Getting to The Other Side of Heaven

Mark Twain wrote the book “Innocents Abroad” when he traveled with Quaker pilgrims on a chartered boat to the Holy Land.  If Tonga has a Holy Land, it would be the island of Niuas; which is where Elder Groberg went on his mission in the movie, “The Other Side of Heaven”.  We recently traveled with a group of 150 “saints” on a boat designed and built to be a frigate by China but modified (when I say modified, I only mean painted to be frigate-freighter-luxury-liner-ferry-boat) to accommodate people and piglets and other stuff.
When I retired, I had visions of cruising the Caribbean in a large boat with grand buffets, entertainment, pools, gallons of ice-cold Pepsi, slides, and an overabundance of every luxury known to man.  But somehow when I read the pamphlet on a becoming a senior missionary, I skipped the fine print and signed me and my too kind and loving wife as senior missionaries that would travel to exotic remote beautiful south pacific islands and have heavenly experiences; modes of travel and accommodations was noticeably absent upon a more recent and thorough reading.
The Chinese made frigate-freighter-luxury-liner-ferry-boat makes the monthly trip, but goes a circuitous route that stops at small, isolated islands all along the way.  The Luxury-Frigate is often the only contact with the outside world the islanders get.  Allegedly there is a plane that can fly “to the other side of heaven”, but it is managed by the same people that schedule “Big Foot” sitings.  Both the plane and boat basically touch the island and turn around and head back.  If you miss your return trip you would have to stay for several weeks which is tough because there is no restaurant, no motel and they have a store; but not the way you and I mean a store, as there is nothing in it.  Usually, locals will feed you as they are kind, gracious, and friendly.  Fortunately, “the other side of heaven” didn’t land us in Papua New Guinee, where if you are invited to dinner, it might be because you are dinner.  I jest, I did travel to Papua NG a few years ago and the locals teased me with just enough folklore to keep me nervous, much to their amusement, I am sure.
We arrive at the boat dock promptly at 6 a.m. for an 8 a.m. departure.  Tongan published ferry schedules should be viewed more as a suggestion than a real commitment.  In fact, the published times could be random numbers printed from bottom to top and read from right to left and would have as much to do with the actual departure time as reading Isaiah before bedtime.  Eventually we leave and there are fond farewells as Elder and Sister P tell us they will pray for us, and they giggle and make dinner reservations at Little Italy.  My landlord advises, “If you don’t have to go.  Don’t!!”  We ignore all such warnings and gaily and enthusiastically wave and high-five each other and climb the steps to the open-air upper deck. 
I am on the Luxury-Frigate with 150 religious pilgrims headed to the Tongan Holy Land.  We will be crossing 400 miles of treacherous oceans, there is gale warning, and the trip will take 27 hours on a storm-tossed boat.  Ten senior missionaries with the zeal of Tony Robbins are about to learn how to travel Tongan style.  What could go wrong?
We quickly realize the situation; it is every man for themselves.  Everyone is throwing down blankets or mats staking out their 6’x6’ piece of deck where they will eat, sleep, sit, play, toss and turn, and puke for the next 27-hour boat ride in an ocean that rivaled the Brother of Jared’s ride to the promised land.  There were no rooms with chocolates on our pillows.  There were no comfy chairs, although there were two wood benches that I believe were also to be used as rescue rafts (think last scenes of the Titanic when Leonardo was holding on to the wood door).  There was no grand buffet or dinner with the Skipper, although I learned later, pizza and a roasted pig can be delivered by canoe.  The canoe could easily catch our Luxury-Frigate as top speed is 15 mph and any self-respecting Tongan sculling team would easily be faster than that.  On a good day, I believe a skiff with a trolling motor could easily overtake us.  I thought I saw a driftwood passing us.
After surviving this trip, we are going to have much to cover so I am going to just warn you now that my next article will be more fun filled than this one and you should read it and buy a paper for your relatives and send it to them too.  I will cover sleeping conditions, eating, weather, and many other important topics that I know are important to your life six thousand miles away from the Other Side of Heaven.
Bedding ranged from a ball cap pulled over your eyes, to blankets, foil emergency blankets, sleeping bags, or nothing just sitting Tongan style with legs crossed and eyes shut.  Almost everyone preferred laying down on a woven mat about the thickness of the San Juan Record.   As soon as the sun set people started preparing for sleep and initially everyone was very considerate of the property lines defined by each mat laid on the floor. 
Senior Missionary companions usually have a personal space boundary of three feet when awake.  But as the night went on their senses were dulled.  They were lulled into a deep sleep.  Time passed and they were dreaming of the Other Side of Heaven but the pitching of the boat slid people around one inch at a time.  As I write this I chuckle because at this very minute a Sister Senior missionary, because of disorientation, lack of water, four hours of seasickness, and a sleeping pill is spooning with a 300 lb Tongan man who’s name she won’t be able to pronounce in the morning. Her husband, for all the same reasons, is also spooning with a large Tongan man.  I am pretty sure this is breaking the mission rules.  I am sure by morning things will sort themselves out and nobody will be the wiser except a few thousand SJR readers and everyone on Facebook. 
I was so amused by all of this and thought myself quite clever that I had tied myself and my too kind and loving wife to the handrail near our sleeping quarters.  But on the return trip cozy conditions became compromising positions.
We have a woven straw mat with a small blanket.  I snuck a pillow on board but didn’t really dare use it as all the locals don’t have one.  My Mission President gave us a pep talk assuring us that we could do hard things and led us in a chant, “Hurrah for Israel” just like in the movie.  He assured us that he used to sleep on a mat and used a board for a pillow and he was sure that we would be valiant. 
When I was writing about someone else, I thought cozy best described our sleeping arrangements.  When it was me sliding around like a deck chair on the Titanic, cozy was getting critically closer to compromising.  There are wall to wall people laying down on mats, like Tootsie Rolls being rolled back-n-forth by the rocking of the boat.  With each pitch of the boat, seven large Tongans rolled their way towards me. What started out as acceptable sleeping arrangements under the conditions, got less so with each pitch of the boat, until I felt like I was the ham, in a ham-n-cheese sandwich.
The 350 lb Tongan whose name I can’t pronounce was the rye bread, I was the ham, and my too kind and loving wife was the bleached white wonder bread on the other side.  This Camping for Jesus was pushing my boundaries of charity and love for my neighbor.
I slept with one eye open and kept it focused on my large Tongan neighbors that rolled one direction, then back, making progress that was small, but creeping forward like a glacier down a mountain.  I didn’t think it could get worse until he stretched out and put his hands behind his head to act as a pillow. The lack of available showers, humidity, and squalor packed conditions was quite evident.  I was near my barfing threshold, so I was sweating and trying to calm my mind and not start barfing. 
He adjusted himself and as the boat pitched again, he rolled over so now he was facing me.   He was definitely in my personal space.  He was in my air space as much as the China spy balloon was in America’s air space when it was shot down over South Carolina.  He is breathing in my air space; he must have eaten something spicy for dinner.   I couldn’t have him breathe on my face the remainder of the night, so as the boat pitched, I shifted and rolled over and faced my too kind and loving wife.  I was doing exactly what years of a happy marriage had trained me to never do; violate her airspace while she was sleeping.   I prayed mightily that the boat would pitch in the other direction.  I couldn’t take it any longer, so I got up to breathe fresh air and I snapped a picture because sometimes I think my readers think I make this stuff up.  I try to stay up all night, but am afraid I will fall over the rail, so I lay back down in my narrow slot between the rye bread and white bleached bread.
In the morning my too kind and loving wife stretched and yawned and whispered, “I am so glad for a good night’s sleep.  That sleeping pill worked wonders.”  And then she put her arm across my chest. I hissed, “Don’t touch me.”  She just smiled, “Well did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?  Come here, let’s cuddle.” 
Later as I disembarked off the boat walking like a zombie in a B-movie I met the wife of my large Tongan sleeping companion.  She smiled waved and asked, “Did you see Sione Sikahema?”  I remarked as I shuffled off, “Yep I did, he is quite the cuddler isn’t he?” I didn’t wait for a response.