Chapter 13 - Two Worlds

I’m excited, expectant to join the new Sentani School where Betty Johnson will be our housemother and Miss Heikkenen the teacher. There are only five of us—Beverly and Barton Boggs, Romaine and me, and Larry Lake. Bev and I are the oldest, in 6th grade. In months to come others join, until after three years when I graduate from 8th grade there are 18!

So--one morning, after goodbye hugs to Mom and Dad, we run across the ravine to our schoolhouse. “This is what missionary kids do,” I think. “We live in two places.” I am eager to grow into my new tropical landscape. There is also a sense of loss in not being able to plunge into life with the Dani tribe again and grow deeper in the language. But I decide that I will make the most of the months at home I do have.

Living on Sentani hill at the foot of steep Cyclops Mountain, in tin roofed houses baking under the blazing sun, amid grasses waving as wind blows over the rocky hillside. The cement slabs Allied troops left behind while serving under General MacArthur during World War II are foundations for the houses, and on the empty slab above our dorm we play ball, hopscotch, and roller skate. Across the small ravine to the east is the schoolhouse where Miss Heikkenen reads us stories of Hiawatha and Minnehaha after our lessons are done.

Having pioneered Dalat School for missionary kids (in Dalat, Viet Nam) years ago, Miss Heikkenen has a wealth of teaching experience. In her 50’s, dark haired with glasses, she stands very erect and instructs with good discipline, with several grades in one room. We respect her enough to work hard at our lessons.

Every evening after supper and showers we gather around Aunt Betty for devotions. At age 26 she is both attractive and motherly. First she reads a chapter out of engaging books like Star of Light or Treasures of the Snow by Patricia St. John. When she reads Little Pilgrim’s Progress, we are captivated - glad when Christian loses his burden at the cross, concerned as he plods his weary way across the Slough of Despond—horrified as he descends into the Valley of Humiliation.

“Will Self kill Christian?” Larry asks. “No,” I answer confidently. “He has to make it to the Celestial City!” After a vivid Bible story with pertinent questions, we each pray. There is security, routine.

Sunday afternoons we write letters to our parents, and once a semester Mom and Dad, Danny and David fly out to visit us. We stay with them in a vacation house, exulting in holiday freedom.

Often on Saturdays we pile into the red jeep and Aunt Betty drives us the 30 or so miles to Hollandia (now Jayapura) for an outing. As the paved road winds through the jungle we watch for the red streaks of flame of the forest foliage, enjoy the shrieks of tropical birds. We can spend our allowance at a toko run by a Chinese man, then swim in the ocean at Base G, where Allied tanks are lined up near the ocean, rusting since the war. Sticky and sandy, we drive to a primitive restaurant and munch on lumpias, delicious greasy eggrolls filled with meat and vegetables. Home at last after driving through the starlight, we shower, have devotions, and fall into our bunkbeds.

On Sundays all of the mission workers gather in the large home down the hill where various leaders take turns preaching. I like Uncle Harold Catto best—he is lively, funny, practical in Bible application.

The high point of every semester is flying home for Christmas or summer break. December of 1958 we wake before dawn, because Aunt Betty has presents for us to unwrap before leaving. We are entranced over our gifts, hug her hard before jouncing down to the airstrip where MAF pilots greet us, waiting to fly each set of siblings to their homes. After takeoff, Sentani becomes a miniature town with scattered houses…and climbing higher we cross range after range of jagged mountains. It’s cold in the plane, the air is thinner. Ro and I huddle in our jackets…then after an hour or more we circle and bounce up the grassy airstrip in our our own Ilaga Valley.

Home! The sweetest place on earth, with Mom and Dad and our brothers waving, then holding us close. We troop down to the newly built house with Danis singing, whooping joyfully around us—and cut a fir tree for Christmas on the way.

Our new home is larger, across the field from the bark house, with three rooms downstairs with a bath/shower alcove, and four bedrooms up. The outhouse is now closer, enclosed in the backyard. Ro’s and my bedroom faces east, down valley, where we can watch sheets of misty rain slowly approach in the afternoons. Dad has painted the house light green with dark green accent, and lattice fencing surrounds flower beds. Rain on the tin roof lulls us to sleep…it becomes drinking water as it flows through gutters into a holding tank.

Dinner that night is delicious, cooked on the black woodstove—sliced fried beef with Dani greens, baked sweet potatoes, crisp carrots. I am warmed and satisfied. We shower by golden kerosene lamplight. The shower bucket, filled with woodstove-heated water, is lifted high on a pulley, and turned on with a sprinkler at its base. “Save water for rinsing!” Mom warns me, smiling.

The icicles on the newly decorated evergreen shimmer from lamplight as I climb the stairs to bed. We’ve had a Bible story with prayer, hugged our parents goodnight…Danny and David are asleep in their bedroom. I snuggle under thick blankets in my twin bed near Romaine, and read by dim golden light. The Ilaga River roars faintly in the distance. “I am so rich,” I think to myself, “so blessed among my family and the Danis!”

Christmas is a three day celebration of feasting: first with the Gibbons family (or the Ellenbergers in later years), our family alone, and later with the Danis as they exchange pork gifts, dance to worship songs, and preach (later even enact) the Christmas story.

For the next two and a half years (through my 8th grade) Ro and I live between the Ilaga Valley and Sentani School. It’s like residing on two different continents or worlds, but we begin to think this is normal. For the first few nights back at school some kids sob quietly in their bunk beds, but as days pass the school routine and renewed friendships lull the loneliness. We all adjust. Aunt Betty, Miss Heikkenen, and later Miss Randall are personal and loving.

As the school grows in numbers, Beverly and I are moved to a small extra bedroom built onto the main house. Palm branches wave over our tin roof at night, making swishing sounds. Moonlight slides across the cement floor…tropical nights are so beautiful! When I grow up, I decide, I will sleep outside in moonlight.

Loving to read, I check out all the interesting books the school library possesses. History is fascinating, especially the middle ages. One semester I write a story of Lady Rose set in medieval times, a Christmas gift for Mom and Dad.

Every vacation family life is renewed, with laughter and conversation around the dinner table. Lively discussions on many topics—and controversy is allowed. I notice that my dad does not mind being contradicted if I can prove my point logically. He likes his children to think clearly. He is a linguist, anthropologist, a researcher. During these years he is gathering data on cycles of warfare among the Danis in the valley, working toward his PhD.