A Gift of Tongues
“. . . men of other tongues . . .”
1 Cor. 13.19
Victor Anstruther halted to examine a vine that dangled from the canopy of branches
high above his head. He gripped it, took a few paces backwards and swung out over
a small stream at the side of the track.
“Ku’eh tsa yana avak tsau’eh pili temak!”
Since entering the beech forest earlier that afternoon, he’d slipped back into thinking
exclusively in Chul’eh. It was a Chul’eh habit to think aloud, to share your flow
of thoughts and impressions with your companions.
“I beg your pardon, Victor,” said Penny Mortimer, who’d been following 20 paces behind
and had now caught up to him. “Did you say something?”
Although he had compiled the first dictionary and grammar of the Chul’eh people of
Borneo, Victor found that rendering his utterance into English was far from easy.
The Chul’eh language recognised many types of vine and was rich in terms describing
the vines’ colour, pliancy and tensile strength.
“I was saying these vines would be suitable for making an avak. An avak is a kind
of hammock. You fill it with dika — that’s a type of moss which has been dried in
the sun. It’s wonderfully comfortable.”
A wistful look appeared in his eyes.
“I’d love to sleep in an avak again.”
“This vine’s called supplejack,” said Penny. “The Maoris call it pirita. What do
you think of our New Zealand forest?”
“It’s very peaceful,” said Victor. “I feel more at home here than in . . .”
He was going to say Westport, the town where the Mortimers lived, but he didn’t want
the comparison to hurt his hosts’ feelings.
“I know what you mean,” said Penny, who understood Victor’s feelings. “It isn’t the
jungle of Borneo, is it?”
“No,” said Victor. “But I’ll get used to it in time, Mrs Mortimer. I suppose it’s
just home sickness.”
The Chul’eh had an expression for it: Talam silah tsih uae’h silah masam. It meant
the heart sickness of a man who is far from the river of his birth, far from the
nurturing shelter of the jungle.
Stanley Mortimer, who’d been lagging a considerable distance behind his wife and
their guest for most of the afternoon, came into view. Grateful for a rest, he plumped
himself onto a moss-covered log and mopped his steaming brow with a handkerchief.
“Are we there yet?” he asked hopefully.
“Are we where, darling?”
“Wherever it is we’re going.”
“We’re just on a Sunday afternoon tramp so that Victor can see what a beech forest
is like.”
“I say,” said Victor excitedly. “Look at these, Mrs Mortimer.”
He had been prodding at a rotten stump with his sheath knife and held something in
the palm of his hand.
Stanley Mortimer looked away quickly when he saw the fat, squirming, butter-coloured
grubs.
“Huhu.”
“That’s the Maori name for them,” said Penny Mortimer.
“How fascinating,” said Victor. “The Chul’eh call them ku’h ku’h. They’re a great
delicacy. You wrap them in a banana leaf and toast them over hot embers. I wonder
if there could be a distant linguistic relationship between Chul’eh and Maori. If
the terms are cognate, the root form could be . . .”
His speculations were interrupted by the arrival of a Japanese tour party, led by
a young woman with a red and white flag.
Smiles and greetings were exchanged.
“Konnichi wa.”
“Good afternoon.”
A short, middle-aged Japanese gentleman, wearing a windcheater jacket with the logo
“Grate Expections” stepped forward to introduce himself.
“Aimu Nakajima,” he said, bowing. “Naisu meetu you Vikuta-san. Sisu fery byurifuru
kontori. Preezu Roodu.”
“My husband says New Zealand is a very beautiful country,” said Mrs Nakajima, in
clear, accentless English. “He thanks God for its unspoilt beauty.”
“We call it God’s Own Country,” said Stanley Mortimer, shaking his hand.
Nakajima bowed.
“Satsu goodu naimu, Sanri-san. See you raita.”
The tour party headed up the track at a rapid pace.
“Whew! My legs could do with a rest,” said Stanley. “What say we have a cuppa?”
“Good idea, darling — if you don’t mind popping back to the car,” said Penny. “I
think you’ll find the vacuum flask in the glove box. You know, I’ve been thinking
we should join a tramping club. It would help to keep you fit.”
“Maybe I’ll pass on the tea for now,” said Stanley.
“I can make us a brew,” said Victor, slinging his knapsack to the ground and taking
out a blackened kettle. “I’ll light a fire down on the river bank. I do have real
tea, but if you like to try some dried bark from a semak tree instead, you’re welcome!”
The Mortimers had met the youthful-looking Englishman two days earlier. He’d been
standing at the roadside consulting a map when they’d stopped to offer him a lift.
Victor Anstruther’s khaki fatigues seemed more suited to the tropics than the temperate
climate of New Zealand’s West Coast. Although he spoke with a public school accent,
he occasionally used phrases in languages that were obviously not European.
The reason for this became clear when Victor explained that he was an ethnolinguist
by profession —a specialist in the languages and cultures of indigenous peoples.
For the past five years, he had been studying and recording the languages of indigenous
peoples of South-East Asia. Before that, he’d worked with tribes in South America
and New Guinea.
There were, he told them, hundreds of languages that had never been recorded in writing,
and many of these languages were facing extinction as the modern world advanced.
Yes, many people questioned the value of preserving these languages of “primitive”
tribespeople. Far from being impoverished, however, each language was a unique way
of looking at the world and uniquely adapted to the needs of the speakers. As an
example, he cited the rich vocabulary the Chul’eh people of Borneo had to describe
the natural environment in which they lived. To the Chul’eh, the jungle was a abundant
storehouse of food, medicines, building materials, clothing, and other necessities
of life.
The Mortimers had been fascinated by his descriptions of the exotic peoples he had
lived among and offered to put him up while he was in Westport. They were more than
a little surprised, however, when he pitched a small tent in their back garden.
“I’m not really used to sleeping indoors,” he told them apologetically. “Don’t worry,
I’m used to fending for myself. There are no snakes, scorpions or wild animals to
watch out for, and I’ve hardly seen a mosquito yet. This has got to be the safest
country on earth!“
Victor had been exhilarated by their afternoon tramp in the beech forest, but was
still not acclimatised to the South Island weather. From her kitchen window, Penny
Mortimer could see the light of his camp fire. To be honest, she was worried that
he was not eating proper food.
She’d cooked roast lamb for dinner, Stanley’s favourite dish. She put a generous
serving into a covered dish, with mint sauce and vegetables, and took it out to Victor.
Victor was boiling a glutinous concoction in a pannikin.
“Jungle grub,” he said. “Would you like to try some?”
She was relieved not to see huhu grubs wrapped in banana leaves but the contents
of the pannikin looked familiar.
“It looks like tapioca.”
“It is. I’ve been eating it for years, actually. They used to give it to us at St.
Bard's. With raspberry jam in it.”
“St. Bard's?”
“Sorry, I meant St. Bardolph's. That was the school I went to in England. It was
a good preparation for the jungle in more ways than one.”
He lifted the cover on the dish.
“That looks delicious, Mrs Mortimer! I’ll save the jungle grub for breakfast!”
Later that evening, as they sat round his garden camp fire, Victor told the Mortimers
more of his life story. He’d been born in Malaya, the son of wealthy rubber plantation
owning parents.
He had grown up speaking Malay as naturally as he spoke English. Fascinated by the
sing-song tones of Chinese, he’d learned a dialect called Hokkien. He’d become interested
in the tribal languages spoken by some of the workers on his father’s estate. Discovering
there were no dictionaries or grammar books for these languages, he’d begun compiling
them himself.
Tragedy struck when his parents were killed in a motor accident. He was sent to England
to stay with a guardian. He’d hated the cold, damp English weather; disliked the
bland stodgy food, the reserved English temperament.
But he’d had an excellent education at St. Bardolph’s: a true education for life.
One master in particular had influenced him — Mr McCorkindale, who taught physics
and chemistry. Old Corky’s sudden death in the chemistry laboratory had deprived
Victor of a mentor and friend.
After leaving St. Bardolph’s, Victor had gone to New Guinea and lived with a tribe
of head hunters. An Australian missionary had encouraged him to study linguistics
and anthropology at Queensland University, Australia.
Graduating with a first class honours degree, Victor had been awarded a research
grant to study the languages and cultures of the hill tribes in Laos. Later, working
in Borneo, he had come under the charm of the Chul’eh, a shy, gentle people who lived
in a remote rain forest region. That was the place he’d come to call home.
But he was soon to discover that the Chul’eh were a people under threat. Timber companies
were cutting a swathe through the rain forest. And once the forest had been cleared
from over the heads of the Chul’eh, there were mining companies waiting to move in
with their bulldozers to strip the minerals from the ground beneath their feet.
The destruction of the rain forest would lead inexorably to the destruction of the
Chul’eh way of life, to say nothing of the damage it would cause to the earth’s fragile
ecosystems.
“It’s a really grim situation,” Victor told them.
“What do the Chul’eh think about it?” asked Penny.
“They find it difficult to conceive of people being actuated by naked greed and the
desire for profit. They know so little of the world outside. Some of their chadw’eh
— their leaders — are beginning to realise the tribe needs a voice. But as so-called
“primitive tribespeople” they’re really quite powerless.”
“Can’t anything be done to stop the companies?”
“Economically, they’re very powerful. And there are huge profits at stake for them.
I was offered a very lucrative ‘consultancy fee’ to negotiate with the tribes in
the region and sell them on the benefits of ‘progress’. I refused, naturally. It
was when they found out I was encouraging the tribal leaders to make representations
to the government that the trouble started.”
“What kind of trouble?” asked Penny.
“As a foreigner, you need a special permit to work in the Interior. I was told by
the local government officials that my permit had been revoked. They wouldn’t give
a reason but I’m pretty sure the Magon Corporation was at the back of it. Then my
research grant from an American university was withdrawn. Again, for no ostensible
reason. The upshot was that I had to leave Borneo. My guardian has relatives in New
Zealand and that’s why I’m here. On a sort of holiday while I work out what to do
next.”
“Did you say the Magon Corporation,” said Penny Mortimer, her eyes narrowing.
“They have interests in the timber and mining companies. You’ve heard of them?” asked
Victor Anstruther in surprise.
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of the Magon Corporation,” said Penny. “And from what you’ve
told me, I’m hardly surprised they want you out of the way. Victor, I have a friend
in Australia, Amelia Wheatstone, who may be able to help. She has friends in high
places. I’d like your permission to talk to her about your case.”
“She isn’t related to Tom Wheatstone, is she?”
“She’s married to Tom.”
“What an extraordinary coincidence,” said Victor. “Tom was the missionary who helped
me out when I was working in New Guinea. I’ve run slap into a brick wall in my dealings
with bureaucracy. If Mrs Wheatstone can clear the way for me to go back, that would
be wonderful.”
Stanley Mortimer took off his glasses and folded away the newspaper he had been reading.
“So you’ve spoken to Mrs Wheatstone then?”
“Yes, and she was quite shocked about it,” said Penny, putting down the telephone.
“She’s going to speak to the ambassador in the morning. She’s also going to talk
to Lord Moule.”
“Lord Moule? Who’s he?”
“You must’ve heard of the Moule Foundation. They’re publishing Rabbi Leibowitz’s
translation of the Nabusite Chronicles.”
“Ah, yes,” said Stanley. “That Lord Moule!”
“Lord Moule has a lot of influence in Britain, so I expect we’ll see some action
very soon.” said Penny. “Meanwhile, we’ve got work to do, too. Let’s see if we can
organise a prayer meeting for tomorrow night.”
Victor Anstruther settled back in his seat as the airliner levelled out on its flight
path from Christchurch to Wellington. Below him, he glimpsed the majestic snow-capped
Southern Alps that formed the back bone of the island.
After two days in Wellington, he would catch a flight to Sydney, Australia. He would
spend two weeks in Australia, staying with Tom and Amelia Wheatstone. His visit would
also be a chance to renew his acquaintance with an old school chum, Bulstrode, who
attended Pastor Wheatstone’s church. It had been many years since he’d seen the big,
warm-hearted Australian with the rumbling voice. Bulstrode had recently married.
Events had taken an amazing turn since Penny Mortimer raised his case with Mrs Wheatstone.
There had been the letter from the Embassy apologising for an administrative error
in the processing of his applications for a permit to work in the Interior. There
had been a letter from the Moule Foundation in England, enclosing a generous bank
draft to support his efforts to conserve the rain forests. As well, Lord Moule had
expressed his deep personal interest in the ethnology of the Chul’eh and asked for
a copy of Victor’s dictionary and grammar.
Equally extraordinary had been the newspaper clippings sent to him by an elderly
American woman he’d never heard of, a Miss Edwina Kray. It appeared that pressure
was being brought to bear on the New York headquarters of the Magon Corporation by
a number of environmental and human rights groups. In a note enclosed with the clippings,
Miss Kray assured him that the action against the corporation was being pursued “at
the highest level in this country”.
“Eskuzu mi.”
It was the passenger in the seat across the aisle. Victor recognised the Japanese
couple he’d met on his walk through the forest with the Mortimers.
“Why, it’s Mr and Mrs Nakajima!”
“Naisu meetu you againu Vikuta-san.”
Mrs Nakajima leaned across him.
“My husband says it’s nice to meet you again.”
“This is a surprise,” said Victor, shaking his hand.
He noticed the book on Mr Nakajima’s lap. It was Malay for Beginners by Victor’s
old university teacher, Dr Subaya.
“Aimu rarningu Marayan,” Nakajima explained. “Fery hardu rangurage.”
“My husband is learning Malay,” said Mrs Nakajima. “He says it’s a very hard language.”
“Ah yes,” said Victor. He suspected that Pastor Nakajima would find difficulty with
most non-Japanese languages and that little would be gained by beginning a discussion
of the subtleties of Malay vocabulary and grammar.
“Are you planning to visit Malaysia?” he asked.
“We’re actually going to Borneo,” said Mrs Nakajima. “My husband has received an
invitation from the Bishop to address some of the local churches. There’s been a
lot of interest since his book Seven Keys to Church Growth was translated into Malay.”
“How interesting,” said Victor. “I’ll be returning there myself in a few weeks. I
don’t suppose you’d have a copy of the book? I can read Malay quite well.”
“As a matter of fact, we do have a copy,” said Mrs Nakajima, opening her husband’s
briefcase.
Victor Anstruther was soon absorbed in Pastor Nakajima’s book. Japan’s greatest preacher
since Kagawa may not have been blessed with the gift of tongues, he decided, but
he displayed an abundance of spiritual and practical wisdom. He was much taken by
the chapter entitled “Overcoming the Spiritual Enemy”. Clearly, there was more to
the Magon Corporation’s activities than met the eye.
When they disembarked at Wellington airport, Victor went to return the book to Pastor
Nakajima.
Pastor Nakajima bowed.
“Preezu keepu booku ifu itsu usufuru.”
“My husband would like you to keep the book if you find it useful,” Mrs Nakajima
translated.
“Thankyou very much indeed. It’s a great honour.”
Pastor Nakajima bowed again.
“See you raita, Vikuta-san.”
“Of course,” said Victor, smiling. “We’re bound to run into each other again.”
