Our Friend Gahi

Gahi in a canoe going across the river with Dale and the others to go cut the airstrip approach.

On our trip at Yehebi this summer, we met up with an old friend, Gahi. We'd known him since the beginning of our ministry with the Gobasi tribe in the mid-1980s. He was only a teen then, but he and his younger brother worked on the airstrip to clear the land, eventually took wives, and started their families while we lived there.  He often came around to help with tasks around the station and took on the job of cutting the grass on the airstrip. Dale had trained him how to do basic maintenance on the lawnmower so he could take on responsibility of caring for the airstrip.

Early on in our ministry there, he decided to trust in Christ. He and his wife diligently came to church services.

His wife Degwam was unhealthly and often sick.  When she wasn't well, I would check on her in the village to make sure she had water, food, or medicine. She had a very swollen belly—caused by malaria because of an over-sized spleen.  She looked 9 months pregnant, even though she wasn't.  About six years after we left the country, she died leaving one little daughter, Fiom, behind.

On our trip back this summer, Gahi was thrilled to see us again. He had remarried a widowed lady, Bosgoe, in the village. When we'd go to the village to watch Sports Day, he came to sit with us and chat. He would work on the projects with Dale around the station, come to church, and hang around the house. If we requested a specific garden food (like yams), if they had it in their garden, they would bring it for us. His wife helped wash our clothes in the river.  

Gahi and his second wife, Bosgoe, with her two sons and their daughter. (photo courtesy of Lee Fairbotham).

Bosgoe came 3 times a week to wash our clothes in the river.

 

One day while we were in the village watching everyone play sports, a tropical rainstorm suddenly hit and we began to get soaked. He grabbed our plastic chairs and said, "Come to my cookhouse." So we all ran for shelter.

As we sat in his cookhouse, he began to chatter.

"This is the cassowary I killed. It was a really big one," showing me part of the head bone from the animal.

"This is my daughter's grass skirt...Oh sorry, my kitchen is no good... I need to build another one," and on he talked.

"This is the string bag and items that belonged my wife's son, Hogani, who died. He is buried right there," pointing to the grave right outside.

"He used to play with Jeff," he said.

"Yes, I remember Hogani. Did he die of a big sick," I asked. He was a village boy that was about the same age as our son, Jeff. He would have been about 26 when he died. I remembered they played together.

"No, he was fine, and then one day we came back from the bush, and he was lying dead in the cookhouse."

I wanted to get more on what they thought happened, but my rusty Gobasi language couldn't manage to get all the details.  They buried him next to their cookhouse and built a little lean-to to cover the grave. Inside were his worn out pair of shoes and a few personal items.

"When you left," he said, " I was really sad. I cried and cried," speaking of when our family left PNG in December '94. Dragging his hands down both sides of his face, he emphasized how sad he was at that time.

"Today I'm happy."

During our six week stay there, Gahi took it upon himself to be my language "corrector." If I said something wrong, he would repeat it back correctly. My language was more than rusty, and he loved helping me get it right.

Returning for this summer visit made me feel awed that God used us to reach the Gobasis with the gospel. I knew it was a privilege, but this time, I felt honored that God chose us to come here. There was nothing special about us, but all about obedience to an Almighty God.  At the time, it wasn’t easy; It was hard, challenging, and frustrating. There were times of extreme loneliness and isolation while living here. I remember days when I felt a mother's terror when our children were so sick that I feared the worst might happen in this remote place. But now, I see the fruits of the labor afresh. To know that someday we will see many from the Gobasi tribe in heaven is worth far more. Those difficulties now are only a dim memory, but the eternal investment is evident.

 And I am grateful.

Gahi demostrating how to shoot a bow.

Gahi with his stepson in his cookhouse. On the bark tray you see cooked sago "cakes."

Gahi with his oldest child, Fiom. She is holding a traditional stone axe which they still use for making sago.

Gahi and Bosgoe waiting to fill our (green) plates at the welcome feast they gave for all of us.

 

(C) 2013 Carin G. LeRoy. All rights reserved.