Raising Jungle Children

We ARE Jungle Kids.

I once had an epiphany on the back of a small Honda 50cc motorcycle.  

I was clutching my son between myself and the driver while the bike weaved and jutted between cars at peak Bangkok  traffic. There wasn’t enough space for the three of us to fit on the small  seat.  I stood on the passenger pegs and

held  the driver, who leaned forward to counterbalance. My son, only five at the time, held bravely onto the drivers orange jacket with just one hand because his other hand was wrapped in a makeshift splint made of ten chopsticks and two tee shirts.  He had just fell and broken his arm.

We were headed to the hospital. There was no faster way to get there.

My epiphany might be called: the things we do for our children, but that will never be a debate with me. You do whatever you can.  

My  epiphany was better called:   what we do TO our children.

I grew up in a typical American Suburb. I was ten minutes from a hospital and five minutes from a pharmacy. My father was a doctor so there was an endless array of medicines and medical tools in the house when kids did something stupid. You could die of boredom in New Jersey, but not from a routine medical problem. Or exotic animal attack.

This is not the childhood my children know and I am to blame.

My son spent his first four years in mad Bangkok and his last three years in an Indonesian jungle. My youngest would not live in civilization until was  two, maybe longer. We currently have no idea where that will be. They will never know the difference, but I will. I'll torture myself daily with concerns that I'm depriving them of some secret, critical lessons that can only be learned in the First World. What are they missing? What haven't I considered?

These worries are just part of being a parent.  The educational lessons of the First World aren't much of a concern. We have schools here. And if lessons are lacking, we have the technologies.

The source of my parental anxiety is a question of safety and danger.

.

I've worked in many austere remote locations where I wouldn't consider bringing the wife and kids. Usually because of violence. To be honest, if there is a Beverly Hills of remote living, we've found it here in Sumbawa, Indonesia. We live in the middle of Nowhere Central—can barely find it on a map-- but it’s a comfortable nowhere. We live with many people in the same boat. We all make efforts to support each other.  This kind of life isn’t for everybody and a lot of people don’t last long here. Those who do, (including me) rely on me to make some  quick and hard medical decisions. More than a few times every week terrible emergencies happen and the need for life and limb saving doctoring is beyond the capacity of our beautiful little jungle clinic. When it happens to adults, we justify it. It was a choice to be here- to do some rough work and make some money while living an adventure. When it happens to the kids its not the same-- because we dragged them here.

When I lived in Bangkok I had a job  to arrange  emergency medical evacuations for the sick and injured from remote dangerous places. Often it was from  places quite similar to the one where I live. I remember a stressful case trying to get a sick pregnant woman out of Cameroon by helicopter. She had   severe malaria and was going into early labor. I remember wondering: What is she thinking? What the fuck was she doing in THAT place in THAT condition? What could justify the risk? We moved her to a French hospital and she was fine, but what could have happened  was unthinkable.

Cut to one year ago today and you'll find my wife seven months pregnant on a remote Indonesian island. In the thick of the Indonesian Malaria and Dengue Fever belt. In a place where medical evacuation to anywhere between 5 PM and 7 AM is impossible. No boats, no planes, no helicopters. No movement off the island. We call it calculated risk--when it turns out well.

Did I mention that we have 5 varieties of poison snakes and monkey attacks?

In the scope  of calculated risk this  paradise in Indonesia was the best choice. I turned down jobs in Ukraine, Iraq, Irian Jaya, Papua New Guinea and Congo. I would have taken any of them in a heartbeat without a family in tow. Some of the jobs would have let me carry  a gun.  I've always had that secret dream of being a pistol packing doctor. Before having kids I never turned down a job with  biologic, violence or weapon risks. That sweetened the pot. I'm not stupid, but I  soberly understand the concepts of calculated risk. I’m also aware that there's a psychology involved:

I come from the comfortable, generic, middle class, low risk environment of suburban New Jersey. I have a subconscious need to affirm that beneath this privileged, semi-cultured shell, a badass can emerge. My immature need to experience this  had me leave a comfy, lucrative medical practice in Beverly Hills to live in shit, learn to take a punch and be fired upon randomly.  (It sounds kind of stupid when I put it like that).  After a few years work in Africa I finally became that man- right up to the day I became a father. Suddenly actions had consequences and responsibilities.

It’s hard to be a badass and a father.

So back to the motorcycle ride in Bangkok.  We  dodged cars, dogs, tuk tuks, street food carts, businessmen  and transvestites going to work. After that ride I did some thinking. Maybe it was time to stop the madness and make a pros and cons list of  extreme living choices for the sake of the kids. I know I can get my boy to a hospital on the back of a Honda 50 cc motorcycle through a living madhouse if I have to.

But should I  have to?

When my second son, Jonah, was seven weeks old I brought him back to our island  from his birthplace in a swank hospital in Bangkok  – a hospital where one day I would be medical director. When we got to Bali there was only one way to get to Sumbawa:  helicopter.  This was by a horrifically loud, ear-drum piercing, no noise suppression, 6 seat Bell 212 helicopter. The noise reduction earphones on-board were as big as his little head. I spent an hour crouched over him squeezing the huge earphones over his ears to make a reasonable seal. I worried the entire time that this trip would cause of damage to his tiny eardrums long before he had the chance to do it to himself with crappy loud music.

I've been dancing around the idea of returning to civilized America for the last eight years. I’ve had lots of offers that I turned down. I spoke with my friends back in America to get a barometer of how things are for children. I live in the illusion that America is the same as when I was young: days spent outdoors on bikes or at friend’s homes. I remember going from house to house until someone's mother sent us home for being knuckleheads. Some friends tell me its different now. They tell me the fear of sexual predators.  They don't know their neighbors. Their kids get together if a "playdate" has been scheduled, sometimes weeks in advance.

I my village we have predators, but none of them are human (which makes them predictable). We teach the kids not to approach  monkeys and to call an adult when they see a snake, a monitor lizard or spider bigger than them. Poisonous snakes are always a concern.  We have the big three in our village:  King Cobras, Green Vipers and Brown Mambas (although I'm yet to see a Mamba on our roads). Occasionally a giant Huntsman Spider (average length 7 inches long) makes its way through the bathroom vents.  They are not very dangerous, approaching them when naked feels vulnerable. Luckily, our predators fear the kids more than the kids fear the predators.

On weekends, parents convene around three local beach bars while the kids play on the beach. The kids run freely from house to house. We lock our doors only because the Macaque monkeys have figured out how to work the door latches. If I don't see my son for a few hours I know he's annoying one of the neighbors and will be kicked out shortly 

for being a knucklehead. When he needs to go home I’ve told him to say this:  

"Thank you for putting up with my nonsense."

Pretty normal life, right?

It is those kind of insights that stop the fatherhood fears and bring a little perspective to current reality. In truth there's few places around the world where a doctor gets to test his skills and learn to improvise without a safety net. This is one of them and I dig that aspect.  But admittedly it has put my family at risk. I'm proud of what I do here and I want my kids to be proud of me one day. I have deep, deep care for my patients here. Most of my patients are also my friends and   part of our social circle.   When they get sick, it gets personal. I've watched their kids grow up and they spend time at my house........until my wife throws them out for waking the baby or being knuckleheads. 

I could make more money as a doctor in America, but that has a price: frustrations, insurance problems and restrictions  of an American medical system. In this world I get to do the right thing for my patients when its the right thing to do. Pure and simple medicine. For now, I choose adventure over cash.

We have our hardships. I’d enjoy a few more restaurant choices. A 7-11 or proper one-stop pharmacy  or Starbucks would be nice. The lack of shopping and city access has my wife twitchy. In a year my contract will end   and we will move on to a job and a place is as yet undetermined. The thought is exciting and daunting at the same time. 

I’m not worried.  I figure that between a remote Indonesian island and the New Jersey suburbs there is a world of opportunity. For me and my kids.

We ARE Jungle Family