Welcome to Africa

Hm . . . so, I seem to have been locked out of my most recent blog.  Until I get that situation rectified, I'm going to go ahead and post this (written last week) on here.  My first post in . . . well, a long time. 

It's day five of my new, African, adventure.

My last few months/weeks in the States (if one can discount the packing) were pretty glorious. Attending my “little” brother's graduation from the Coast Guard Academy, going on a Caribbean cruise with the family, seeing wonderful cousins and uncles and aunts in Minnesota, spending some time on the Oregon Coast, watching the World Cup, attending a dear friend's wedding in New Mexico, and getting to spend time with special people all along the way.

As a last hoorah of our year of living together, my amazing brother and sister-in-law took me into Portland the night before I flew out. We ate delicious Thai food, swam in our hotel pool, and got up super early to make my flight out of PDX. And if that wasn't enough, they sent me off with a packet of goodies ranging from tealight candles to pictures to snacks (not to mention some utterly epic princess band-aids).

[At PDX with my travel buddy and my bag of goodies]

So off I sailed from old things to new things, feeling very loved.

My next stop was three days in the UK – a wonderful transition, both in terms of jet-lag and the extra time to catch my breath, but also as an opportunity to reconnect with some beloved people and places before undertaking the process of connecting to all things new.

And then I arrived in Africa, on the night of the 21^st, only to be met by a herd of zebra crossing the road. My drivers laughed and shrugged: “Welcome to Africa.”

Or, as one of my friends pointed out, “welcome back to Africa,” for this is the continent of my childhood, and even though the expanse of the Sahara separates the now from then, there are plants and trees I recognize, though it is all so much more here.

I'm living in a small apartment (a bedroom, a toilet and shower, a living space with a kitchen) on a compound that is very much a slice of Eden. So many colors, so much growth and life outside my windows. And my own private corner in which to drink coffee, read my Bible, and watch the birds.

My landlady is Swiss, and grows vegetables as well as flowers, telling me I can feel free to pick what I would like (herbs, and spinach, and white radish, and so much more), saying that she always offers the invitation, but no one ever takes her up on it (the implication seeming to be that young people these days prefer fast food to fresh greens) – I assured her that there is nothing I love so much as vegetables and fruit, and I have already helped myself to some of her basil and chives.

So if nothing else, I think I will love living here, in my own space, with a garden, and an awesome next door neighbor who took me hiking on Thursday to Mt. Longonot, where we walked the ridge of the volcano and I drank my first Stony and saw my first (non-zoo enclosed) giraffe. It was a glorious day.

[Can you spot the giraffe?]

And yesterday I had an adventure of a slightly different caliber, walking to the store on my own for the first time. I think I am slowly gaining my bearings, and discovering that yes, indeed, I can live here.

Though, please, don't ask me to drive.

Traveling by Train

There is a strange exhilaration in train travel. Standing on an open-air platform, under a white-cloud speckled sky, waiting for a metal monster of motion and noise to come hurtling, rumbling, trudging down rusted tracks.

There is magic in moving across country, over rivers, beside fields of flowering yellow, with no roads or cars in sight.  Just spacious glass-filled images of running horses, rugged keeps, and ancient trees.

In Scotland, rumbling down to the border city of Carlisle, we passed a train, all clashing purples and bright reds, barreling in solitude through empty fields, and I couldn't help but wave hello to the Hogwarts Express.

Holiday on the Island

I am back at Oxford, after ten days of being filled with coach travel, Scottish treats, ocean views, and the laughter of friends.

I'm hoping that all of this fullness will spill over from my spirit into my writing, and that I'm ready to hunker down to four weeks of academic rigor as I prepare my option and theory essay for submission, and an outline of my dissertation for presentation to my adviser.

But that's tomorrow's worry.

Today I am full of migraine medication, sleep, espresso, an almond croissant, and bright memories.

Amberle, one of my good friends from undergrad (though how exactly we became friends is a bit of a mystery), flew in the Wednesday before last, the day after I sent off a rough draft of my theory essay to my supervisor.

I went to Heathrow to meet her, brought her back to Oxford, and then proceeded to drag her on a several mile walk through the city, and out to a country pub that (rumor has it) Lewis used to love.

We were attacked by a goose on the way.

Day two involved a visit to the Bodleian, and a very long walk around Magdalen's dear park, into the fellows' garden, pictures on their bridge, and more attacks by rabid killer geese, who flew at us, proceeded to follow our every move, glared daggers, and only allowed us to pass if we hid behind groups of elderly women.

I know he looks innocent, but don't be fooled.

Such excitement.

We also ducked in to Univ (University College), where Lewis did his undergrad, to pay our respects to the Shelley memorial.

And, of course, we paid homage at the Eagle and Child, the Inklings' pub.

Day three was an early morning into London, a stop by Leicester Square to purchase theatre tickets, and a London Walks tour of Westminster Abbey and the changing of the guard.  A Pret lunch at St. Paul's (somewhat of a tradition at this point), a meander across the Millennium Bridge, and a tour of the Globe, as well as a rather exciting hunt for the location of Shakespeare's actual theatre.

They were rehearsing Twelfth Night while we were there, and I couldn't help thinking, That's my play, when I heard the monologues.

Dinner back in Leicester Sq., and then on to The Phantom of the Opera, my third time seeing it, but the first time in nearly eight years.  We were in the last row of the highest balcony, but the singing was wonderfully powerful, and the actress who played Christine gave a uniquely shattered performance – this was not an enamored singer, horrified by a view of ugliness (as Christine often seems to be played – the horror and resistance coming after the phantom's face is seen, not before), but a manipulated and vulnerable child, caught, from the beginning, in waking nightmares she can't escape.  The perfection usually required of Christine's voice gives her character a false sense of control, I think, but this Christine allowed her anguish to affect, and even distort, her music, so that, while she rose to tremendous heights (sometimes despite herself: sing my angel of music!), she also faltered and broke.

And hearing the music sung so well, I was reawakened to the reality that the movie, while a fun celebration of color and pageant, simply falls horribly short on vocals.

Back late, late, late to Oxford, and then packing, getting one hour of sleep, and returning to London to catch the coach to Scotland.

Visiting Kohleun in her beautiful house, with gardens and windows and flatmates with whom to drink coffee, and exploring St. Andrew's with tea crawls and trips to the sea.

Then, on Tuesday, a day in Edinburgh before heading to Cumbria for walks in the Lake District and time with the Doubs – dear friends from days in Egypt.

And I left my heart in a used bookstore where 80-year-old copies of Virginia Woolf's books dwell – but despite painfully cheap prices, there is no room in my suitcases to indulge my adoration.  But I did purchase a 100-year-old calf-skin bound copy of Milton's collected works, using my dissertation as an excuse.

Then back on a Megabus coach (crowded and stinking of urine) to trek down the country to London, and then home to Oxford.

And now I am alone again, with my books and my laptop, preparing to throw myself into research and writing, and wondering if the day will ever come when I have a home to fill with beautifully aged books, and long hours to write for joy and not for degrees, and days to see friends who do not live half a world away.  How I envy Wordsworth his sister and his Coleridge and his writing cottage in the Lake District, yet we must each live our own journeys, and mine, I am afraid, will always be torn between countries and continents and missing faces until the day when all things are made new, and wholeness swallows up the jagged separations.

Until that day I must, with the king and queen of Perelandra, bid my farewells until we pass out of the dimensions of time, and wish the splendour, the love, and the strength upon us all.

Christmas Trees and Old Icelandic

Back at Oxford I am.  After a glorious Christmas with family (though missing the gametrekkers).  A live Christmas tree (with glowing shells), the glory of the Pacific coastline, crackling fires, cookies and goodies galore, and, most wondrous of all, the bright warmth of family -- grandmothers, brothers, parents.  How I love them all.

And then New Year's in Minnesota with lots of cousins, aunts, uncles, and the hardest puzzle I've ever encountered.

All while reading Icelandic sagas and NOT writing my theory essay.

But now I am back.  In an empty room and an empty apartment, with jet-lag, lovely memories, and the need to get back to work.  Hard work, and really fast.  I have Icelandic history to read (lots of it), Sagas to plot out (a necessity, since there are so many names I can't keep track of what happens from chapter to chapter, much less book to book), dissertations to plan (along with people to meet with), and, most dreaded of all, a theory essay to write (with all the reading that goes with it).  So I probably won't get around to writing that PhD/DPhil proposal and applying to programs.  But oh well.  I think I need another year anyway.  To read and think and really know what I'm planning.

But if the essay ever gets written, and a decision on a dissertation topic and adviser is ever made, then I'll have to admit that I'm excited about what comes next.  About getting back to literature.  About building arguments from the texts of stories.  About learning about Iceland.  Though this year is making me wish, SO strongly, that I had more/stronger languages.  Norse, Old English, Middle English, French, and yes, a better reading knowledge of Arabic.  What I wouldn't give to float effortlessly through Medieval (and modern) texts that now I'm not allowed to touch, or must access through mediation.

And these sagas burn with tales of betrayal and revenge.  Friendships destroyed.  Blood-ties honored.  Loyalty torn.  And in the middle the women hover, egging on their husbands, brothers, uncles, to blood-lust and manhood, often at the cost of their own happiness and their men's lives.

And I find it interesting that these stories, of heathen faith and legendary courage, black magic and violent deeds, are mediated through a Christian era.  The old gods, it seems, may be rejected but they are never doubted.  Thangbrand, King Olaf's missionary to Iceland, tells the people, not that Thor is an illusion, but that without God's will he would never have lived in the first place.  And the gospel is spread with both "fair words and dire punishments" (The Saga of the People of Laxardal).  God proves himself (for, indeed, the God of the Icelanders is certainly male) with heathen miracles and proofs of power.  The ministry of incarnation amongst a culture bound to the heroic code?  Who's to say?  For isn't this the same God that once ordered the butchering of men, women, and children, proving to surrounding nations that the God of Israel was strong?

But there are hints of another way.  Hauskuld, who declares that even if it were true that his foster brothers have been treacherous, he would still "far rather suffer death at their hands than work them any harm" (Njal's Saga).  Or Njal himself, the seeker of peaceful restitution, who refuses to shed blood and thinks of the new religion, when it comes, that here at last is a way to God.

Roast duckling, missing tortoises, and the beauty that age and money can buy

Well, I walked into Balliol for the first time ever today, and it is almost too beautiful for words.  Regent's Park is quite pretty, and the red ivy is lovely, but there is a breathtaking grandeur to the rich old colleges (and in this case a luscious beauty) that is really incomparable.  I wish I had taken my camera.

I was there for a meeting of the Oxford Walking Club, which I am now a member of.  More than that, I spent 130 quid towards weekend trips this coming term.  It seems a bit extravagant, both in money and time, but when I really think through my priorities, experiencing England is near the top.  And consistently hearing how almost impossible distinctions/firsts really are (an impossibility that I'm required to attain in order to remain for a DPhil) has served to convince me, not that I should spend all my hours in the library, but that I should take full advantage of this year, as it's quite possibly all I will get.

Part of that "taking full advantage" involves joining the Regent's Park novice rowing team, which I've done (along with two other MSt students).  We haven't actually been out on the river yet, but tomorrow morning we head out bright and early (6:30) for a crash course on staying afloat.  And tonight, after shoveling down dinner, we have to pass a swimming test, fully clothed, to prove that we won't drown in the event of a capsize.

In other news, I have yet to meet Emmanuella, the 90-year-old tortoise, but I keep a lookout every time I walk through the quad (apparently she likes to sun herself on warm days).

Also, I would like to commend the Regent's Park caterers as being truly excellent.  While I know it seems a bit decadent to complain about George Fox's cuisine, when there was food in such abundance, I have to say that it is a joy to have truly delicious food at every meal.  For formal hall (which takes place every Friday evening) we had roast duck in a delectable sauce, the name of which I cannot remember.  We also bowed every time we entered or left the room, and looked very serious in our official robes.  The only downside was being informed that one rule of formal hall is not to discuss the portraits hanging on the walls, which, of course, made me look at them for the first time.  Which then led me to realize that only one of the myriad of official looking scholars was a woman (who did not happen to look very official, or very scholarly, and was hidden away in a far corner).

I could go on, but alas, dinner beckons.  As they say on this side of the pond, cheers.

The Newport Mansions

On the last stage of the U.S. part of my summer, I'm staying with my family at a friend's condo in Newport, Rhode Island.  The remnant of Gilded Age America, it's the site of the "summer cottages" owned by such families as the Vanderbilts, the Astors, and their millionaire friends.

They're the closest thing America has to palaces.  

When we lived here five years ago (during my senior year of high school), we had a family membership to the Preservation Society of Newport County, which allowed us unlimited entrance to those of the mansions open to the public.  This time I was limited by a ticket to five.

I don't know what it is that draws me back to them so strongly.  Maybe it's the way they seem woven into the fabric (albeit at the fringes) of my family's life, their presence looming over Rhode Island holidays for as long as I can remember.

Or maybe it's the unquenchable longing for a doorway into other worlds -- the desire to experience other times and lives, unbounded by the limits of my single soul.  The desire to understand how other boys and girls, as intrinsically human as myself, lived in ages and styles so foreign to my own.  So beyond the borders of my ability to imagine or comprehend.

Whatever the reason, these marble palaces and dark stone castles, with their ancient trees and lovely walkways, beckon me like friends, mysterious, unknown, yet somehow familiar.

There is the Breakers, the military general of Newport houses, a towering city of unyielding stone.  With lawns reaching to the edge of the cliffs and the wave tossed Atlantic, the Vanderbilt stronghold is gilt, gaudy, and unforgiving.  Filled with Neoclassical art, gold-plated ceilings, and wide open spaces, there is no coziness within the luxury.  But there is beauty in the palatial expanse of the entrance, the light filled corridors, and the outdoor sitting rooms overlooking the sea.  It is a house built for drama and intrigue and grandeur.

Marble House, built by the Vanderbilt younger brother, is as mysterious as its passionate, complex, and iron-willed mistress.  A museum of medieval artifacts, it is exquisite with a beauty that is austere and untouchable.  The most expensive home in America, it was given to Alva Vanderbilt for her 39th birthday.  She responded by divorcing her husband, forcing her daughter into an unwanted marriage, and leading suffragist rallies -- all while shrouding herself in dense, inhuman glamour.

No matter how many times I hear the names of Rosecliff's true owners, it's impossible for me to experience it as anything but the Gatsby mansion, where Jay danced with Daisy to the light of a single candle.  A house of romance and tragedy.  The scene of many films, from The Amistad to True Lies, it's The Great Gatsby that, for me, has made an impression.

Despite it's mottled marble interior, the Elms remains one of my favorite of the mansions.  Perhaps it's the location, across the street from our Newport home, or perhaps it's the 'behind-the-scenes' tour we once took, up into the servants' quarters and kitchens, or, most likely, it's the grounds, sprawling with stone lions, garden rooms, and reading trees.  But whatever the reason, I feel I could happily live there.  =)

And today I saw Chateau-sur-Mer for the first time.  A Victorian castle with rich interiors of polished wood and painted walls, it was delightfully warm and cluttered, but so dimly lit as to make me feel almost blind.  Once the tour was over, I sat and read in a tree for almost an hour.

New York, New York! (and what I did there)

I spent yesterday in New York. Woke up at 4:30 to drive to Providence and take the Amtrak into the city. It's embarrassing to admit, but while I've been to several of the world's oldest, largest, most beautiful, and most famous cities (Rome, Cairo, London, Seoul, Paris, etc.), I've never been to the Big Apple.

I loved it.

It was unlike anything I've ever experienced in America.  A world unto itself.  If there is glamour left in this country, then surely it resides there, in the city of brownstone and brick, where age, beauty, and (let's face it) violence intermix, and history has not been flattened like so much unwanted baggage.  There was grandeur there, reminiscent of the glory (and decay) of Rome.



The purpose of the trip was business -- visit the British Consulate and get my Visa -- but most of the day was spent wandering.  Walking through Central Park, exploring Times Square, catching sight of the Empire State Building.  And yes, eating a pretzel.
But it sent shivers down my back to know that all the while I was a stone's throw away from places like Harlem and Hell's Kitchen, place names that are evocative of literature and film, broken dreams and distant hopes.  New York, like all of Europe, is alive with memory.

I even got to see an Off Broadway show.  While it's the West End in London that has really fed my taste for theatre (I've seen over 13 shows there in the course of two trips to the UK), Broadway still echoes in my imagination with memories of my first exposure to Les Miz and my early dreams of being a Broadway singer (never mind that I can't actually sing).



The show itself was an adaptation of C.S. Lewis's Screwtape Letters.  A two person show with one speaking role, and one Acting 2 dream part (all movement, and body, and voice).  Incredibly well done, Mommy and I were given free tickets by a professor from Carnegie Mellon while trying to get a last minute deal at the ticket window.

We got back to Newport around 11:00, exhausted, sore, and happy.

The Lovely Bones

"And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it."

I'm sitting in the Hong Kong airport, waiting for my flight to Jordan, having just flown from Korea on a very nice Cathay Pacific flight. With an individual screen, and lots of film choices, but only time for one movie, I decided to go with Peter Jackson's The Lovely Bones. And I was favorably impressed.

It seems odd to describe a movie about murder as beautiful, but I'm loath to describe it as anything else. Peter Jackson has created a haunting paradox -- a movie about death (and not the peaceful, innoncent kind) that is nothing less than a celebration of life. There are dark moments in the film, to be sure, but the overarching impression is one of light and love. The picture I'll carry with me is of a laughing family, with deep roots and strong ties, fierce in their love and strong in their courage -- the kind of family I want to have.

In the end, I think Jackson is able to take a horrific sort of death (the kind that has haunted my nightmares since childhood) and show that really, in all the ways that matter, Suzie dies the best sort of death (if any death can be good), because she has never spent a moment surrounded by anything but love. As someone states in a different movie I watched recently, "Our finger prints don't fade within the lives they touch." In other words, the Salmons are no less a family after Suzie's death than they were before it. Her place is permanent, and (to quote e.e. cummings) they carry her heart with them.

On a side note, the storytelling perspective is interesting in that it's narrated by Suzie after her death. One of the reasons I was interested in watching it in the first place was that I'd read a review of the book which described it as a 'post-death coming of age story'. Suzie is in every way the protagonist -- a protagonist who must deal with the ending of her idealic childhood, though the cause, in this case, is not growing up but murder. A protagonist who must learn, as we all must, how to hold on to everything that matters (like family and love) while coming to grips with the inevitable changes in herself and the world around her.

And as a final note, I may have watched the film on a bad quality airplane screen, but even so, some of the scenes are absolutely gorgeous.

Angel-in-us Coffee (or things I like about Korea)

1. The country slogan: Korea Sparkling.

2. The Gunsan lake, with its bridge of lights and happiness (with special orbs to promote love and dreaming).

3. The shoes.  Definitely the brightest, craziest sneakers I've ever seen (think fluorescent yellow, shiny, and huge).  But they also love their high heels, which are tall, and not at all the standardized American variety.

4.  The red roses that spill over every fence.  

5.  The uniquely poetic way of using English: "provincial tangible cultural asset."  

6.  Chicken on a stick with amazing barbeque sauce.  Street food at its finest.

7.  The "couple sets" -- i.e. his and her matching clothing, drinking straws (because drinks are meant to be shared, not experienced alone), chopsticks, watches, and just about everything else you can think of.  

8.  Jordan and Marisa's bunny, Faraday, who is very inquisitive, and seems to think Brendan and Thani are boy bunnies.  

9.  Korean pizza -- some of the yummiest I've ever eaten, with sweet potato crust.  

10.  Green tea popsicles.  

11.  Shaved ice desserts, with ice cream, whipped cream, strawberries, shaved ice, cornflakes and fruitloops.  Odd sounding, delicious tasting.  As an added bonus, you get to eat them while swinging in rocking chairs.    

12.  Strangers who invite you to share in their picnics, and offer you food at the side of the road.

13.  Open rooms with wood floors in which to take naps.  

14.  Traditional teahouses, with inner courtyards and low tables, even if they do charge too much for tea.  =)

15. Biking around islands where seafood is eaten raw or dried on clotheslines in the sun. 

16.  The culture of open spaces, bare feet and ground sitting, where pouring water requires respect, and giving and receiving is a ceremony of significance.

17.  And, of course, the very best part: seeing family.  =)   

PNG itinerary

I found this in my draft folder. No idea why I never posted it (I guess it wasn't finished?). It's a detailed walk-through of our PNG trip. Reading it over brought back lots of memories. =)

Our itinerary, in brief:

May 4 -- meet at GFU (Rick met us in the Bauman parking lot to say goodbye), drive to PDX, fly from PDX to LAX, dinner in LAX (Chiles), fly to Brisbane over the Pacific Ocean and across the equator, skipping May 5 in the process (an empty flight with extra seats, so I slept almost all the way, only watching one movie [The Curious Case of Benjamin Button] on my individual screen).

[one of our many airport stops]

May 5 -- disappears into oblivion

May 6 -- a day in Brisbane. Take the train into the city, store our bags at a Lutheran Church, and go to Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary. Pet kangaroos, hold koalas, and take a boat back on the river. Split up and spend the night with host families (me with Jordan) who shower us with a confusing mix of love and racism.

[hanging out with kangaroos]

May 7 -- fly to Port Moresby, PNG. Todd Luedtke (Rhett's dad) meets us at the airport, as does the first wave of heat. Settle into our guesthouse, and take a ride about town. Houses on stilts (including an entire village built on the water), and everything open to let in the air (what little there is) -- open churches with no walls (as all churches should be . . .) and houses with slatted windows.

May 8 -- rehearse "The Weave," which is still not finished, and drive to the airport by PMV (passenger motor-vehicle? -- an open pickup truck), via the parliament building. Fly to Lae, which will be our home for the next week (and our emotional home for much longer). Jacob Luke picks us up at the airport in the Mapai van, and we stop at Big Rooster for lunch (drive through). The heat is a new level of intense, and the vegetation is a new level of lush. Settle in to the three-room seminary house we'll be staying in, with no walls (everything slatted, including interior walls, to let in the air), one shower, one toilet, one fan (for all intents and purposes), and rain water to drink and wash in. Take a walkabout and see where Rhett grew up.

[hanging out in our home at Martin Luther Seminary in Lae]

May 9 -- a morning theatre workshop with the seminary students. Experience the pieces they've prepared for us (and their love for cassowaries), and perform "Hello," "The Weave," and the myth portion of "Midas." Break into groups and begin to talk about myths that can become staged stories. Then invited to a baby naming ceremony. A huge feast prepared (including an entire pig), and the "Apostles' Creed" as our gift -- our prayer of blessing upon this child's life. Playing with children, listening to them sing in the chapel, and learning hand games in broken English.

[playing handgames with the children]

May 10 -- a church service in English, in one of the first enclosed buildings we've been in. A traditional song while bringing gifts to the alter -- gifts that include vegetables as well as money. "The Creed" performed, again, as our gift. Great joy when Cindy speaks, not in Latin, or English, or sign language, or Arabic, but Pidgin, and Nicole's voice defies language itself. Then rehearsing "American Midas" for three hours -- preparing it for the round -- and presenting it in Chapel that night.

May 11 -- working with the communication class, and an afternoon trip to the market. Bought PNG skirts. Washed our hair in a dripela ren (massive rain storm).

[with our newly purchased PNG skirts]

May 12 -- listened to an Engan storyteller with our eyes closed, so he wouldn't turn white. Rehearsed with our communication group in the afternoon (swealteringly hot), and then again with the drama class in the evening.

May 13 -- morning communication rehearsal, and left exhausted and drenched for the rest of the day. Afternoon rehearsal with the drama class. The women brought amazing props that they had made by hand, on their own initiative. A swealtering performance at Lae Tech, with worship in Pidgin, and then "Hello," "The Weave," "The Creed," and part of "Midas." Amazing conversations with the students afterward.

May 14 -- performing with the seminary students for the whole community, after more morning rehearsals. Six groups in all. Our drama group (Stephen, Whitney, and I) telling an adapted myth about brothers turned to cassowaries, and rescued by a brother-redeemer who never stopped searching for his siblings. In the end, he burns the magician's house to the ground, with the magician trapped inside (a slightly disturbing vision of Jesus). Our communication group (Cindy, Stephen, Emily, and I) telling the story of a witchdoctor, an evil spirit, and the power of the Light. As the evil spirit, who was constantly leaping on tables, crouching, and twirling about, I was exhausted, and completely drenched, once the story was over.

[as the evil spirit, taking up my residence in the house]

May 15 -- for our safety, two seminary students drove with us to Ukarumpa (or "Little America") and rode back on the bus. Staying with host families in groups of two -- Emily and I together.

[creating pictures of redemption with the Ukarumpa high schoolers]

May 16 -- morning workshop with the 7th-12th grade MKs. Creating pictures of their community, and the redemption that even Ukarumpa needs. Going to a drop in center, for PNG children and youth, in the afternoon. Performing, and creating more pictures. Emily able to talk with two deaf boys.

[performing "The Weave" at the drop-in center]

May 17 -- church at Ukarumpa. All English and all white. Rehearsing "American Midas" in the afternoon (readjusting to a stage), and performing for the youth worship in the evening.

May 18 -- early trip to the Ukarumpa market, and creative dramatics with the elementary school students (every grade) after performing in their morning chapel. Brief meeting with the 8th grade drama class, talking about theatre, and working on vocalization. Relaxation with Sister Act 2 in the evening, and our nightly debrief with Tim Tams.

May 19 -- afternoon performance at Iyura National High School. We performed all of the pieces in their entirety for the first time. An hour of performing, then two hours spent talking to students. One girl took her bilum off her shoulder and gave it to me -- it had taken her over a month to make.

[one of our many performances of "The Creed"]

May 20 -- another early trip to the Ukarumpa market, then driving to Garoka, the Round Round Theatre, and NPAT.

May 21 -- a trip into a village, a traditional mumu (a feast with a butchered pig), and a bilasim skin ritual (dressing up in the traditional feathers and art).

[Whitney and I in our traditional headdresses -- they weighed a ton and were made of beetle shell, Bird of Paradise feathers, etc.]

May 22 -- a trip to a different village, to perform and watch NPAT in an open market place. Then performing "The Weave" in the Round Round Theatre, at a variety show.

[preparing to perform at the Round-Round]

May 23 -- driving back down from the Highlands to Lae, and the heat of the sea. Back home at Martin Luther Seminary.

May 24 -- our day of relaxation. A yacht sailed to Salimoa, which once was Lae. Snorkeling in the blue-green ocean, dolphins accompanying our boat, and a walk up the luscious mountain, with butterflies and anti-aircraft weaponry from WWII. Dinner at the yacht club as Jacob Luke's guests, and meeting his beautiful wife, who gave me her own necklace and earrings.

[our group on Salimoa]

May 25 -- flying from Lae to Port Moresby, and from Port Moresby to Brisbane. A night at the church that hosted us on our way in. A potluck dinner, sharing pictures from our trip, a midnight Tim Tam buying run, and sleeping on mattresses on the church floor.

[Cyndi, Jessie and I with our Tim Tams -- I bought two packages,
they each bought more like 20]

May 26 -- flying from Brisbane to Sydney, from Sydney to LAX, and from LAX to PDX. Saying goodbye in the airport. Taking the shuttle to Corvallis. A day that stretched on forever.