“It’s a beautiful day for flying!” commented our pilot as he banked the plane to avoid a puffy, white cumulus cloud looming ahead of us. I peered out the cockpit window at the green wilderness below, looking for signs of civilization as we made our descent to the Balimo airstrip. We were flying back to Western Province after a break in Port Moresby. To my right, the winding Aramia River looked like a serpent on a grassy lawn. To my left just ahead of us was the airstrip. As the plane banked left for the final approach, I noticed a cloud of dust along the road that passes the airstrip. Good! I thought. There are trucks running today, so we should be able to secure a ride to town before too long. The airstrip is a mile and a half from the town of Balimo and the waterfront where our dinghy was waiting to take us upriver to our house at Kewa. After unloading the plane, the pilot said goodbye and took off for his next run.
As we stood there in the field next to our mountain of baggage, the intense midsummer tropical sun started to bake my scalp. I looked around for something to shade us—a small tree or shelter—but there was nothing. We didn’t even have an umbrella. By this time, the truck I had seen from the plane was long gone. Other trucks came past the airport, but none stopped. Friends who had walked to the airport to meet us said that a cargo ship had docked at Tai, and all the trucks in town seemed to be preoccupied with hauling the ship’s freight.
After an hour and a half of sweating in the hot, midday sun, I finally decided to gather our group together and pray. We thanked God for our safe travels, but also put in an urgent plea for relief from the heat. Within ten minutes, a breeze started to blow, and clouds covered the sun. Along with this sweet relief, however, came a new dilemma. Raindrops started to fall. We were not prepared for rain because things had been so dry. With no tarps to cover our boxes, we started carrying them one by one to an old shelter about 500 yards away. I had just left my first load at the shed and was walking back across the field to get more when a bolt of lightning shot from the sky. Boom! The thunder roared. This is not a safe place to be right now, I thought, quickening my pace across the treeless airstrip. I prayed as I walked, remembering the story of a well-known golfer back in the States who once had been struck by lightning while out on a golf course. But soon we had all of our cargo and ourselves safely under the shelter. After the rain quit, we were glad for the shade.
The sun started getting low in the sky, and we were still waiting for a ride. Our friends stood in the road trying to flag down a truck for us. But all the trucks going our direction were filled with cargo from the ship. Seeing the time slipping by, I decided to walk into town with Tom and find a vehicle. About three quarters of a mile down the road, a truck stopped for us and took us back to get our things. It had been four and a half hours since we had gotten off the plane, but we still had just enough daylight to get home before dark if there were no more delays.
The back of the truck contained some flattened cardboard boxes and a couple 55-gallon drums half filled with water. We loaded our things carefully, keeping items that needed to stay dry away from those two drums. We jostled along as the truck wheels sloshed through one muddy pothole after another. Each bump in the road brought a new shower of water splattering from the drums, drenching those who were sitting closest to them. I didn’t mind though. We were almost home!
We drove through the gate into the yard of the family that was keeping our dinghy for us. Their back yard sloped down to the lagoon. The lagoon water level was the lowest I had ever seen it—so low that our dinghy could not be pulled up to the hard ground. Fortunately, a dugout canoe was there, and we were able to use it as a bridge across the soft mud. A half dozen of us stood in a line and passed the cargo from the dry ground, across the mud to the dinghy. Finally we had everything and everyone on board. We again thanked God for sending a truck and asked for His help the rest of the way, and then we shoved off.
We had two paddles on board. Tom pushed with one paddle, and his son Clement pushed with the other. They pushed as hard as they could, but the dinghy, sunk in the mud, would not budge. A strong young man waded out from shore through the muck and was able to get us moving. Then Tom and Clement poled us along with their paddles like Venetian gondoliers (only without the guitar music) until the water was deep enough that I could safely lower the propeller and start
the engine.
Miraculously, there was still some twilight when we motored into Kewa. In the dim glow, we saw silhouettes of stick tent frames being made ready on the flat area next to the river. The people of Kewa were preparing to host a canoe race for the New Year’s Day celebrations, which I will tell you more about in a future article. Just beyond was Tege Tege and our house, and did it ever feel good to be home! There were even some people waiting to help us carry our luggage to
the house.
Before going to bed that night, we knelt and thanked God for His wonderful care and help. The trials we experienced during the day made me realize our utter dependence on Him. God doesn’t promise an easy road, but He does promise to help us through whatever we may face.
