Part 1: Tribals and Troubles…Almost!

Orissa is infamous for “disturbances…”  There have been several very recent clashes in the Orissa/Chhattisgarh area between government special forces and Naxalites (Maoist rebels) with casualties on both sides.  In 2008, the state was in international news due to violent persecution of thousands of Christians—churches, homes and schools burned down; women raped; men beaten and killed; forced ‘reconversions’.  Believers fled into the jungles and refugee camps; some are still there, unwilling to risk their lives by returning to a home that is probably no longer standing.  Even though it has been 5 years, the scars are still fresh and bleeding.

The Eastern Ghats Beckon

Another fascinating aspect of Orissa is its 62 mountain tribes, more than any other state.  Total tribal population is estimated at 7 million.  After our time in the coastal fishing villages, we were hoping to contact the Dongria Khond, a wild unreached tribe, but found we required police permits and escort—something which will have to grind slowly through the bureaucratic channels of India.  They are considered a protected cultural resource plus they “cut off hand and foot, maybe cut neck, carry knife behind ear, two knife in belt here and here, no clothing, no proper food…”  Russ is already forming his strategy for next year.  If you dare to hike 10km beyond the last bike trail, and are willing to risk both the tribals and the government, come with us!

In Rayagada District, where Russ held a Leadership Conference for 22 of Bihit’s missionaries, over 50% of the people are tribal.  On our way there, Bihit received a cell

Russ and Missionaries

phone call that we might face trouble—a large group of Hindus were holding a “disturbance” in front of the little tumbledown Oriya Baptist Church in Gunupur village, trying to prevent the Conference.  They had dissipated before our arrival, probably due to the intense midday heat.  Bihit went to meet with their leader and defuse the situation while Russ began to teach.   Apparently he convinced them that we were not actually going to evangelize the area that day, the Conference would be limited to church grounds, and would not last more than a few hours.  We had no further problems and were blessed by the men who had dedicated their lives to reaching the unreached in these wild places.  Many had walked for a day or more to attend.   

Bihit and Villagers

Bihit is a diplomat, and I personally make a point of smiling and waving to the neighbors in known hostile areas, who usually melt in front of my camera.  This is especially true if I take photos of their children or show interest in their jewelry (women) or tools (men).  When they realize I am a human like themselves —or maybe just a harmless old lady—we have never had an actual problem...yet.  In fact, an older woman and some young men with her gave me a gift of green mangoes from those she was selling.  I was supposed to make pickles from them, which I regret will not happen this trip.

We did meet several Soura tribal people, some of whom came to hear Russ’ testimony in the remote mountain village of Puttasingh.  On Friday, Russ and I sleepily rolled out of bed at 3AM because there was to be a big political strike in Paralakhemundi.  The participants were determined that no one would enter or leave the city, and shops should be closed, so we had to be out and gone by 5AM or risk violence and riots.

View from a Switchback--Note the Paddy Terraces Below

We headed west into the Eastern Ghat Mountains—higher and higher as the road got smaller and smaller.   Ears popped as we took in breathtaking views from multiple switchbacks.  Rock formations and hardwood trees became more prominent.  Thick morning mists slowly gave way to sunshine.  Rice paddies were terraced up steep slopes, and men with teams of oxen and wooden plows worked to prepare for the next crop. 

Bihit told us that his father fasted for forty days on a local mountaintop prior to starting his ministry 30 years ago; there were tigers back then, which have since disappeared along with the thick jungles.  Today we

Soura Homes and Stone Paddy Walls

passed many small huts and homes where the Soura people live.  They were first reached as wild tribals by Canadian Baptist missionaries years ago, and the legacy lives on.  Now, they are slowly integrating into Indian society.  Some anthropologists regret the changes, but I feel medical care and education should be available to everyone.  Keeping a people group on display as you would keep an exotic zoo animal is neither compassionate nor fair to them.

Our purpose for today’s journey was twofold:  I was to lead a “Women of God Conference” for three hours, based on my material for pastors’ wives back in Pithapuram.  For the evening service, Russ would give his testimony to the large congregation and many expected visitors.  Word spread through Puttasingh village and the surrounding area. 

Puttasingh Village Baptist Church

Curious Boys

We arrived a few hours early due to our escape from Paralakhemundi, so we were shown to a guest room attached to the impressive Baptist Church.  Russ removed his legs (after we closed the shutters and blocked the stares of curious boys) and we rested on a coir mattress.  Local pigs and dogs rooted in the drainage ditch below our window.  And of course the power went out…so we had no fan.

At 9:50 we went into the sanctuary to begin the Conference at 10AM.  The concrete floor was spread with mats, and thick smoke blew in from the side doors where the men were cooking lunch for the Conference.  Two older women came and sat, then others trickled in over the next hour or so.  About 11:10 we decided to begin. 

Alice Teaching "Women of God", Pani Translating

One hour was already gone, so I further reduced my material to the life of Ruth (“a love story better than a Bollywood movie”) and Proverbs 31.  Bihit’s boyhood friend,

Hazael Pani—who speaks at least 6 languages and reads 10— translated for me.  By the time I was done, there were over a hundred women listening intently—mountain women who probably had never seen a “foreigner” before, nor traveled further than the marketplace in Paralakhemundi in their lives. As I taught them about agape love, faithfulness, and the principle of kinsman-redeemer, I looked into their faces and could feel God moving in their hearts.

Her Village Home

After lunch, the leftovers were taken outside and thrown off the porch to the pigs, dogs, chickens and eventually a wayward cow.  We rested in the guesthouse during the heat of the day. But, I can never stay still for very long, so I took the camera and headed out  to explore the next few streets.  The living conditions were distressing:  Narrow dark alleys crowded with tiny row houses;  murky drain gutters festering with garbage and mosquitoes; a deep open well with trash in the water; pigs, dogs, chickens, goats—and of course children—spilling out everywhere.  The contrast between the beautiful mountain vistas and the immediate reality was huge.

Soura Tribesman at Church

Bihit’s father, Upendra Parichha, and a large contingent of notables arrived.  This was his first place of ministry those long years ago, and the church has grown large for rural India—over 200 crowded into the sanctuary to hear him and Russ, including over a dozen Soura tribesmen.

God continues to touch souls with Russ’ powerful testimony. We see it over and over again:  Curiosity over his legs, amazement that he would risk coming to remote places, questions that lead to the Gospel, encouragement to those who are now experiencing suffering.  Who knew that the anguish of the past two years would be bearing so much fruit across India?

Upendra spoke afterward, mesmerizing his audience with laughter and the love of God.  We can understand his popularity as an evangelist and conference speaker throughout Orissa.  Bihit’s passionate vision for missionary ministry has definitely been passed down in the genes.  Yes, some of Orissa’s mountain villages and tribals have been touched by the Gospel, but so many in the more remote areas have never heard of Jesus Christ.  We are catching the vision too.  

Darkness deepened and we headed on the long journey back.  Bihit casually announced we would be taking another route back to Paralakhemundi through Gunupur:  “The roads are wider and we can make better time.”  A little later the true reason came to light:  The mountain road we originally came on has Naxalite bandits roaming about at night.  He didn’t want us to meet the same fate as two Italian tourists who were kidnapped for three months. 

Bihit is charming and fun, but he has a serious strategy for reaching remote villages—by multiplying missionaries through a “Person of Peace” similar to what is taught in “Perspectives”.   His quiet, studious friend Pani is a great resource; he left his job as teacher in a Kerala Bible College a few weeks early, specifically to translate for us and help Bihit’s ministry.  The mountains are wild and beautiful; the lost souls scattered in them are precious to God.  Help us, Lord, to help these men reach the unreached for You.

More about tribals in our next blog…

--Alice Sharrock

Fishermen--Part 2

Heading Out to Sea at Sunset

In our last blog, we had been exploring the fishing villages along the Bay of Bengal, and saw few or no churches.  As Russ and I continued north across the border to Orissa, we were burdened with the plight of these people.   But God is always at work and we soon experienced His power.

Ever since Vizag, mountains had been visible, but fishing continued to be a primary occupation on the seacoast. 

We arrived in Paralakhemundi with Bihit Parichha, a young man with a huge vision for God’s work from the mountains to the sea.  He and his family of four live in a tiny row house—about eight feet wide—stair-stepped up the side of a steep hill.  The roof leaks seriously during the frequent thunderstorms. 

Bihit's Home--Eight Feet Wide

We were planning to stay with him before we found that there are three abrupt steps up to the narrow rear courtyard, and the Asian toilet is at the far end.  Russ would have a problem.  Plus they would all be sleeping on the floor next to our bed—soaking wet when it rains.  We opted for a lodging room.  More about the room later… (Or maybe not.  It’s probably better forgotten.)

Baptism Service at the Bay of Bengal

On Sunday, Bihit invited Russ to speak at a little thatch church in Ganguwada village near the Bay.  There we learned that three new believers would be baptized the next day.  So, on Monday we crossed the dunes alongside an old wooden fishing boat, past more boats and mounds of nets down to the sea.  Russ remained on the last ledge above the water and prayed with the new believers. 

Bihit’s father Upendra, a noted evangelist, waded into the waves and performed the
baptisms. The surf had a powerful undertow which suctioned the sand from under my feet and made standing difficult.  The spiritual experience was even more powerful.  One man and two women publicly declared their faith in Jesu Kristu—with ancient-style fishing boats just offshore and waves crashing around them.  Through men like Bihit and the twenty five missionaries he has trained, God is definitely at work in the fishing villages. 

That day, so was Satan.  Russ was struggling uphill across the dunes, and someone decided to drive the SUV closer.  But for every downhill, there is an uphill, and it was almost

impossible to go backward in soft sand.  The wheels spun deeper and deeper as several strong men tried to push, but failed.  Coconut leaves were shoved under the tires.  No go.  Someone borrowed a rope from the fishnets, but it broke.  The sun got hotter as the day wore on, and nothing seemed to work.

Finally Bihit’s mother trudged through the sand with a rock in her hands.  Others joined her in carrying some rocks and driftwood boards.  Another piece of rope was found and the second small vehicle gingerly backed downhill—just a little.  Everyone prayed and pushed, engines gunned, the rope slack was taken up slowly—and we were free!  Bihit danced and praised God.  We all praised Him!

Russ and Upendra preached again, and we were refreshed by drinking coconut water

directly from the nuts of nearby trees—then to a festive lunch.  While the men talked afterward, the ladies asked me to go and bless a home with prayer.  Then I wandered the village, taking photos of goats, children, and elderly ladies.

This may be the seashore, but it is also a transitional area between the traditions of Andhra and the mountain tribes of Orissa.  Older women, and a few younger ones, do not wear a blouse under their sari.  For modesty, they rely on the scarf end which—in all of India—is slung across the chest and over the left shoulder.  I suppose it’s cooler and less restrictive, but…  Also, they have the most intriguing nose ornaments!  Some resemble a gold bee or butterfly hanging from the septum.  One lady was combing her gorgeous long grey hair and let me take her picture—a perfect blend of age and beauty.   

On Thursday we headed for another fishing village, Gunpalli.  The church was a tiny brick-

 walled, thatch-roofed building surrounded by heaps of fishnets. In a nearby shrine, a 

Church in Gunpalli Fishing Village

cement idol stared at me, and so did a sleepy dog whose cool nap I had momentarily disturbed.  Both of these villages usually have John Kumar, one of Bihit’s missionaries, as circuit preacher.  Today, Russ gave his powerful testimony to a full congregation.  

We were invited to lunch in a Hindu fishermen’s home a few doors down the sandy street.  Food was cooked by their neighbor Simeon, also a fisherman—and a member of the church congregation—who had just netted his first shark.  He and his wife fried it into the most delectable seafood dish we’ve had since the prawns at Chirala.  And all the neighbors, young and old, came to take photos of us with their cell phones.

Simeon the Fisherman and His Wife

Russ’ reputation as “The Man with No Legs” continues to make us a bit of a celebrity.  Hindus, Muslims and tribals are eager to meet us out of sheer curiosity—even asking for prayer.  Their questions open many doors for local missionaries such as Bihit and John Kumar to present the Gospel of Jesus Christ.   We concluded our time among the lonely little fishing villages with joyful celebration, knowing that the Lord is continually working in the hearts of men everywhere on His earth.

Stay with us as we explore the Eastern Ghat Mountains…   

--Alice Sharrock

Fishermen--Part 1

You can't minister to people you know nothing about, so we are getting involved with Indian life at the grassroots level; today, more at the tidal level.  Come and explore with us:

The names are intriguing:  Vodarevu, Yanam Ferry, Kakinada, and Visakhapatnam.  From a distance, fishing villages look colorful and quaint.  Antique boats, simple homes, beaches and waterfront—what more could you want?

But close-up, the rank odor of dead fish is overpowering.  Fish in baskets, fish split and spread on the ground, fish hanging in rows to dry.  Fish bones and scales permeate the sand: Fish being sorted, salted, and sold. 

And being caught.  We’ve seen three or four kinds of fishing boats, from the local handmade wooden craft to old-style/new technology fiberglass hulls. These have the traditional high-prow profile, but an outboard motor pushing it to sea—unless they run out of gas and need to row it back in... 

Fishing Boats and Drying Fish--Vizag Harbor

The next level is more what we saw in the Chesapeake Bay—squarish, with a cabin and inboard motor and winch poles for the nets.  Third, the biggest commercial boats are all steel, all business, and sometimes hail from distant ports.

We watched open boats being launched after sunset at Vodarevu near Chirala, and see them every day off Andhra's coast.  But this week began a moratorium on fishing for 45 days, to let the levels of sea life rejuvenate.  (45 days???  Maybe a few years would accomplish something. Plus, many ignore the ban--there are still some boats out there.  But this is India, and very little is enforced.) 

Poverty and Sand

Down at the docks in Kakinada, we saw long piers where hundreds of people processed fish in open-windowed plants.  Much of the fish, however, is just spread on the ground where it bakes in the sun.  There and in Vodarevu, the decrepit thatched huts spoke of poverty and hopelessness. One hit me hard—with a hairless, mangy dog poking around in the barren sand for food, and a scrawny rooster in the shadows.  Faded, worn saris hung to dry.  Washed in what?  There were certainly no wells or pumps visible…

At Yanam, the most ancient of boats were still in use, with stern grooves for sculling oars, and lateen sails—the staple design of Asia and Africa—furled alongside.  I delighted in the patina of aged wood and hand craftsmanship.  Yet many lay abandoned, presumably casualties to the modernization of commercial fishing.

 

Monkey God

Fishermen's deities abounded everywhere, mute clusters of them facing the sea, a testimony to the risks of life on the waves in this storm-prone Bay of Bengal.  Some were crude, such as the monkey god (Hannuman) figurehead sidelined by a wall; others were ornate and glorious idols.  One corporation in Yanam had set up both idols and a statue of Christ along the waterfront promenade—equal opportunity in this land of many gods.  But we did see a small boat with “Jesus” scrawled on its side...

This afternoon we ventured to the beaches and docks of Vizag (Visakhapatnam) for a look.  This is the fishing hub of the area, and we began at a beach cove where fish were being sorted in a makeshift shelter.  When I approached, they demanded money for photos, so I left.

I'd already taken a distant shot anyway.  The sand was littered with fish scales and trash, the waterline with human waste.  A squatting boy was adding to the debris.  It seemed that this was just a normal part of their pitiful existence.

Across the busy shore road, we saw the

shanties where these fisher folk live out their lives.  Crowded together, barely habitable, made of reclaimed trash, row upon row of tiny hovels lined the street.  Families and their cooking and laundry—even their sleeping cots—spilled out along the curb.  India is sometimes overwhelming.

Further down, we turned onto the docks where the fishing industry was taken seriously.  The slips and pier teemed with activity.  A seafood auction was in full swing in a walled compound; crowds spilled over onto the gritty
sand; endless groups of men and women sorted fish into baskets and/or salted them down; some unloaded fish from tanks of brine.  An elderly man was wearily scraping up leftovers from the ground.  One woman threatened to throw a fish at me if I took a photo of her--most just kept about their business—and the usual retinue of boys began to follow me about, “Just one photo, Just one photo!”

During the fishing ban, the harbor was tightly packed with hundreds of boats, some with old tires as bumpers, wedged up against the next one.  Men were busily repairing and refurbishing the vessels.  Some struggled with crude hand tools; others had entire decks ripped out, exposing the engine works underneath (and delighted that I stopped to photograph their labors); the larger boats had welders and work crews refitting them for the task ahead.  Lumber and nails littered the dock. 

The busy men were polite and curious about this strange old lady dashing in and out among the fishwives and workmen, taking photos.  Even our taxi driver questioned my sanity…”Madam, Madam?”  Russ had to assure him that I was probably OK, just keep moving slowly down the docks, she’ll catch up eventually.

So what did we discover about these people?  We certainly don’t understand all the nuances of Indian society, nor the struggling castes that make up the fishing villages.  What did we NOT see?  First, we didn’t see any young girls among all the busy crowds at the Vizag pier.  Second, no water wells—Vizag had a tank truck for drinking water parked back among the fish stalls.  No wonder everything seems dry, hot and dirty. 

Worse, we saw no churches in any of these villages.  What we saw was an ornate temple of the goddess Kali, whose necklace is made of human skulls.  We saw other crude shrines and idols along the beaches.   But who is bringing the gospel of Christ to the souls who live in the sun and sea and sand? 

Stay with us for the next exciting episode of Russ and Alice in India…

--Alice Sharrock