The first shot brought disappointment that he had broken his vow – the second, an air of resignation and surrender to a third. Within the hour he had consumed the entire bottle then collapsed into bed, missing his call.
Naked, Jack stepped into rubber thongs and entered the bathroom, confident that the footwear would protect him from the ever-present hookworm. A huge cockroach of prehistoric proportions took flight in his direction and he ducked, eyeing the creature as it crawled around the moss-stained ceiling out of reach. He dipped a plastic scoop into the concrete water tank then braced, paling cold water over his body until some semblance of his normal self was restored.
* * * *
McBride’s assistant, Netty Tangali heard Jack splashing around in the kamar mandi and instructed the housemaid to commence cooking his breakfast, hopeful that Bapak Jack, the title respectfully accorded the missionary, would be in higher spirits than that of the evening before. Netty had seen the postmark, aware that Nashville was his home town. She had waited eagerly for him to read the letter out loud as he had in the past – crushed when he had so brusquely dismissed her and retreated to his room.
Amongst her many attributes Netty Tangali was a trained nurse and fluent in English. When Jack first arrived in Poso it was Netty who had taught him Bahasa Indonesia and the essentials regarding local cultures. She had introduced Jack to the Saluopa waterfalls and the Pamona caves, journeyed with him to the Bada Valley where they examined the ancient and mysterious megaliths, and even sailed Lake Poso’s enchanting setting together. ‘Net’, as Jack had come to call her, became his constant companion. Before their first year together as a team, Netty had become deeply attracted to the unsuspecting American.
* * * *
‘Selamat pagi, Net,’ Jack bade Netty good morning, glanced over at the housemaid then decided to speak English. ‘Would you mind looking after the clinic by yourself, today?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she responded, surprised, ‘are you ill?’
Jack shook his head. ‘No, Net. I just need some time to myself.’ The housemaid placed a steaming bowl of bubur under his nose, Jack staring at the dish before waving the porridge away. ‘I’ll have something later.’ Miffed, the maid raised her eyebrows at Netty.
The nurse noted his casual attire and frowned. ‘Are you going out?’
Jack remained evasive. ‘I have a few things to sort out. I’ll be back before five.’
Concerned eyes followed as he strolled outside and unlocked a bicycle from its rack, then disappeared from view as he peddled across the Pamona Bridge to the Church’s operational centre for Central Sulawesi. There he placed a call to his mother through the U.S. operator and, when the phone rang unanswered, he pleaded with the operator and was connected to the family lawyer’s home.
‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ the foreboding words spilled down the line preparing him for the worst, ‘your mother passed away more than a month ago.’ Then, ‘She was buried alongside your father.’
Jack struggled for words. ‘Your letter arrived… only yesterday.’‘Don’t blame yourself, Jack. There was nothing that you could have done – even if you’d returned in time.’
‘I can arrange a flight and be back by the weekend?’
‘That’s up to you, Jack. There’s no need to rush back unless you feel it necessary.’
‘Have you attended to her will?’ He was aware that his mother had appointed the law firm as executors.
‘Yes. The estate is just about finalized. Apart from a number of personal items your mother bequeathed to you, her estate will pass to the Church.’
‘I know,’ he recalled the discussion, ‘there wasn’t much to leave.’
‘We can store your mother’s other personal effects if you wish, pending your return?’
Jack considered the offer. ‘Thanks. I’d appreciate that.’
‘Is there anything more we can do for you, Jack?’ A weary note had crept into the lawyer’s voice.
‘No. Thanks. I’ll write if something comes to mind.’
With the call completed Jack McBride walked his bicycle slowly back down the street to the bridge that connected the two parts of Tentena. There he stood, gazing over the four-hundred-metre-deep lake contemplating the news of his mother’s death, pedestrian traffic passing him by, residents occasionally acknowledging the missionary with a knowing smile and a wave. Absent-mindedly, he turned to leave and stepped out onto the road, forcing a Toyota pickup to swerve to avoid col-liding with him. Jack whispered silent thanks, deciding then to ride up to his favorite site and spend some time alone, to reflect on his loss.
He peddled his way along the high road where Dutch-built bungalows dotted the mountain landscape overlooking the lake, the area surrounded by primary rainforest and lush plantations of coffee and cloves. He passed a farmer leading an anoa along the road, Jack steering a wide path around the dwarf buffalo as experience had taught that these animals were unusually aggressive and unpredictable. The indigenous fauna had fascinated the American from the outset. During an outing when Netty Tangali had taken him on a countryside excursion he had been fascinated with the unusual babiroesa deerpig, an animal with enormous, upturned corner teeth that pierced the skin as these curled towards the skull. The beast did not have split feet – Jack’s interest growing when Netty explained that this odd mammal was considered halal by the local Muslims and could therefore be eaten.
Before entering the Church missionary program and accepting the assignment to Sulawesi Jack’s appreciation of the delicate socio-religious intricacies of the region were all but nonexistent – the briefings he had attended back in the U.S., initial y leaving him frustratingly short in facing the realities of what transpired in the field. He accepted that had it not been for Netty’s dedicated and persevering nature, his knowledge of the local culture and language would have remained severely lacking.
Approaching his destination Jack began to tire and walked the bicycle the remaining distance up the slope, where a gigantic stone pillar had been placed to symbolize the Pamona ethnics’ secession from East Toraja. Jack often visited the site where local folklore had it that at the top of this hill, heaven and earth were once connected by a rope, the myth, in some way providing him with a philosophical link of his own. He settled down on a grassy patch, head nestled upon knees, taking measure of his life, his decision to work in the field as a missionary and where it might lead.
* * * *
Jack McBride’s small but effective operation in the isolated and predominantly Christian township of Tentena was a ninety-minute drive from the district capital of Poso. The people were friendly and receptive to his presence and, apart from Nathan Glaskin, a cantankerous septuagenarian from Idaho who maintained authority over Jack’s operation, life passed relatively smoothly in his domain. The fire-and brimstone minister had been ensconced at the regional headquarters for more than two decades, Jack’s presence an obvious irritation to the ageing cleric.
Since arriving in the eastern Indonesian province, Jack had learned that medical missions were often considered to be an impediment to the indigenous church programs unless a clear distinction was made between a medical missionary practice and a general practice of medicine overseas. After a number of confrontations Jack