the normal things to do in various social situations, like how you really can’t give too many handshakes. I’m accustomed to slipping into church unobtrusively, but I’m learning that it's not quite the way to arrive here. It’s important to greet those around you with a handshake and “Selamat Sabat” as you’re making your way to your seat, sometimes even if the Bible study discussion has already started. And then after church is finished, it’s pretty much a given that everyone will shake everyone else’s hands—even if you they already shook each other’s hand when they arrived.

Going from just faces to friends.

These are just a few snatches from what I’ve been learning. It’s hard to capture everything in one blog post, and I also have no idea how much more I have to learn during the rest of my journey here. But as I mentioned earlier, it’s good to be where I’m at and slowly, but steadily moving forward. Though a lot of the conversations still go over my head, I feel comfortable in a group of people talking Bahasa. It’s familiar now. I know how to get around and buy the various things I need and interact with some of the people I might encounter in the process. That’s familiar now. There are great people to work and worship with. They’re familiar now.

Christmastime in a place that never gets cold is familiar now too. As we wrap up the year in our respective corners of this tremendously diverse world, may our thoughts return to the One who took the greatest cultural leap when He was born that first Christmas day. I wish you all a truly Merry Christmas.

Man's Favorite Sport (not)

Sentani Hypermarket: Your satisfaction is our pride...

Last entry was about food. In this one I’ll share a bit about what it’s like to go grocery shopping. Here in Papua you have two main sources where you can buy your food: a store, or the market. The market is going to be the best place to find fresh produce, of which there is an abundance. The bigger food stores will also have some kinds of fruits and vegetables, but those items usually look like they’ve gone there to die. Local markets are really easy to get to, though, and there’s even one about 5 minutes’ walk away from my house.

The biggest market is in the heart of Sentani. Referred to as Pasar Baru, this place is teeming with activity and is chock-full of all sorts of things from buah merah (a red something-rather that I haven’t sampled yet), to blocks of sago, to stuff I don’t even recognize yet. Of course you can get the well-known items like tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplant, etc. No lettuce in these parts of Papua, though, so you can make do with Chinese cabbage. But if you need to replenish your stock of pinang, there’s certainly plenty of that all around. Just kidding, I don’t think you don’t want betel nut.

Yeah, I used this picture last year, but forgot to take more

Pasar Baru looks fairly navigable from the front, but once you start to poke around further inside it starts to feel like you’re in a labyrinth, and since I haven’t gone through there that many times yet, it’s still easy to get lost among the many back passageways. There are some familiar landmarks I’ve started to recognize, like the meat section, with the vendors waving duster-like swatters over the dead carcasses to keep the swarms of flies from settling. When I see—or rather smell—it, I know I’m on the right track to arriving at one of the better spots to buy things like potatoes and onions and other vegetables. After that I hazard a few turns, perhaps spotting the place where guys are processing coconuts, and usually manage to find my way to the fruit section before finishing the rounds and popping out along side of the market grounds.

It’s certainly a very different experience shopping in such a place compared to Winco or Safeway. No price tags on anything—you just have to ask how much the item you want costs and practice hearing your Indonesian numbers. If you are stocking up and need to haul a bunch of groceries, there aren’t shopping carts. But you can hire a wheelbarrow driver who will accompany you around the market and make sure to keep your stuff safe. He can probably tell you where to find something you’re looking for too.

Now if you want to buy food items that don’t come under the category of fresh produce, then it’s time to go to a store. There are plenty of little shops all along the roadside, but if you’re looking for more than just instant noodles or Pocari Sweat, then you’ll want to check out the two main supermarkets in town, Hypermarket and Saga. If you can’t find what you’re looking for in one, maybe the other one has it. Or maybe what you saw last week on the shelf will take 3 months to appear again, like it did for the kind of soy milk that I like to buy.

There are always plenty of cool designs to choose for your ride.

It’s about a 15-minute drive to the “mall” in Sentani where Hypermarket is. After arriving in Papua, I was initially dependent on catching rides with other folks going that way if I wanted to do some shopping for dry-goods staples like quick oats or whole grain rice. But after a couple months here I started learning how to use the taxi system. At first I was rather intimidated about the whole idea of trying to figure out public transportation with my very limited Bahasa comprehension. But after figuring out how simple it is, I wish I would have started using it sooner!

Throughout the day there are always tons of little white mini vans driving back and forth on the main road in front of the campus. These are the taxis—angkot in other parts of Indonesia. Getting one is as easy as standing by the side of the road and putting out your hand as one approaches. As far as getting to where you want to go, that’s pretty easy since there’s only 1 main road going to Sentani and the main stores are right along it. The taxi runs more like a small bus, and so you don’t even have to tell the driver where you want to go; you simply indicate when you want to get off, and he’ll pull over right there. The price? 5,000 rupiah, or about $0.35. One of these days I need to try out going a bit further afield using the taxis, as I’ve only been as far as Sentani. You can go all the way to Jayapura if you want, but that does mean changing taxis a few times.

Dec 1 I'll be setting up the tree the Boyds left for me

Last Sunday I introduced my housemate Timothy to the bigger versions of the supermarkets in Abepura, about an hour’s drive away. Luckily for us, the campus pickup was available, so he was able to drive us there for our shopping spree. I manage to make it out to Abepura every few months or so and it’s a good opportunity to stock up on things that don’t show up in the stores here in Sentani.

Ah, yes, the fruit jam shelf on the right. A bit more variety here.

We stepped into the first supermarket and were greeted by a rocking-out version of Joy to the World playing over the speakers and a large stock of little plastic Christmas trees. Oh, that's right - Christmas is (sort of) around the corner! Tim and I combed our way through the store searching for the various things we needed. He was particularly happy with the stock at Saga, even finding some vegetarian seasoning that his family uses back home. I found some snacks that weren't loaded with MSG and also managed to get several kinds of preservative-free fruit jam. No V-Soy drink at the first store, though, and the second supermarket had the price so high I lost my appetite for it. I'll survive by making my own coconut milk with carton coconut cream and water for the meantime. It actually works pretty well, don't worry.

Overall it was about a four-hour excursion and we managed to come back with some nice treats. And having gotten the first dose of Christmas music, I was reminded that there will be plenty—plenty—more of that to come! But in the meantime, I’ve got a jar of sun-dried tomatoes from California to enjoy.

There's no lack of variety in shirt designs here

Expat Eats

Tropical colors never fail to make the picture pop

Alright, this one’s on everyone’s favorite topic: food! One of the first questions I had when I started to pack for Papua was what would I be able to find to eat once I got here. With the help of folks with present and past experience living in Doyo Baru, I was able to form a bit of the picture in advance of what was available - lots of tofu and tempeh and soy milk, staples like oats and flour, and even the canned Chai Pow Yu gluten that I love. And of course plenty of fruits and vegetables. Rice was a given. Special things, however, I would have to bring in my suitcase, like nutritional yeast or special seasonings.

After arriving, I got a good orientation of what was currently available, as I followed Wendy Roberts around the Sentani pasar and tagged along with Ruth Boyd to the supermarkets in Abepura. It was nice to see there were indeed quite a few ingredients to work with and I wouldn’t have to subsist on just rice and beans. (Good thing too, because the beans here don’t seem to ever get soft, however long I cook them).

Some items were missing, however. The only available bread was white bread with milk in it; I eat wholewheat bread and I’m a vegan. Apart from sesame, any other kind of seeds—pumpkin, sunflower, chia, flax—had to be special-ordered from Jakarta. There were no sugar-free fruit spreads, just very sweet pineapple and strawberry jam. And of course any kind of vegan substitute bread spread like margarine or mayo was nowhere on this side of Indonesia.

Bread is important to me, so I got to work on that early on. I immediately ran into a problem, however, as I couldn’t seem to find bread pans anywhere. That was one thing I hadn’t thought of bringing in my three (yes three) suitcases, and now I was discovering that most things related to baking simply weren’t sold around here. I managed to find a couple sets of measuring cups, but no cookie sheets or measuring spoons. Wendy bailed me out by giving me a couple bead pans she wasn’t using anymore. I breathed a sigh of relief when I was able to start turning out loaves (some more successful than others) of bread. Eating rice three times a day is stretching it a bit for me, but when I saw I was able to make bread, I decided I was going to be able to survive! Since then, Barokah Bakery has opened up and I can buy wheat bread from them, making it a lot more convenient.

I would say that the supermarket experience here is a mix of being able to find the everyday fare you would expect in a Safeway or Grocery Outlet—pasta, canned vegetables, flour, sugar, corn flakes—and wistfully wishing there were specialty items items like tahini, sunflower butter, crackers without milk in them, tortilla chips without milk or MSG in them, or even simple things like apple juice without added sugar. The couple times I’ve traveled out of Indonesia this last year, I’ve eagerly devoured all the things I can’t get here, and even brought back a suitcase-full of food from Lebanon!

But, despite the reality that this island doesn't have many of the things I'd taken for granted back home, I must say I certainly haven’t landed in a desert. There's a good deal available, and I'm told that a lot more products have been showing up on the shelves lately, compared to just a few years ago. So it's quite doable to make a good variety of tasty dishes.

No berries for sale around here - so what is it?

As an American with European influence (or the other way round), I tend to like to eat traditional Western-type breakfasts, hot food for lunch, and bread for supper. So for morning menu items, I’ve enjoyed tropical smoothies with homemade granola or corn flakes, potatoes and tofu, pancakes, muesli, and of course the reliable standby of oatmeal. I even occasionally make grits with the corn meal that Barokah Bakery grinds.

Vegan spreads are hard to come by, but with some creativity I’ve been able to make some homemade spreads that do the trick. I was very happy to learn of one store that usually stocks garbanzo beans, so I pick up a couple cans every now and then and make hummus, sometimes using toasted sesame seeds if I’ve run out of tahini that I’ve packed in. Eggplant is super cheap here, and as I write I can smell the aroma of roasting eggplant as I get ready to make some baba ganoush.

Lately I’ve also been experimenting with aquafaba (a fancy name for the water from the chickpea can) and I was amazed the first time I tried to make a vegan mayo spread with this magical ingredient. I’ve tried blending oil slowly into lemon juice and vinegar and water before, but of course it always just turns into salad dressing. But this time when I drizzled the vegetable oil into the chickpea water that was swirling in the blender, something remarkable happened and the whole lot just stiffened up like cream! Refrigeration made it even firmer and I was delighted to discover I could make something that was something similar to my sorely missed Vegenaise from the U.S.!

There's a good reason why I eat rice for lunch everyday!

Now I have to say, my mealtimes don’t consist completely of just Western food. Actually I eat Indonesian food for lunch everyday! Since I thought I’d be pretty busy with flying, I started paying Ida, the wife of one of our maintenance staff, to cook lunch for me. The result is that I get the best of both worlds, and I’ve been enjoying many delicious vegetarian Indonesian-style dishes, from stir fries, to pumpkin sauce, to sweet potato greens in coconut milk, and of course always some kind of tofu or tempeh. The only downside is that I haven’t really learned how to make Indonesian food myself yet! I’ll have to take some lessons from Ida at some point before I leave.

Actually, it’s funny because not having to cook means that I can do it as a pastime now. Often I’ll try experimenting on the weekends during my time off. My housemates are always happy to try whatever comes out of the oven or off the stove - banana muffins, dragonfruit crisp, biryani, spring rolls, or one of Choqky’s favorites: oatmeal raisin cookies. Are you getting hungry yet? I’m afraid I am, and I’ve already had supper!

Meet my Mauritian roots

Ok, so the goal of this blog post wasn’t to show off or send you wandering to the fridge, but to simply let you in on what this expat’s everyday eating experience is like. And also show how it’s possible to be vegan and still enjoy good food.

Of course, some of you might be wondering, why am I vegan in the first place? And why continue to bother when it would be easier to just contextualize and eat what most everyone else in my host culture consumes? The answer to the first question is that’s how I was raised. So, true, my eating habits were largely the product of my upbringing. But the reason I’ve continued to stick with it into adulthood is because of a book I read a couple years ago called The China Study. Although I’d heard it cited many times, I never actually knew what was in it, so one day I picked the book up out of curiosity and decided to read it through myself. That did the trick of cementing in my mind why I want to continue to be plant-based. The science was very striking, and ongoing research—like the Adventist Health Study on America’s longest-living people group—continues to support Dr. Campbell’s findings that plants have protective properties, while foods, and in particular proteins, from animal sources have a cancer/diabetes/heart-disease promoting effect.

Apart from the physical benefits of being plant-based, there’s also reason to believe there are mental performance benefits too, as my classmate explains in this article. The modern research is certainly backing up what is likely the oldest clinical trial on record.

Alright, this wasn’t meant to turn into a research paper either. But despite the fact I can’t send you any real samples to try, I hope you’ve enjoyed this gastronomical read. And at the least, perhaps I’ve been able to provide some food for thought.

Reverse Culture Shock

In NL, it's a world designed around bikes

Culture Shock. That’s something you go through when you arrive in a new place, typically a foreign country, right? Yes. And no. I found myself having the strange and confusing experience of feeling the uncomfortable weight of Culture Shock this past month. Interestingly enough, it wasn’t while I was in Indonesia - I’ve gone through the most major parts of adjusting to my new residence by now - but rather it was visiting places that used to be a part of home.

This last month I was able to take a much-needed and highly-anticipated vacation. I’d been looking forward to taking my annual leave for a while, but with numerous factors up in the air, I didn’t know when it would happen, or even where I’d be traveling to. Typically, I’d be going back to my home base in California. But wedding bells were in the air for my sister, and it was looking more and more likely that I’d be taking a trip to her wedding in the Netherlands instead! And so, mid-August, I began the rather long pilgrimage to the place our family had gone so many times before in years past.

After a taxi ride, 4 flights, a night in Jakarta and a night in Doha, I was finally on the train speeding toward the Dutch town where we were all meeting up. I was going to be the first one to arrive so I felt rather grown-up, having the responsibility of getting the key and doing the shopping and keeping house for a whole night by myself. I guess one really does become a grown-up at some point in life, ha!

Everything about the journey was familiar. The crisp European air. The neatly rowed houses and tidy streets. The trains that ran like clockwork, and the green, cow-dotted pasturelands flashing by outside the window. But it was strange at the same time. There was a certain distaste about it all, something that’s hard to put into words, except that I almost felt as if I didn’t belong. That this place that I knew so well in my memories had suddenly assumed a foreign air and wasn’t mine anymore.

It was unsettling, and the sense persisted for a few days. It gradually disappeared, though, as I got in the swing of things with the family and got used to everyday life in the Netherlands again. And we had a blast—sightseeing, biking on the legendary Dutch bicycle system, and food shopping. Oh the food shopping!

Now don’t get me wrong; I eat well here in Indonesia. But when someone with European blood goes from a place that has basically one variety of bread to a country where people eat multiple kinds of bread three times a day—! I was like a kid in a…bakery. It was so much fun seeing and trying all the other interesting foods as well that I can’t get here: vegan mayonnaise, vegan cheese slices, soy yoghurt, Tartex, cheap bell peppers, lettuce, olives, the all-essential Stroopwafels, etc, etc, etc.

By the time the trip was coming to a close, I’d made the emotional progression from feeling lost in a home country to almost wishing I could settle down in Holland (if it weren’t for the miserably dreary weather the Dutch have—for 300+ days a year, I'm sure!). I gained an insight in the process, one that would help smooth the second part of my journey as I headed off for Beirut, Lebanon.

What can I say?

In reality, Beirut is even more home than Europe ever was because I actually lived in Lebanon as a child, while our family only visited Europe once a year on annual leave. The emotional dynamic of going back to that part of my previous life is complex, though. I’d already been able to visit Lebanon several times on service trips with classmates while I was in college, so it wasn’t an extremely far-removed place for me anymore. I was wondering how it would feel this time around, though.

Given what I’d just seen about how I experience reverse Culture Shock, I wasn’t surprised as I started through the same cycle again of feeling out of place and disoriented in a place I thought I was in love with. But this time I didn’t have to feel worried. Because I knew I would fall in love with the place once again. And I did.

Yes, I hate the pollution, the incessant traffic, the trash washing up on the coast. But there’s something irresistible about this country next to the sparkling Mediterranean, with its its sloping city-covered mountains twinkling with ten thousand lights at night, and the savors of its unique foods wafting through the air as you walk through its bustling streets. I find myself missing it even more as I write.

I had one more taste of Culture Shock when my vacation time ended, and that was coming back to where I currently live. It hasn’t been overwhelmingly strong. And I know it will get better. But there are some aspects about this whole global lifestyle thing I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. As I stepped inside the house, the first thing to hit me was a sense of loneliness, the realization I was on my own again, my family spread out across the world.

I think one thing I’m going to love the most about Heaven is that we won’t ever have to say goodbye again. To me, life is the fullest when you’re with the people you love the most. I am so much looking forward to being back together with everyone, and this time for good. There’s Someone else who feels the same way too. “I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also.” “I desire that they…may be with Me where I am…” John 14:3, 17:24.

Jumpseat

Photo taken by one of my cool sisters for their little brother.

Finding the inspiration to write can be like trying to find one of those agile mosquitoes in my house. One moment you’re getting bit - either by a mosquito, or the urge to write - and the next moment, both are gone, and nowhere to be found. That’s kind of the way I have been feeling this month as my blog-update deadline has approached. So I’m going to cheat and borrow some material from a moment of inspiration I had while working on another writing project recently. How shall we lead in? Let's try the classic introduction: A long time ago, in a land far away…

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

“Mom, can I have some ‘sleeping medicine’?” I was begging. It was the night before our family’s annual leave trip and I just knew I wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep that night without some extra help. After I persisted, she finally obliged and disappeared to get the coveted sleep aid. A few moments later she was back with a spoonful of mysterious but rather pleasant tasting granules sourced from a special, undisclosed supply. I gobbled it down and then lay in bed doing my best to think sleepy thoughts. Though I didn’t really remember getting drowsy, the stuff had the desired effect, because the next thing I knew, it was morning and time leave for the airport. Mom’s devious trick of feeding me a homemade placebo consisting mostly of sugar crystals had worked once again.

As our family drove to the Beirut International Airport through the predawn darkness, I was in high spirits, my face pressed up to the car window, eagerly waiting for my first glimpse of the planes. As we rounded a corner, I spotted them—the tall vertical stabilizers rising above the airport fence like the fins of some huge mythological creatures. My excitement doubled. Even as a six year-old I’d learned to recognize the paint schemes of my favorite airlines and I scanned the designs of the airplane tails as we passed them one by one: Cyprus Airways, KLM, Middle East Airlines, and of course, classic British Airways. That’s the one we’d be taking today.

Summer vacation was the highlight of each year. As General Conference missionaries, my parents were given annual leave and airfare to visit their respective European countries, in this case England and Holland. It was the time of year my sisters and I could experience the other half of our double lives, as we reconnected with grandparents, uncles and aunts, and cousins, and did all the things British and Dutch kids do—actually in our case, the things such kids who have Mauritian roots do.

But if living in the Middle East was being at home and going to Europe was “visiting home”, there was one more place that I felt just as at home at and that was in an airport, getting ready to get on an airplane. I relished every detail of the air travel experience and the memories of that distinct part of my life have been burned into my mind’s eye: standing in the check-in line while Dad collected all our passports to give to the agent, trying my best to see the intriguing X-ray monitor that was always turned just a little too much to the side for me to get a good look at, staring out the departure gate windows at the twinkling night-time airport lights and the bustling activity of ground vehicles going to and fro. And watching the planes.

I was crazy about planes and if there was one thing that was certain it was that when I grew up I was going to be a pilot. Yes, I was also going to be a scientist, a surgeon, an astronaut, and a few other things; but first and foremost, I wanted to be up in the cockpit of one of those sleek flying machines.  As it turned out, today I was going to get an early glimpse of that magical place.

After what seemed like an unbearable wait at the gate, the announcement finally came over the speakers that British Airways Flight 148 to London Heathrow was ready to board. We shuffled down the jet bridge toward the cabin door, the high whine of the APU filling the air and adding to my excitement of being back on a plane.

We found our row and as usual, and without question, my family gave me the window seat. I took in the view outside, the airport scene still twinkling but the sky above starting to turn a deep blue. A plane was taxiing slowly by, the passenger windows lighted up and its pulsing red beacon lights punctuating the dawning light.

The familiar bumps of the tug attaching to the nose wheel of our plane gave the clue that we were about to start pushing back from the gate. One of the stewardesses was working her way down the aisle checking seat belts and my heart rate quickened as I thought of something I was planning on asking her. Now wasn’t the right time, but I would give it a shot when we were in cruise.

I turned back to stare out the window in rapt attention and watch as we backed away from the terminal, paused, and then began the ponderous taxi to the runway. The aircraft turned, turned again, and then came to a momentary stop. After a pause the engines spooled up to partial thrust. Then the whine of the engines changed to a full roar and a thrill went through me as I was shoved back in my seat. I watched in wonder as the scenery sped by faster and faster until the view tilted and the ground smoothly fell away, buildings and features becoming tinier and tinier. That experience never got old.

Now I’ll admit that sitting up at cruise for several hours did get old pretty quickly, like it probably does for most people. And I didn't always get satisfactory answers to my queries about how long it was until we would be landing. Today I tried to see if Rachel had any idea.

"Just keep looking out the window and when you see the Eiffel Tower, then you'll know we're almost there," she smirked in reply. "The what-tower?" I began, quite unsatisfied with the flippant response.  But I trailed off as I spotted the pretty stewardess walking back down the aisle in our direction. That's right. I had something to ask her. I plucked up my courage and pressed the call button.

“Yes, love, how can I help you?” she stopped and asked in her English accent.
“I was wondering if you could give this picture to the pilot for me?” I asked earnestly, producing a detailed picture of a British Airways plane that I had spent hours drawing and coloring. A smile spread across her face.
“How would you like to give it to him yourself?” she asked.
My eyes widened and I instantly turned to look at Mom for approval. She was probably almost as surprised as I was, but was quick to nod her permission.
“Oh yes, please!” I stammered, my heart racing.
“Let me just check with the captain and then I’ll come back and get you, okay?”
She strode up to the forward galley and disappeared from view. A moment later she was back and motioning for me to follow.

We walked up the aisle, past the first-class passengers and to the very last thing you can normally see on a commercial flight: the gray, windowless door at the front of the cabin. The stewardess knocked on the door and poked her head inside. “Captain, your visitor is here.” She opened the door wider and ushered me in.

PC: https://www.aviation24.be/pictures/displayimage.php?pid=3623

I was awestruck as I slowly stepped into the cockpit. The place was roomy and sunny, much bigger than I'd imagined. Everything was distinctly light-gray colored, like the shade of an office cabinet and a row of colorful CRT displays adorned the instrument panel. And there, seated in front of me in their smart uniforms were the two pilots tending to some task. The man in the left seat turned around as I entered.

“Hello there young man!” the captain enthused. “Welcome to the cockpit. I’m Captain Williams and this is my copilot, First Officer Thompson,” he said, shaking my hand and introducing me to the man with the quiet smile in the right seat.

“This must be your first time to the cockpit?” Captain Williams asked as he saw me gazing about in fascination. I nodded, my gaze breaking from his cheerful face to look for the controls that I had expected to see in front of him. I was a bit surprised to discover there was no control column between the pilot's seat and the pedals in front. Instead, I spied a side-stick on either side of the cockpit, positioned by each pilot’s armrest—I had just learned something new about Airbus aircraft.

“Let's show you a few things then," Captain Williams began. "Right now the airplane is on autopilot, so it’s flying all by itself,” he explained. “In just a minute here, the autopilot is going to bank the airplane and change the heading.” He paused and then, sure enough, the plane entered a turn all by itself. “See that?” he beamed. I was impressed.

He pointed out some of the displays in front of him. In the middle of the instrument panel, I recognized a standby analog gauge that I’d seen before during my many hours of playing Microsoft Flight Simulator.

“Is that the artificial horizon?” I asked, pointing at the little miniature representation of an airplane with blue sky above and brown earth beneath.

“That’s exactly what it is,” Captain Williams chuckled. “Tell me, what are you planning on becoming when you grow up?” “I'm going to be a pilot,” I replied with no uncertainty.
“Well then, we might see you up here in a few years then,” he said with a knowing smile.

“Michael, you had a picture for the captain, didn’t you?” the stewardess reminded me. Oh yes! I’d nearly forgotten what I was clutching. I offered it to the jolly captain, who made all the appropriate oohs and ahs and thanked me sincerely for the artwork.

“Thank you for coming and visiting us, and do enjoy the rest of the flight, Michael,” he called out as the stewardess gently guided me back out the cockpit door. I had the biggest grin on my face as I climbed back into my seat. I must have talked my family’s ears off the rest of the flight, probably only taking breaks to periodically hound the cabin crew with requests for more orange juice. I was learning how to make good use of that call button.

But if I thought I’d had a once-in-a-lifetime experience in that short five-minute visit, it was about to get better than my wildest dreams.

The seatbelt sign had just come back on and the aircraft was slowly descending toward the clouds that perpetually blanket the English countryside. I was peering out the window, watching the fluffy cotton puffs get closer when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Looking up I saw my stewardess friend had returned.

“The captain wants to know if you’d like to watch the landing from the cockpit?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye. My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

Once again I was being led up to the front, this time to be securely strapped into a jumpseat behind the pilots. The stewardess clipped in the 4-point harness, cinched it down and then with a cheerful, “Enjoy!” she left me with the two pilots who were now quietly engaged with their task of performing the final approach.

Captain Williams glanced back to give me a quick smile and a wink. I grinned back and watched intently, as quiet as a mouse. Whereas when we were at cruise there wasn’t much of a view outside the cockpit except clouds and sky, now I could see the deep green British landscape spreading out beneath us, and out in front of the nose a brightly illuminated runway. London Heathrow.

A series of pulsing lights stretched toward the runway threshold, seemingly beckoning the aircraft to its touchdown zone. Everything seemed rather quiet and measured as the pilots flew the plane down the glidepath and toward the strip of pavement. Now I could see the captain making small inputs with his left hand on the sidestick, manually controlling the aircraft. The hand on the stick progressively moved a little quicker, side to side, forward and backward as the runway grew larger. The ground loomed and the nose smoothly rose into the flare attitude. Then before I knew it we were touching down and decelerating. It was over entirely too quickly!

As they shut the aircraft down, Captain Williams turned around to see me with my still-wide eyes. “Did you enjoy it?” he asked. “Oh yes!” I said, thanking him profusely. “Very good. We’ll be looking forward to seeing you when you come work for us in a few years,” he smiled.

I felt a bit timid standing outside the cockpit door waiting for my family to arrive at the front while all the passengers filed by and out onto the jetway, but the nice stewardess kept her hand on my shoulder and made sure I didn’t get swept off with the crowd. It wasn’t long until my family arrived, still rather amazed at what I’d managed to get myself into.

These kinds of opportunities—of which some are no longer possible in our current world—can be defining moments in a child’s life. Although I was already crazy about planes and knew I wanted to be a pilot, I think that visit to the cockpit was an event which was guaranteed to keep me hopelessly smitten with the flying bug. It’s something I’ve never forgotten…and never will.

My favorite kind of office window.

Twenty years later, I was living the dream. Not only had I learned to fly, I was helping others realize their dreams as well through my job as a flight instructor. And sometimes that meant getting my own neat opportunity to pay things forward and give a wide-eyed kid his or her first experience inside the cockpit of an airplane.

Admittedly, as a grown-up I've come to realize that even a dream job isn't glamorous and exciting day in and day out. The real stresses of trying to help a struggling student prepare for a stage check, the endless laps around the traffic pattern, the unbearably hot cockpits of trainer aircraft during blazing summer months—these were just some of the things that often had me more looking forward to the end of the day than to the next takeoff.

But one day it occurred to me again what I was actually getting paid to do on a daily basis. And so when I would start to get bogged down with the pressures or stresses of the job, I made it a point to do what instructors always tell their students to do... look out the window.

Remind myself what I was doing and allow myself to be excited again. Relish anew the sights that few people get to see on a daily basis. And realize I was flying. I was a pilot. It’s what I always wanted to be.

Welcome to My Diggings

Looks like a bunch of archaeologists digging up...tractors?

It’s writing day again! And I honestly don’t know what to write about, as this last month has been rather uninteresting as it comes to blogging material. Instead of waking up before the roosters and spending long days traversing the mountains with my instructor in PK-TCA, I’ve been sleeping in (relatively speaking) and working 8-hour days swinging a shovel with a crew of Papaun guys. Definitely a change of pace, but if I knew it in theory before, I know it in verity now: expect a diverse and ever-expanding job description when you’re in the mission field.

The flood in the middle of March really made a mess of things here. I’m amazed at how God protected us and has kept the flight operations running despite the loss of so much important infrastructure. But, unfortunately, there’s no getting around the fact that we have a lot of work piled up—literally!

All that darker soil you see piled up? It came out of the house.

There are three damaged, but salvageable buildings that need recovering. The flood left them inundated with a 3-4 foot thick layer of sand and of course an excavator can’t clean that mess up without taking down the building first, so it has remained for us to get it all cleared out…by hand. Darron, our Adventist Mission coordinator, got the ball rolling on the arduous task and hired some local guys to come help out. For weeks he could be seen sweating it out with the workers as they dug and pried and pulled all sorts of debris out of the building where his office was.

After getting back from the village, I pitched in for a few days as the work crew started on the second building. Helping out turned into taking over for Darron at the end of the month when his family finished their term here and said their final goodbyes. I was glad the Boyds could finally get a well-deserved break, although I have to admit I was a little jealous. After wishing them farewell at the airport, it was back to my diggings in the second building.

Not the greatest picture, but the floor is several feet below me.

It would have been interesting to note the days we started and finished, but I think it must have taken a good 2 weeks of full-time work with 5-6 guys to get the second building cleared of sand and mud. My favorite (cough) project was the little side room that I tackled with the youngest guy on the team. It was about the size of a large bathroom and the only way in and out was via the top 3 feet of doorway that was still clear. As I eyed the confined space, it was evident there was no particularly efficient way to get this one done. So we just climbed in and got going one shovelful at a time.

You could say he was staying on top of things.

I worked from the back of the room, tossing the sand forward toward the entrance where my coworker would load it into the wheelbarrow. The place had no ventilation and I was intrigued how after half an hour of working in there my clothes and I were as wet as if I had been standing out in the rain, due to the humidity and the fact I was sweating like a pig (or horse, or whatever actually sweats a lot). We spent 2 and 1/2 days in that cave. You could say it was a breath of fresh air—literally, hehe—to be finally done with that one.

Right side was dug out for renovation. Left will be smashed.

As of this writing, we have just completed clearing out building number three and have moved on to the last, relatively smaller projects that we will finish before we let the workers go for the time-being. I’ve been able to do the supervisor thing this week and leave the guys to do their job while I have spent most of the day in the hangar—not to get out of hard work, but because my supervisor needed my help with some projects related to the 100-hour inspection. I must say, although the Parts Room and I have a strained relationship, it was very nice to be back in a place with AC!

Not for actual use! Sorry, I was a bit bored.

As much as I hate to admit it, there have been some benefits to being on the digging crew. For one thing, I’ve gotten more exercise than I know what to do with (and picked up an enviable farmer’s tan during the outside stints). Secondly, though the progress has not been immediately perceptible, I’ve made some important strides with my Bahasa through working and directing my crew. Lastly, it has been a continued reminder of my utter lack of control in avoiding disaster and the truth that my life is completely in God’s hands.

It has been mind-boggling to observe the results of nature’s immensely destructive power and realize how all you own can be swept away or buried in moments. If I’m tempted to go back to my neighborhood in California where there isn’t a threat of flash floods, I’m reminded that the whole state is just one careless spark away from being burnt to a crisp during the dry summers. To be blunt, there is no 100-percent safe place in the world, and what can seem like a good place can change in an instant. And Bible students know that it’s only going to get worse.

And yet remarkably I have found over 100 references in the Bible that say in one way or another, “Don’t fear.” Is it because if you choose to not be afraid, fearful things won’t happen? We know that’s not the case. But is it because we have a big-picture perspective, we know there is a God who often intervenes remarkably, and we have the assurance that “even if” He doesn’t intervene there’s the hope of eternal life at the resurrection day? I think that’s a big part of the answer.

So as I look ahead and wonder what in the world things will be like a few months from now, a year from now, and beyond, I have a gentle reminder: “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things.” Matthew 6:34.

Swing Low, Sweet Charlie Alpha

Not in uniform today; I'm staying for a week in the mountains

A particularly steep airstrip looms in the windscreen of the Porter. It’s definitely not a beginner runway, so instead of trying my hand at the landing I’m just enjoying the ride as Gary makes the approach and touches down on the hillside clearing. We roll to a stop at the top, shut down, and perform the familiar routine of sliding open the cabin doors and offloading passengers and goods.

A few moments later it’s time for me to say goodbye—but this time it’s not to the people who have just gotten off, but to the pilot and plane that brought me here.

“See you next month,” Gary jokes as he shakes my hand and gets back in the plane. The engine spools up and before I know it, PK-TCA is rolling down the steep slope and gliding into the air. I have a strangely detached feeling as I watch the plane become smaller and smaller before disappearing over the far ridge. I’m with friends, otherwise I think the feeling would be a bit stifling. And I know that I'm just here for one week. At least that's the plan—with weather, scheduling, and unexpected circumstances, a plan in Papua is always subject to change.

It's strange to see your plane take off without you.

Despite the little bit of apprehension I have of being dropped in the mountains for a week, I know this is going to be a good adventure. I’m going to be staying in a jungle mountain village along with some Indonesian friends who will be opening an elementary school. Up until now the village has had no school and the parents have been asking for teachers for the last two years since the runway opened. I get to be present for this special time in the village’s history. I’ll also be getting plenty of time to practice and improve my Indonesian language skills.

If this isn't a fun way to eat your veggies, I don't know what is!

The week proves to be a fascinating cultural immersion experience, from joining the villagers for worship services in their church, to participating in a bakar batu, to spending a night with the village men in the honai laki-laki, or men’s hut.

The bakar batu is my favorite. Literally, "burn stones," the bakar batu is a true classic Papuan cooking event. The process, often ritualized by the village, begins with heating rocks over a fire in preparation for creating a big steam pile. After a shallow pit is dug, banana leaves are placed in the bottom, followed by a foundation layer of piping hot rocks. More banana leaves go on top and then it's time to pile in the food: sweet potatoes, taro root, many kinds of vegetable leaves, and finally some type of meat, usually a pig. Then everything is covered thoroughly with more banana leaves and hot rocks before being left to steam. After an hour or two, the food is finished cooking and then the feasting can begin! The steaming food is scooped out of the pit and served on a picnic blanket of banana leaves placed on the ground. Cross-legged diners dig in with their hands and everyone has a blast. Not exactly a gourmet appearance once it comes out of the pit, but it is actually pretty tasty!

Dig in! That's all food on top of the leaves, hehe

We're lucky enough to be there for two bakar batu events. And when the villagers find out we don't eat pig, they very considerately make a second smaller pit especially for us and put a chicken in there instead. My Indonesian friends enjoy the chicken, and I happily eat around it.

Village life is on a much slower pace than the outside world. There's always time to stop and chat, and many daily activities are done as a group. Regular afternoon rains hamper most outdoor activities and so a lot of time is spent sitting around the fire and talking. And as new arrivals, we have just become a great source of entertainment for the villagers during their long afternoons and evenings. From the day we arrive, at any given time there are at least a dozen or so adults and parents keeping us company in the building where we're staying. 

Of course, the children are very intrigued by the colorful posters now hanging on the walls. They don't have to wait long to find out what they're all about, as early in the new week the teachers hold the first day of school for seventy-some bright-eyed kids. The teachers dive right in and get the children organized and singing songs, playing games, and learning ABCs. I get tasked with guest teaching an English class for three of the older kids who have already gone to elementary school in another village. At this point, they don’t remember much of what I teach them, but at least we have fun while we’re at it, and after all, what can you expect in three days of class?

Honai laki-laki - aka, Man Cave

As we settle into a routine—white rice and stir fry for breakfast, school, white rice and stir fry to lunch, playing soccer in the afternoon or taking a rest, white rice and stir fry for supper, and visiting with folks before going to bed—the days steadily slip past and Friday pick-up day looms closer. At this point, it’s still anyone’s guess as to whether the plane will actually make it here on Friday. So far I’ve had a false report from the radio guy saying that Gary was coming to pick me up on Monday after only 3 days, and since then Gary’s been on the radio only once.

Now it’s Thursday and I’m sitting in the radio shack restlessly waiting for the sound of Charlie Alpha replying to the repeated calls from various villages. With the crackly HF radio as the only means of communicating with the outside world, it’s a step back in time to the days before cell phones and instant messaging. There is nothing instant about waiting for a busy pilot to turn up the volume on his radio in between takeoffs and landings—provided he’s out there in the first place.

Hanging out with the guys in the honai before hitting the sack

It turns out today the news is that Gary is sick. I wonder if that means pick-up day will get bumped or if he’ll feel well enough to fly in the morning. I’ve already mentally prepared myself to get delayed, having seen enough of the way the weather works to know that we could get socked in for days, barring any other random snags that might disrupt the schedule. Being mentally prepared to stay longer doesn’t take away from the work of having to get ready for a potential pick-up, however. With the runway 20-30 minutes of hiking away, I need to be all packed and ready to go in the event Gary calls up that he’s inbound to land. This is certainly turning out to be another educational experience, being on this side of the radio.

As Friday dawns, I impatiently wait for the radio operator to open the room and power up the unit. We join the half dozen or so villages trying to call Charlie Alpha, but there’s no answer. After half an hour of that I step out to go and join my friends for breakfast. But as I’m walking away I suddenly hear the crackling business-like voice of Gary coming from inside the shack. I turn right around and scramble to get on the mic.

“I have to check the flight schedule for today when I get to Dekai, but most likely will be coming to pick you up after the last flight. Check back in at 8:30,” he tells me after I manage to interrupt another village’s enthusiastic call to the plane. “Ok, 8:30,” I reply and then head off for what may be my second-to-last white rice and stir-fry meal for a while (I did enjoy the food, though!).

Waiting for the pilot to come on the radio. At least there is a radio

Come 8:30, I’m back in the radio shack, but for the next 2 hours there is absolutely no peep from Charlie Alpha. The radio guy is tired of calling, I’m tired of listening and sitting there. We go out to find something else to do. I figure that the plane will most likely come between 2:00 and 4:00. My guess is right; a couple hours later, we’re able to get a short message from Gary that he’ll plan on landing around 2:00.

And so after a last meal together with the teachers, it’s time to head down the hill and wait for the plane to arrive. With a cluster of kids running and chattering alongside me, I slip my way down the muddy trail, grateful for my rubber boots and rain pants. With rain every afternoon and evening, bringing the boots and rain suit has been the best thing I did in preparation.

The steep grass runway finally comes into view. There’s no plane yet, so the only thing to do is sit on the hillside above the strip, straining to catch a snatch of an engine’s whine. An hour goes by. Some more people from the village arrive at the bottom of the trail saying that Charlie Alpha is stopping at one more village and then will be over here shortly.

Charlie Alpha - "Comin' for to carry me home..."

Sure enough, a sound finally starts to fill the valley and up above a rainbow-colored Porter appears in a gap between the clouds. The plane circles lower and lower and then finally joins a final approach to land. The waiting is over; it looks like I really am going back to Doyo Baru today.

Once again I’m on the inside, this time waving to those who stay behind. Despite the cold and rain, I’ve enjoyed my time and I’m glad I have had the opportunity to live live alongside my teacher and village friends. But I have to admit I’m eagerly looking forward to a hot shower, sleeping in my own bed, and eating the way my Western upbringing has conditioned me.

I guess the saddest thing about flying airplanes is the goobyes

And yet as the strip falls away from beneath the tires and we climb into the cottony sky, I feel a twinge of guilt as I think of the teachers who aren't going home, but rather have left home to live in this remote, off-the-grid corner of the mountains. There’s no email or phone to communicate with loved ones, no electricity and no washing machine. Cooking is done over an open fire and there’s no supermarket to buy oil or rice when they run out. I get to have the adventure of flying around and then going back to a nice house with a fridge and running water, but these teachers are sacrificing all of that so that some kids in a faraway village can have a chance to have an education. If that isn't what you call real everyday heroes...

I’ll always remember the words of one of the village fathers as he thanked us for coming. “This is still a place of darkness; our children don’t yet know the ABCs. But praise God, He has brought you.”

“Happy is the man who finds wisdom, 

And the man who gains understanding; 

For her proceeds are better than the profits of silver, 

And her gain than fine gold. 

She is more precious than rubies, 

And all the things you may desire cannot compare with her.” 

Proverbs 3:13-15

After the Flood

Just as day is dawning...

4:00 a.m., same alarm but different bed and different place. It’s March 17, and we’ve been spending the last few days flying in Dekai area and parking in the mountain village of Korupun at night time. Demand for flights out of Doyo Baru was slowing down a bit and so the most profitable way to keep flying was to spend a week or so where the business is brisk and give time for more flights from home base to get scheduled.

After getting ready for the day, I follow Gary out of the guesthouse and we make our way in the gray early morning light to where the plane is parked at the top of the sloped runway. Folks are already astir as we begin the preflight and some kids are hanging around, interestedly watching us check the plane over. By 6:00, we start the engine and take off for the short 15-minute flight out the valley to the long, lowland runway in Dekai.

The ramp is glistening from the last night's rain as we taxi up to our parking position. The cargo and fuel cart aren’t out yet; it’s a Sunday morning so things will probably take a little longer to get up to full-speed with operations. We shut down and Gary takes a moment to catch up on his texts and emails. Korupun of course doesn’t have regular cell service, which has actually been nice in some ways.

I undo my seatbelt and wait for a moment till Gary is done so I can ask how much fuel to pump into the tanks. But he seems to be very absorbed in something he’s reading. I notice some messages popping up on my own phone, but ignore them. Then Gary turns to me and shows me his phone. Pictures of smashed cars on AAI campus. “There was a flood last night,” he says. I quickly look back at my phone and realize the messages are images of Doyo Baru also. I pull them up and see more incredible pictures: debris piled all over the place, vehicles nose-down and half-buried in mud, collapsed buildings. “Sounds like everyone’s ok, but Hendrik has a broken leg,” Gary says with a sigh.

Our loading guys have just shown up and they have the news as well. The day’s schedule—and the rest of the week’s, for that matter— is out the window; it’s time to make immediate preparations to return to Sentani. We take on as much fuel as possible and then head back to Korupon to pick up Gary’s family and then continue to Sentani. Apart from the grim pictures, we have no idea what we’ll find upon returning. Our airbase runway is definitely gone, so we will have to land at the commercial airport. As far as getting back to campus from there, there’s a chance we’ll be walking.

It looks bad from up here; just wait till you get on the ground.

The hour-long flight north seems strangely devoid of excitement and action. Just an empty sense of detachment, knowing that we’ve got a bad situation up ahead, but just not knowing yet how bad it is. As we descend toward Sentani area, Gary gets permission from ATC to spend a few minutes orbiting the Doyo Baru area so we can get photos for insurance. It’s a strange sight that comes into view. The perimeter by the main road is gone and scores of people are dotting the surface of a gray expanse that used to be our grass runway. On the edge, next to the road is the Cenderawasih Air PAC-750 that was in our old hangar for maintenance. It’s been washed clear out and the hangar itself is half collapsed. From the air we can see how a huge river has just poured through the middle of campus, sweeping a path of destruction and completely changing the landscape. Above the campus and far up the mountainside, gray landslide paths scar the Cyclops Mountain. The only words that come into my mind as we circle are, What a mess…

Development above campus. Used to be houses where the river is.

After landing at Sentani, we’re fortunate to be able to ride all the way back to campus with Rick, an AMA pilot. The 15-minute distance takes 2 hours to cover as traffic is crazy and parts of the road are reduced to one lane. We finally make it to campus and that’s when the real picture starts to sink in. Somehow the photos don’t quite have the same effect as actually standing there in person. If anything, the reality is worse.

I begin slowly making my way toward the far side of campus where my house is, and I have a hard time recognizing exactly where on the campus I am. The place has been transformed from a lush green jungle compound to a sandy riverbed. Trees and undergrowth are gone and in their place are large boulders. I don’t remember those being here, I think before realizing with alarm that the flash flood had carried these huge pieces of rock along as if they were marbles.

Approaching my neighbor's and my house.

Houses are gone and other buildings are smashed up and partly buried in silt, tree trunks and roots. The place where some of the single guys have been staying looks like three quarters of it was sliced off and snatched away. Part of the roof is still hanging over where the rooms used to be.

Campus friends have told me they think my house is okay, although perhaps with some water leakage. I hope it’s true, but I try to prepare myself for the worst as I approach the building. My neighbor’s yard is filled with about 2 feet of tangled branches and driftwood. A small log is sitting against the corner of my house and my lawn is buried beneath a thick layer of muddy sand. I reach for the door and gingerly turn the key and peak inside. I almost can’t believe my eyes. It’s spotless. All around are destroyed homes or at least muddied floors, and my house has not one trace of misplaced moisture inside.

"Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further..." Job 38:11

I spend the rest of the day wandering aimlessly back and forth across campus, not really knowing what to do. I go to the new hangar and poke my head inside the opening in the front where one of the large sliding doors has been opened a few feet. Dank air greets me as I look inside the gloomy dark place. The entire floor is caked with a few inches of gooey chocolatey muck, crisscrossed with a couple muddy-water-filled paths that some staff members tried to clear. The hangar is where the campus families took refuge last night when the flood was happening.

I listen to harrowing accounts of that night. (Click here to read Ruth Boyd's story). Intense rain, a constant low rumble that sounded like thunder but just kept on going, a strong earthy smell, everyone fleeing their houses as water started rising, people crowding around outside the hangar and trying to find a way to get inside the locked building, the onslaught of water and debris breaching the side door after everyone had managed to get inside, water flowing through the bottom of the hangar while the families waited in darkness on the second floor, and outside, beyond the campus property, cries for help all night long. It must have been awful.

Right now it appears things are relatively stable. The decision has been made to allow the single guys to stay in my house for the time being with the warning that if it starts raining hard again and water levels rise we should head to the hangar. Only one guy decides to move in with me, as the others are too traumatized to stay on this side of campus.

Darkness arrives and with it an eerie, foreboding feeling. No electricity on campus; just flashlights. My new housemate and I get back to the house and agree on a plan for the night. I will sleep first till midnight while he keeps watch and periodically goes out to shine the light around to keep potential looters away and keep an eye on water levels. I’ve already noticed that despite the fact the rains have stopped, the small leftover streams running through campus have seemed to get wider and deeper through the course of the day. If it starts raining again, whoever is on watch will wake the other up and we’ll head to the hangar.

After getting my backpack ready just in case, I climb into bed and do my best to fall asleep. I feel very uneasy. Finally, as my few hours before midnight evaporate, I manage to doze off.

Until I hear it. Light rain sprinkling outside. I’m instantly awake, paralyzed with nervousness, willing the pitter-patter to stop. It seems to slow down; I wait. And then it starts raining heavier. And keeps raining. Heavier now.

I wonder if my friend is going to come and wake me up or if he was out walking around when the downpour started. After a moment more of waiting I make the decision that we'll leave for the hangar. I get up, grab my stuff and go out to the front of the house where I find my friend sleeping an exhausted slumber on the couch. With difficulty I wake him up, tell him what we’re going to do, and then we head out.

We stop at my neighbor Stenli’s house to make sure he’s coming too. He says he is, he’s just getting some things together first. A moment later he appears with a small suitcase and we head out for the hangar, doing our best to step across the growing streams. I can still step through some with my waterproof low rise shoes, but there’s definitely a lot more water then when we arrived.

Arriving at the hangar, we slosh through that smelly water on the floor and then climb the stairs to the second floor where we drop our stuff. Then back down to start figuring out if everyone is making it back to the hangar from their houses. Roberts's arrive. Then Boyds. A good number of people are already here, having never moved out in the first place. Finally we’re all in.

Waiting for morning on the second floor of the large hangar.

We quickly try to secure things in the various ground level rooms, taking things off the floors and bottom shelves. Everything is done with flashlight. Gary decides to get a generator from his house so we can have a light in the hangar. If there’s going to be a breach in the hangar wall and we have to evacuate the hangar, we're going to need light in the chaos. I spot for him as he walks carefully through the swift-flowing water now running between the hangar and his house. A few moments later and he’s back with the generator and he’s able to power a light bulb to illuminate the inside of the hangar.

A bleak, but still very welcome sight after a long, tense night.

The light helps with the atmosphere. Families on the second floor do their best to settle down and sleep, while most of the guys stand around near the hangar entrance and restlessly watch as the rain pounds outside and thunder and lightning punctuate the deafening roar of the rain falling on the metal roof. We periodically shine flashlights out the front of the hangar to see if it’s starting to flood badly outside again. The downpour continues as we uneasily wait. I look at my watch - it’s past 2:00 a.m. I decide to go upstairs and try to sleep. Finding a spare mattress, I flop down and lie there in the semidarkness, too wound up to sleep and too tired to do anything else. I eventually drift into a fitful sleep as the rain continues to pound and hound me.

Over the next couple hours the rain slows. And finally stops. Someone shuts off the generator and everything becomes peacefully quiet. I sit up and squint through my sleepy eyelids. A faint gray light is spilling through the hangar door opening. It’s finally morning. I have never felt so relieved for dawn to come. We’re still safe.

Standard uniform for the next week.

The next few days are a blur. Rivers of water now flowing through campus, water levels getting higher. Endless hours of shoveling mud out of the hangar, and then trying to squeegee water off the floor during the night as heavy rains cause water to begin seeping onto the floor again. Getting poor sleep while thunderstorms crash away outside, sleeping with long sleeves, pants and bug spray to keep the mosquitos at bay. Wearing wet shoes and socks all day long. Hearing the sad news that Hendrik, our one staff member who had been injured in the flood, had passed away. A futile effort of a bunch of us guys to try and divert water away from Gary’s house as the flow began threatening to start flood the building, and then excavators finally doing the real job upstream just in the nick of time. Celebrating my birthday in a most memorable way, burying dead rats with Jacob and Nathaniel. Cherise and her friends making my favorite chocolate cake—and the thought suddenly striking me how much it looks like the hangar floor! Taking the time to video call my family for the first time since the flood happened and being able to see the faces of the ones who’ve always been there for me through thick and thin. Electricity and full-time running water getting restored on the hangar side of campus. And things slowly starting to dry out as the river gets fully diverted back to its previous channel.

Yep, this is the good stuff (chocolate, not mud).

Each day I take time to visit my house, to swap out muddy clothes for clean ones and just to assure myself the house is still there. There’s lots of work to be done on the other side of campus, but for a few stolen moments I stay in this familiar place, snacking on some of the food that’s still in the cupboards or just sitting and reading my Bible. One passage that I read slowly and more thoughtfully than ever before is Psalm 46:

God is our refuge and strength,
A very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear,
Even though the earth be removed,
And though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;

Though its waters roar and be troubled,
Though the mountains shake with its swelling. Selah

 Familiar words, but in real context now. Words to repeat at night when you can hardly hear yourself think because of the noise of the rain thundering on the corrugated roof. And then a beautiful picture in the next phrase:

There is a river whose streams shall make glad the city of God,
The holy place of the tabernacle of the Most High.

God is in the midst of her, she shall not be moved;
God shall help her, just at the break of dawn.

In place of the terrible destructive watery deluge is this scene of a river that brings healing and peace. So different from the fearful, forceful flood that has swept away so much; instead, this is the river of life flowing from the very throne of God.

Then it’s back to the hangar to continue shoveling mud into wheelbarrows—but now with some spiffy new rubber boots.

Things ever so slowly start to look up. Heavy equipment works all day long collecting debris and loading dump truck after dump truck. I move back to my house and Stenli runs a generator for a couple hours each day to briefly power the essentials in our houses. Gary and I start flying again from Sentani airport, first doing the most important flights while splitting time with important projects back at campus and then eventually resuming a slightly busier flight schedule. Then a temporary runway is smoothed out close to the hangar. It’s about the size of a grade-school soccer field, but after a couple careful passes, Gary is able to bring PK-TCA in for a safe landing. It’s an important step as we’re now able to do periodic maintenance at home base in between regular flights out of Sentani.

Parked at Sentani Airport after a full day's flying.

And the moment that makes me the happiest? When Stenli manages to get electricity and running water restored to our houses. The fridge works again. The washing machine runs again. The lights work; no more headlamps to dimly illuminate the house during the dark nights. I can take a hot shower anytime I want. It’s a day I’ve been looking forward to for a couple weeks and I actually hadn’t expected it to come so soon.

For one reason or another, I’ve had a hard time calling this place that I moved to 7 1/2 months ago home. But for right now, at least, it feels closer to home than it ever has.