Dispatch from Kopua, Wednesday, April 27

We’re planning to leave Kopua tomorrow morning early to drive down to Wellington and catch the ferry for a tour of the southern island. That means we’ll be on the move and in sporadic touch with the internet, and I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to do any writing, at least any that reads like something more than a travel diary.
Jeanne and I talked this morning of our mixed feelings in leaving the monastery here. The monks, especially Father Nikko, the guest master, have been so wonderfully welcoming, and we’ve felt so much at home. We will also miss the daily rhythm of prayer and Eucharist. It will hard to be “on the road” again. On the other hand, we’re excited in anticipation of visiting the southern island, which everyone tells us is spectacularly beautiful.
As you have probably discerned already, ending the day with Compline in community has come to be very dear to us. The little booklet for Compline that’s used here begins with the following introduction: Night Prayer brings the day to a close.
Entering the night watch we engage
the darkness and silence once more.
The daily cycle is almost complete!
Trust is the virtue for this Hour.
We surrender ourselves to God’s protection.
We entrust our hearts to the blessing of rest
and to the night—an ocean yielding many a surprise.

May the Lord grant us a peaceful night
and a perfect end.
(David Steindl Rast, “Music of Silence’)
At the beginning of each office of Compline, a commentary on the Rule of St. Benedict, which after 1700 or so years still governs the daily life of this community, is read. Last night the reading was on the vow of obedience, which, on reflection, might be harder even than chastity. How hard it is to submit our lives to God and to each other. The commentary pointed out that the Latin term from which obedience derives means to listen. What an insightful and liberating slant that offers! Obedience isn’t merely adherence to a set of rules; it’s the result of deep listening in the silence of the heart—listening to God, first of all, but also to others. The commentary says that Benedict hated all arbitrary obedience, and it was only obedience from the heart, the result of listening with the ear of the heart, that has the power to convert out lives to God.

Dispatch from Kopua, Tuesday, April 26

After a quiet Sunday of worship, rest, and conversation, we set off yesterday morning for Napier, a nearby city on Hawkes Bay on the eastern coast. I don’t think there is such a thing as a boring drive in this entire country. Driving northward the peaks of the Ruahine range stood proudly with a fresh mantle of snow on their shoulders on our left while we drove on through the green hills of the coastal plain dotted with sheep “stations” with their grazing sheep. Now and then we’d pass through a town lined with palms and plane trees, and golf courses.
There are lots of golf courses in New Zealand, though I’ve not yet played here even though there’s a little country course a few kilometers away at the intersection of the little Monastery road and the highway. These smaller back country courses have a distinct feature that makes them especially attractive to pastors-- sheep graze on the fairways. That’s right, while the greens are fenced off, the wooly creatures wander freely on the course, keeping the fairways nicely mowed. Of course there must be some “obstacles” on the ground to avoid as the golfers walk along. And then there’s the matter of actually hitting one of the little duffers. I’ve asked about that, but no one around here seems at all surprised that sheep wander the fairways, or concerned that an errant golf ball, such as I might easily hit, could hit one. Perhaps sheep, besides being dumb creatures, are also hard headed, and their wool so thick as to protect them from flying golf balls.
Pastors sometimes chalk up their time at golf as more “pastoral work.” I make sure to ask after the spiritual health of all my golfing partners. Well here that’s no mere excuse for pastoral play. Golfing pastors here literally walk among their sheep, and if they hit an errant drive, hopefully they also know their sheep by name so as to warn them of the coming danger. It occurs to me that Bach’s great chorale, “Sheep May Safely Graze” doesn’t hold true on one of these New Zealand back country golf courses.
Napier is a medium sized city with the distinctive feature that the buildings in its center city are mainly designed in the art deco style of the 1930’s. The city was devastated by an earthquake in the late 20’s and rebuilt in what was then the modern design. It’s really quite charming, although you have to walk looking up to notice since most of the stores have redone their street level fronts in a current and nondescript style.
Lots of people were out on the streets but only a few of the stores were open, this being a national holiday, Anzac day. Anzac Day is like our Memorial Day and Armistice Day all rolled into one. It stands for “Australia and New Zealand Army Corps,” and memorializes all those who served in war. For some reason the battle of Gallipoli seems to be a special focus, which seems strange to me since I remember it mainly as Churchill’s big WWI disaster.
We had a very nice lunch in a small trendy café filled with mainly young people (of course everyone seems young to us these days). My age shows through with my intolerance for the loud, insistent techno beat music that seems to be the necessary accompaniment for so many restaurants and bars here. Since Napier is also the center of wine country in this part of New Zealand we also visited a winery and tasting room. This one, the Mission Winery, is the oldest in the area, and the wonderfully restored old building was a seminary of the Marian Order of priests, who, like some other orders, became famous for their wines. Good stuff! We bought a couple of bottles.
One of the wonderful amenities of restaurants in New Zealand is that you can BYO, as it says in the window, bring your own wine. They charge a small “uncorking” fee, but it’s still a lot cheaper than buying a bottle from the restaurant’s cellar. By the way, here’s a wine lovers news flash from New Zealand. Many fine wines here have the good old screw top that used to be the sure-fire way to identify cheap wines. Evidently there’s a shortage of cork, and the good old screw top works just fine.
While tasting the various vintages we chatted with some of the other visitors, one of whom came from Colorado with her friend from Australia. We started to talk about what restaurant we might go to that evening, and they suggested a little out of the way place as the best seafood in town, and we could uncork our newly purchased Pinot Gris there. It turned out to be a nice little place owned by a family of Dutch immigrants who had arrived a few years ago. Not only are they Dutch, they are from Friesland, the northern and fiercely independent part of Holland where my grandfather came from (just ask Anita Blom).
We drove home in the dark, an adventure in this country of left lane driving, and unreliable yellow “no passing” lines. So even at night the driving isn’t boring. You can’t see the scenery but the driver’s antics are endlessly fascinating (that’s the other drivers, of course, no matter what Jeanne says). It was good to turn up the long entrance drive to the monastery and see the white neon-lighted cross high above the church. I haven’t had the heart to tell the monks that I’ve seen exactly the same cross on Baptist churches in the piney woods of east Texas.
We made it back to Kopua just in time for Compline, the last office of the day. Psalm 27 is said at every Compline, and after our drive last night we could thankfully say, “When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh—my adversaries and my foes—they shall stumble and fall.” As I’ve said before, one of the wonderful aspects of staying at monasteries for a time in each place as we travel is that there is really a sense of “coming home” after a day away. Arriving in time for Compline last night, and being blessed before bed, gave us that experience of home away from home again.
Part of the homey quality at Kopua comes from several regulars who worship here. This morning the young family was here again for Lauds and Mass at 6 am. They drive for a half hour to get here, so you can figure what time they must get up. A good Catholic family with five children, the kids are must have arrived one after another, arranged like stair steps from a nine-month old up to a four year old. The father looks fit and healthy, but I must say Mom looks a bit tired. Still, it’s wonderful to have them here almost every day as part of the community, and hearing the occasional quiet murmurs of the incredibly well-behaved children.
I also like to hear the low growling voice of the mentally disabled old man I wrote about earlier, who is a regular part of the community, and who’s parents deeded them the land with the understanding that they care for their son. The monks say he has the mentality of about a twelve-year-old, and while he doesn’t read, he knows all the responses of the Mass, as well as the canticles (the four songs in Luke’s gospel) by heart, and sings them with great deep monotone gusto.
The Mass this morning was celebrated on the feast day of St. Mark. The epistle came from the end of I Peter where he writes, “Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you.” That spoke to our hearts as we find ourselves concerned for family members while we’re so far away. But I think it was read on this day because of what follows. Peter sends his greetings to the churches and then continues, “and so does my son Mark.” Was that the same Mark who wrote the gospel? Perhaps, since many scholars think Mark is written from Peter’s point of view. I don’t remember ever noticing that reference to Mark before. Strangely, the gospel reading was from the very end of Mark, the part that’s all bracketed off and that most scholars don’t think was part of the original gospel. It did seem a bit strange in the rather staid atmosphere of a New Zealand Trappist monastery to hear about how the disciples would “speak in new tongues,” and “pick up snakes in their hands.” Maybe it all fits with the neon cross.

NZ piano beach

NZ piano beach,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Movie stars on "The Piano" beach.

NZ thermals 2

NZ thermals 2,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Craters of the Moon at Lake Taupo in central New Zealand. This is just a small corner of the park.

NZ roadside falls

NZ roadside falls,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

As we slowed down to pull into the "scenic overview," Len says "there's no reason to pull off here...." Around every corner there is a new and astounding view.

Dispatch from Kopua, Sunday, April 24

I thought I might share some of my reading with you (besides the novels we’ve been reading and shedding along the way). My main "spiritual" reading has been a new book by Eugene Petersen, "Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places," a title taken from a famous poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins. The book is subtitled "a conversation in spiritual theology," and is intended as the first in a trilogy of books by this wise and prolific writer. (Petersen is also the one who translated "The Message," a paraphrase of the Bible that has enriched many.)
Petersen begins where any good Christian (or Jew) should, with the doctrine of creation. Here are a few gems I’ve culled so far:
+++Spirituality" is a net that when thrown into the sea of contemporary culture pulls in a vast variety of spiritual fish, rivaling the resurrection catch of 153 ‘large fish’ that John reports (John 21: 11). In our times "spirituality" has become a major business for entrepreneurs, a recreational sport for the bored, and for others, whether many or few (it is difficult to discern), a serious and disciplined commitment to love deeply and fully in relation to God." (p. 27)
[I liked that last sentence’s definition of spirituality, and would expand it thus: Spirituality is a serious and disciplined commitment to live deeply and fully in relation to God by his Holy Spirit, in the place God has put us, the world of creation and human relationships made holy by Christ’s incarnation.]
+++You would think that believing that Jesus is God among us would be the hardest thing. It is not. It turns out that the hardest thing is to believe that God’s work—this dazzling creation, this astonishing salvation, this cascade of blessings—is all being worked out in and under the conditions of our humanity: at picnics and around dinner tables, in conversations and while walking along roads, in puzzled questions and homely stories, with blind beggars and suppurated lepers, at weddings and funerals. Everything that Jesus does and says takes place within the limits and conditions of our humanity. No fireworks. No special effects. Yes, there are miracles, plenty of them. But for the most part the miraculousness of miracle is obscured by the familiarity of the setting, the ordinariness of the people involved. (p. 34)
+++Setting the two words [self and soul] side by side triggers a realization that a fundamental aspect of our identity is under assault every day. We live in a culture that has replaced soul with self. This reduction turns people into either problems or consumers. Insofar as we acquiesce in that replacement we gradually but surely regress in our identity, for we end up thinking of ourselves and dealing with others in marketplace terms: everyone we meet is either a potential recruit to join our enterprise or a potential consumer for what we are selling; or we ourselves are the potential recruits or consumers, Neither we nor our friends have any dignity just as we are, only in terms of how we or they can be used.
[Petersen goes on to identify two more words that are symptomatic of this reduction of soul to self: "resource" and "dysfunctional"]
+++"resource" is commonly used of people who can help us in our work. I can still remember how jarring that word sounded to me when I first heard it used 40 years ago by a man who was giving me direction in my work of developing a new congregation. He kept on pushing me to identify the resource-people that I could use in my work. And then I noticed that he was using the word as a verb…offering to resource our church board….
And "dysfunctional." It is alarming how frequently people are referred to as dysfunctional: dysfunctional families, dysfunctional committees and congregations….But dysfunctional is not a personal word, it is mechanical. Machines are dysfunctional but not souls; bicycles are dysfunctional but not children; water pumps are dysfunctional but not spouses. The constant, unthinking use of the word erodes our sense of worth an d dignity inherent in the people we meet and work with no matter how messed up they are.
We cannot be too careful about the words we use; we start using them, and they end up using us. (p. 38-39)
+++[Finally some words on the doctrine of creation.] Wendell Berry dislikes the term "environment" as a synonym for creation because it puts too much distance between us and where we live. He thinks it sounds as though we think of the earth as simply a place where we happen to be camping. But creation, he insists, is not something apart from us and we are part of it. When the land is violated, when animals are exploited and abused, when streams are polluted, that is the stuff of our personal creation that is desecrated.
The gospel of Jesus Christ has no patience with a spirituality that is general or abstract, that is all feelings and ideas, and that takes as its theme song, "This world is not my home, I’m just a passing through." Theology divorced from geography gets us into nothing but trouble.
(p. 76-77

Dispatch from Kopua Monastery, Sunday, April 24, 4 a.m.

I’ve gotten back to my habit from the Philippines of rising very early. It helps, of course, that we spent a large part of yesterday "tramping" the mountain foothills and driving a hilly and constantly twisting road to a deserted section of the Pacific coast with rolling surf crashing against rocks and sand.
After all that I pleasurably dropped into bed at 7:45 right after Compline (the last office of the day). A meaningful ritual closes Compline here bringing the day to an end with a feeling of great peace and comfort. The monks and guests line up at the font in the rear of the church, and the abbot sprinkles the baptismal water with a blessing on each as they bow before the font. How comforting to end the day with the assurance of baptism as we descend into the little "death" of sleep.
As most of you know, the last couple of days have been very difficult for Jeanne, having learned of her mother’s terminal condition with cancer, and her father’s fall and hospitalization. Jeanne’s mother knew she was having a double mastectomy, but did not tell Jeanne so that she could freely leave on our journey. It was an act of extraordinary generosity, and, looking back, we can remember the unusual emotions of her farewell.
That whole situation has, of course, brought up the question of when, or even whether, Jeanne should return home, at least for a brief visit. At the moment her parents are being looked after very well by her physician, the priest and the deacon from St. James Episcopal Church who make daily visits, and by her brother, with whom Jeanne is very close.
The cancer has spread to Virginia's liver, and possibly beyond. We are waiting for test results that will determine the palliative care she will offered. Her father, disabled by multiple mini-strokes, is unable to live on his own and will be transferred to a care facility soon.
It’s so good that Jeanne’s been easily able to stay in touch with everyone by phone every day from the monastery here, and the monks have been wonderfully supportive and helpful. Jeanne has "dumped it in God's lap." She says he does a much better job of handling things than she ever does.
It’s 6:45 a.m., almost time for Lauds, the first office for us late risers. What may seem from the outside to be a cumbersome and intrusive schedule of prayer feels deeply comforting, as we are welcomed again into the rhythm of the Benedictine order of prayer no matter where we are in the world. It’s Sunday, so Mass will be at 10 instead of 6:30, and lot’s of folks from the surrounding community will likely join us.
[A few hours later]
Sunday dinner is a universal, and here at Kopua, hospitality extends to this ritual as well. We were joined at a festive meal by an extgended family as well as assorted other visitors. I don’t know how many were expected, but, like the loaves and fishes, there was enough for all. A man sitting near me was a 40-sonething man from Auckland visiting his mother who lived nearby. He had a long history with the monastery. As a young man he "ran away" to Sydney and promptly became a Buddhist. After being "straightened out" in conversation with a Jesuit, he came back home to discover the monastery at Kopua for the first time, though he had lived in the area since he was a boy. On his first visit, he was invited to join the monks in the "choir" singing the psalms. He tried to refuse but one insisted, even taking him by the arm. He felt awkward and didn’t know what was gong on. Then as he described it, one of life’s "peak experiences" happened. One by one the monks looked at him, only briefly and discreetly-- a look of welcome, of complete acceptance—a look which he was evidently seeking and longing for many years. He stayed here for a year and a half, and thought he would be a monk, but the sense of true vocation never really became clear. He’s now a carpet dyer in Auckland, and about to be married. What I find remarkable is that he comes back often with his family, and with a sense of great ease, still basking in that look of acceptance and love he experienced so many years before.
There is a hermit connected with the community who has lived in a little hut nearby for 25 years. (Almost every Trappist monastery has at least one hermit, a brother who lives by himself in relative isolation except for regular contact with the Abbot. Some of you may recall that Thomas Merton, the most famous modern Trappist, wanted to live as a hermit most of his monastic life, and was finally granted that gift by the Abbot a few years before he died.) Our hermit comes in three days a week from his hermitage to cook and converse a bit with the brothers. This morning, while I was dialing numbers on my phone card for Jeanne, she watched while he came silently into the guest kitchen where we sat and set down a large dish of scones that will be used for a congregational coffee after Mass at 10 this morning.
[After Mass] I get the impression that the Kiwis are, perhaps a bit more liberal than the their Vatican leaders these days. At the beginning of the Mass the aged Abbot recalled the words of Jesus at the heart of today’s gospel reading from John, "I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father but by me." He looked up with a sly grin and added, "No one else, not even the Pope, can say those words."
[A monastic picture in words] We’re drinking afternoon tea and the old Irish monk who presided at Mass this morning walks through. He’s wearing an old long stained coat that must have come from the local Salvation Army, rubber boots, and what appears, on his almost emaciated figure, a giant helmet of a wool stocking cap pulled over his ears for the cold wind. All the elements of communion are in a super market plastic bag ready to be taken to the hermit for Mass. He jumps on his four-wheel drive motorcycle and roars away over the hill to the hermitage.

Dispatch from Kopua, Friday, April 22

It’s 4:30 am (we went to bed at 8:30) and I spent a rather fitful night, which is typical of my first night at any new place. To my surprise I find I really enjoy getting up early for some reflection and writing before dawn. Morning prayer and Mass is at 6 am here (yes, I missed Prime (the first monastic office at 4 am, but I figure I can let the monks pray for me. After all, that’s their job).
All the rooms here have single beds, which means Jeanne and I are separated for the first time since we left home. We have greatly enjoyed our time together 24/7, but, as we discussed this morning, it’s good to have a few days in our own separate spaces, combined with the togetherness of hiking and eating together.
Kopua is in the Cistercian or Trappist order which is part of the larger Benedictine tradition, all of which means little to most of you. Let’s just say they are traditionally the stricter of the Benedictines, demanding more silence. We have little contact with the dozen or so monks here (mostly over 40 it seems), made up of New Zealanders, Maori (the indigenous people), a couple of Irish/British types, and a few Pacific islanders. The voluble Guest Master, who takes such good care of our needs, is a Dutchman with a till heavy accent though he’s been here 40 years. His name is Nikko, and he looks like a thin St. Nicholas, with white hair and beard, red cheeks and a nearly constant, glowing smile.
I’m amazed that we can move from a monastery in the Philippines to one in New Zealand and experience the same welcome. Hospitality is one of the most important tenets in the "Rule of St. Benedict," (going all the way back to the fourth century) by which all the Benedictine monasteries still live. I’m sure it’s not an easy calling these days, but the sense of true welcome is clearly present in every monastery I’ve ever visited. I’ve come to believe that what makes this possible is the very thing that people find most puzzling about monastic life in our age of casual freedom, the seemingly rigid monastic rhythm of life—it’s intrepid adherence to an order of life and prayer. Inviting someone into such a "rigid" structure of life makes it possible for them to be welcome not in some pseudo-intimate sense, but in the deepest sense of sharing in the life of the community. In the same way, by its structure the monastery is able to welcome others without compromising its own community life.
The Kopua Monastery (the name derives not from some ancient Maori connection, but from the road on which it’s situated) is located in the eastern side of the north island, about 30 south west of Napier on Hawkes Bay and the Pacific. It’s in a very rural area of steep green hills, so green as to suggest the very definition of the word verdant, dotted with grazing sheep (this being the center of New Zealand’s wool country). As throughout most of the northern island there’s this strange combination of the tropical, characterized by palms trees (like the one just outside my window) and other exotic plants alongside snow-capped mountain and pine forests. A few miles to the west is the Ruahine mountain range, recently snow capped, shining in the morning sun as I look through my window. We picked up some maps for half day "tramps" (as they call them here) at least through the foothills.
The monastery itself is very simple—wooden buildings with tin roofs—but quite comfortable. In fact the rustic simplicity lends itself to a homelike feeling, and fits the countryside.
This is autumn in New Zealand, and we had the first frost of the season last night—a beautiful clear, star-filled night. Lauds (morning prayer) and Mass was at 6 am. The morning light broke through the church windows, but the nearly unheated church must have been about 45 degrees, which keeps you alert, and sometimes shivering. We learned quickly to wear lots of layers for the first office of the day. Mass was simply done, and by now, quite familiar. Again, as in the Philippines, there was no question as to our participation, though my correspondence made it clear we were not Roman Catholic. I think Benedictine monastic hospitality trumps church doctrine on that point (the new Pope Benedict of not). Last night we discovered then land for the monastery was deeded as a gift to the community by a local landowner provided he and his son could live on the land until they died. The son is still here, now an old man. He was described by a fellow guest as "simple," meaning, I presume, slightly retarded, though he does drive a car about the premises. I found it very touching that he is the constant acolyte at the Mass, a very efficient and precise one at that, and sits with the monks in the "choir."
A simple breakfast followed with such exotic choices as Wheatabix (a rather good breakfast cereal, not unlike Shredded Wheat), and Vegemite (the Aussie poison) on toast, which we passed that up in favor of honey. We were joined by our fellow guests, an older couple from Gisborne, to the north, who are leaving today.
The Guest Master, the jolly Dutchman (Dutch Catholics seem a bit less serious than their Calvinist counterparts) also sat with us for breakfast, and we exchanged stories, and got a little of the history of the monastery where he’s spent the last 40 years. It’s interesting how God calls us. He admitted a large part of his coming to New Zealand was to escape a domineering mother. He also has a brother in Auckland and some nephews and nieces, which keeps him close to family.
Today we plan to spend a quiet day reading and tramping the immediate area (they have some marked paths through a nearby gorge) before we tackle the mountains, and go to town (Dannevirke is the closest medium size town), hopefully for an Internet connection and emailing.

Dispatch from Kopua Monastery, New Zealand,

Dispatch from Kopua Monastery, New Zealand,
Thursday, April 21
We just arrived at Kopua in time for lunch. It feels wonderful to be here in this peaceful, truly out-of-the-way place in the rural Hawkes Bay region of the northern island. I’ll describe the setting and life here in the next dispatch, since we’ve only just arrived. This is the first time I’ve really felt the space, time, and sense of inner quiet to continue the story of our trip, having been in constant movement for four days, ever since we left Manila and descended into "Airline Limbo". Let me se if I can reconstruct this very post-modern experience.
But before the description I must add that while it was Philippine Airlines that caused our descent into limbo in the first place, they were extremely helpful in getting us to our destination as quickly and easily as possible. In Singapore a superbly efficient, friendly, and apologetic supervisor met us coming off the plane and handed us tickets on Quantas for Melbourne and Auckland as well as vouchers for lunch and supper at the Singapore Airport. Singapore, by the way, has to be one of the great airports in the world. Free computer terminals all over the airport (including ones dedicated only to games), shops and restaurants of every conceivable kind making it look like Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills (Hermes, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Burberry etc. so, of course, we really stocked up), and even a live band playing some pretty good jazz in a great atrium alongside waterfalls lined with giant orchids. If you have to spend a day in some airport, Singapore’s limbo is far from purgatory, unless high end shopping is one of your besetting sins, in which case it’s on the road to hell.
Getting back to the story, I wrote the last dispatch on the plane bound for Singapore. From the time we left Manila Sunday morning to the time we landed in Auckland Monday afternoon at 4pm (via Singapore and Melbourne) we spent the entire time either in airports or airplanes. (Jeanne says it was 48 hours in real time from the time we left Baras Beach in the Philippines to the time we got to Auckland.) When we hopped into our rental car near the Auckland airport and drive into a beautiful sunny New Zealand afternoon we both breathed deeply, realizing that this was our first real outdoor air for a long time.
We landed in Melbourne, our last stop before Auckland, at 4:30 am, to wait for our 9:30 flight to Auckland. I think the closer one gets to the destination, the slower time trudges along. The place was deserted and we were exhausted and ready for some sleep (people talked and moved around through most of the night on our flight from Singapore, kept awake by incessant really bad movies). By this time I was experiencing that sort of persistent buzz in my brain that comes with too little and intermittent sleep. The brain synapses fire off random thoughts in every direction, and there’s a complete inability to think about any one thing for more than two minutes. I think we’d pay practically any kind of money to just be horizontal for a few hours, but no such opportunity in Melbourne airport, and no decent breakfast. We did sleep fitfully for a little while on the airport benches, until the airline personnel started to come in and make lots of noise. Did I tell you that our kids gave me an ipod for my birthday, and we loaded it with books, and our kind of music, which has been a real godsend on long flights and airport madness?
It felt so good to finally arrive in Auckland and come up out of Airport Limbo for air, fresh, clean New Zealand air. It was a gorgeous warm afternoon when we arrived; we breezed through customs (expect for a minute check of the dust on our hiking boots, since they are rightly afraid of getting unwanted seeds on this island). Our rental car company picked us up in a few minutes and we felt the exhilaration of driving off in our own little car toward Auckland. The only problem is that we were still seriously sleep deprived and suddenly confronted with the daunting realization that we had to drive on the left instead of the right. No problem; we’d done this in England before. But in our state of mind it was a harrowing task to get into Auckland in rush hour traffic. At least twice we narrowly escaped death, revealing ourselves as tourists, by swinging out into oncoming traffic on the right (and I mean right in every sense) lane, to face a line of irate, honking Kiwi motorists, and then having to back up, hoping the cars behind would cooperate (which they mostly did not). This is the first time I actually begged for Jeanne’s "back seat driving," knowing this was definitely a two person operation. By the way, should you ever get to the clean, beautiful, and congested city of Auckland, you should know that the names of the streets change randomly, and without notice every few blocks, so that it’s impossible to follow directions. ("I thought we were on Rose St. and now it’s Pendle Dr. Didn’t you watch the map?") This is not a good situation for marital concord.
We ended up in a decent downtown Auckland hotel/hostel, ate at the closest restaurant and dropped into bed and slept for 12 hours straight. We would have been satisfied with a flophouse and grub by that time. But we awoke the next morning feel much better.
After getting a grip on what day it was (Tuesday), we set off very carefully in our car for the rain forest ranges and coastline beaches just west of Auckland. On the way we stopped at a big chain super market to get some food for lunch and snacks, which is where you really learn that you’re in a different country and culture. This is, supposedly, an English-speaking country, but you could have fooled us. We found ourselves looking bewildered and saying "Excuse me," or just Huh?" a lot when people talked to us or tried to give directions. And there are new terms to learn. Shopping carts, for example, are trundlers. This was just the first of the many new terms we had to learn. We puzzled over an electrical plug adapter that called distinguished between "earthed" and "unearthed" plugs, thinking it was some kind of alien invention until we recalled our term "grounded." At the restaurant last night the waitress had to explain the meaning of half the items on the menu.
We had a thrilling drive on the curvy narrow roads of the lush and hilly rainforests west of Auckland, and even visited a couple of spectacular beaches right near sunset. This is a country where you really want to spend the money to rent a fast car with a "stiff" suspension, at l;east if Jeanne weren’t in the passenger seat. For you movie aficionados, one of the beaches we visited was used in the opening of the film "The Piano," when a Holly Hunter’s piano is unloaded from a boat by Harvey Keitel, on a beach bounded by huge jutting rock formations in crashing surf.
No more Auckland for us, so we spent the night at another hostel on our drive south toward our next destination, Lake Taupo, where we arrived on Wednesday, April 20. Taupo is New Zealand’s largest lake and was formed by one of the biggest volcanic eruption in historical times--some 1800 years ago-- that reshaped the island. (It’s said that the ash from the eruption created dark cool days and red skies that were discussed in Roman documents of the time.) The lake is large, but, as Jeanne said, if you can see the other side, compared to Lake Michigan it’s not that big. From the town of Taupo you can look at distant snow-covered volcanic peaks to the south on a clear day. It being mostly cloudy, we only got a peek now and then. We took a lovely four-hour hike up to a falls and an area called "craters of the moon," acres and acres of fissures and pits emitting hot steam from geothermal activity still going on underground. It felt so good to get out and walk again of God’s green earth after being cooped up for so long in the very human confines of airports, no matter how hyped up they might be. Somehow an orchid next to an escalator cannot compare with birds singing along the hiking path, with an aquamarine river surging below.
Sorry for this long, rather unreflective dispatch. I’m just trying to catch up. Tomorrow I’ll describe more of the Kopua monastery with its communal life and surroundings.

bedroom

bedroom,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Baras Beach. Hut. Room looking out to porch.
One of the beds. We had to take the sheet off every night and shake all the bug crap and sand out that had accumulated through the day. We are assuming that the geckos that slept and sang in the rafters were polite

PH Baras, Lawi 2

PH Baras, Lawi 2,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Lawi.
A very little village about 3 km from Baras. We rowed into the cove a bit, and then hiked over some hills to get to it.

PH Baras us

PH Baras us,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

On our hike to Lawi.

PH Baras Len blogs

PH Baras Len writes,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

There were 2 large bi-fold doors to the open porch. Once opened, we never shut them.

PH Baras view from porch

PH Baras view from porch,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Baras Beach. Hut. Looking out to sea.

PH Baras our hut

PH Baras our hut,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Baras Beach. Hut.
You can only get here by boat. This is the view of our hut that you see as you come into the harbor. There are several huts, all very separate from each other. We only had power after the sun went down and until 11pm

PH OLP Len matibulating

PH OLP Len matibulating,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

PH OLP guesthouse & nuns

PH OLP guesthouse & nuns,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

OLP's guesthouse with some of our fellow retreatants.

A Slight Delay

A slight delay
Just to let you all know that though I have a lot of material to post, little Dannevirke, the closest town right nowm has little in the way of internet connection, where I can use my memory stick on which allmy material is written. Fortunately a local college teacher volunteered to let me use her computer next Tuesday to post my stuff. Also, please pray for Jeanne's parents who are both hospitalized and very ill, and for jeanne who finds it hard to be so far away.

Dispatch from Airline Limbo, April 17, (I think)

Dispatch from Airline Limbo, April 17, (I think)

The “I think” comes from being in Airline Limbo, a place where the date and time become lost in the surreal shadow land airport life.
We left Baras Beach by boat to get to Iloilo for our flight to Manila, and then (our tickets said) on to Melbourne and Auckland NZ overnight. That seems like days ago. The boat trip was wonderful. We sailed along north along the whole coast of Guimaras island, passing soaring cliffs rising straight from the ocean and turquoise, palm lined bays, while the wind blew the blue sea into whitecaps that slapped us in the face from time to time with salty water.
Arriving in Iloilo, we discovered that our flight had been delayed, not an usual occurrence in air travel these days. But, that was our gateway to Airline Limbo. You see, when flights are linked like a fragile chain, one broken link can set the traveler loose, especially when you’re flying one way around as we are. Rerouted to another airline, but still leaving late, we landed in “the old domestic terminal.” No problem, right? Anywhere but Manila. Manila airport is a huge complex with several “terminals” all of them unlinked by, say, tunnels or even shuttle busses. You’re pretty much on your own to get to another terminal, and while it’s at the same airport, it’s anywhere from 20 to 40 minutes away by taxi. Fortunately the airline arranged for taxi service for us.
So we get out at Terminal 2, the international terminal, with all our luggage in hand, to discover that we had missed our flight by 5 minutes. No problem, we can get on the next flight----next Tuesday (this being Saturday). Is there no other way? Well, just maybe, if you can get to the Quantas flight to Sydney, you can still get out tonight, and Philippines airlines was willing to book us on that. OK, where’s that? It’s in Terminal 1, another taxi ride or 20 to 40 minutes, all our luggage in hand again. We were met by Quantas personnel who rushed us through security and literally ran us to the desk. Much head scratching and staring at computer screens reveal that our flight that night is booked, in fact overbooked, and, besides, we’re too late for it too. We’re outside again with our luggage for anther 20 minute ride back to, you guessed it, Terminal 1. Now we’re in serious limbo, and standing at the desk of the supervisor or supervisors, a cool, serious, formidable woman. We immediately sensed that this was going to require tact and firmness all at once.
The next flight is still Tuesday. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but that just throws our whole schedule off. "Is there any other way to get to Auckland, any at all?” Well, much computer searching, head scratching, and running to various counters later, there is a way…maybe. “Tomorrow, [that must be today, Sunday] you can fly to Singapore, and catch a Quantas flight to Melbourne, and then to Auckland, if everything works on schedule, a big if, we’re finding out. “And tonight?” we ask hesitantly, since it’s now about 10 p.m.. Well, that’s one good part of Airline Limbo; you get to stay in really nice hotels, like the Manila Sheraton something or other. We had a great bed, a hot shower (our first one in the Philippines) and a room that was air-conditioned enough to serve white wine without refrigeration, and the most spectacular breakfast buffet we’ve ever seen.
So far so good. We’re on our way to Singapore, not that we’re likely to see much of it, and we hope to get that flight to Melbourne, and hope that Quantas will let us on the flight to Auckland a day late without paying another ticket.
That’s Airline Limbo, and we’re still not out of it by a long shot. I’m grateful for some wonderful people. Let me tell you, they can’t pay those airline employees enough who have the special assignment of working with people like us in Airline Limbo. We had people sympathize with us (Jeanne said she would cry if needed, but it wasn’t), run with us, smile at us, brainstorm alternatives, and open doors while we lugged our baggage one more time.
Don’t get this wrong. We’re not complaining. How can we? We’re on a round-the-world adventure, and this is just a necessary, and probably not all that uncommon, part of the adventure.

Dispatch from Baras Beach, Friday, April 15

Dispatch from Baras Beach, Friday, April 15

(Yes I did send off my tax return before we left)
Every evening is different here, as a different set of people wash ashore. Tonight we sat around the large table under the thatch canopy with (let me try to get this straight) a young Australian yachtsman who’s 30 foot sailing vessel is anchored just offshore and his Filipina girlfriend, a young woman from Alabama who’s here with the Peace Corps and her visiting boyfriend, a Dutchman (with a strong accent) who’s a chef in San Francisco and his Filipino “companion”. And, of course Peter, our host, with Jeanne and me, now, it seems, old-timers here. It proved a genial and interesting group, though conversation flagged at times, while we struggled to find some common footing. The Aussie seemed to know lot’s about various water craft and various ports of call, so was engaged with our host Peter, a former yachtsman. The Dutchman seemed lost, the Peace Corps worker, southerner that she was, proved a valiant conversationalist. The most interesting person for me was the Dutchman’s companion, a teacher in Iloilo, who, of course, knew lots about Philippine history and culture, and delighted to share it. All this was accompanied by another marvelous seafood buffet, including stuffed squid. There’s no decent wine to be had here, since it’s so hot, and god wine needs to be stored at a decent temperature. (The generator only runs about 5 hours a day.)
This morning, most of the group gathered again for breakfast, minus Peter and the yachtsman, and the conversation developed along more interesting lines, as we delved into Philippine politics, local customs, fiestas, spiders, family patterns, geckos and endemic political corruption. The young Peace Corps volunteer is quite poised and adventuresome, and deeply committed to her assignment as a social worker dealing in domestic abuse. She’s going to re-up for another year. The Filipino teacher was told fascinating stories about the politics of the country. For example, it seems that each congressperson gets something like 300 billion pesos as a sort of outright grant for the good of his or her constituency, of course. You can imagine the graft and corruption this system engenders, and the enormous wealth and power of the elected officials. Plus we heard some Imelda stories. Yes, she’s alive and well in Manila, and as ostentatiously wealthy as ever, now seeking the some of the world’s biggest pearls for her private collection. Or so the stories go among the Filipinos.
I’m always amazed at various people’s reaction to my own profession. The young woman from Alabama took it quite in stride, there being a Baptist church on every corner of her hometown. The Aussie seemed a bit nervous (“you’re a R…Reverend, a p..p…pastor?). I’m not sure whether he expected some form of immediate disapproval of his living conditions (he had just told us that his Filipina girlfriend was taking an extended “nap” after opening a bottle of (can you believe it) California white wine, or that felt he had to radically alter his cache of stories. The Dutchman was the only one who expressed real interest in the monastic aspect of our journey, and grilled me with questions about what it’s like to make a visit to a monastery. Later he recalled that his Roman Catholic parents had visited monasteries for annual retreats, and, as he remembers it, came home refreshed and somehow nicer to live with.
Jeanne and I spent the rest of the morning in the resort’s little outrigger canoe, plying the coastal waters in search of secluded beaches and colorful coral. The afternoons are hot, and a siesta seems the only reasonable occupation…then some reading, the sunset, and down to the outdoor bar and restaurant for a drink and a preview of tonight’s guests who will join us around Peter’s table.

Dispatch from Baras Beach, Thursday, April 14

Dispatch from Baras Beach, Thursday, April 14

Not much to report because not much changes from day to day in paradise. The sun sets, it cools down and you fall asleep to the sound of the rising tide lapping against then rocks below and the strange human call of the gecko (a large and nearly ubiquitous lizard). The sun rises, painting the sky in pastels as we face the east in bed around 5:45, a few goose bumps pop out in the cool morning air (it’s amazing what passes for “cool” when you’ve been in such a hot climate for a few weeks). I set off for a couple of mugs of Nescafe (which I steadfastly refuse to call coffee). We sit on the porch for morning prayers as the sun lights the islands off shore. The breeze stiffens, there’s breakfast at about 8, and you watch the palm branches wave in the breeze. Now were waiting for lunch. BORING.
Well not really. There are books to read, people to meet, and excursions to be made, though genuine movement is something that takes a true act of will here.
Yesterday afternoon we were visited over lunch by a couple of Peter’s expatriate friends—an American history professor who taught in Hong King for years, and a Swedish engineer. Both lived a few kilometers up or down the coast and came by boat. It seemed as though this were a weekly gathering, in which the world’s problems were solved, though as they noted, no one seemed to be listening. The conversation this day concerned the engineering of hydrofoils, a subject that ‘s on which I’m not very conversant. My opening came when the Swede remarked he was beginning to read “The DaVinci Code.” With his scientific and engineering background I would have expected a certain skepticism, but he seemed to accept Dan Brown’s pseudo-historical introduction at face value. That was my opportunity to enter the conversation. Fortunately the history professor had a similar skepticism. People of the most rigorously empirical mind in other areas seem to want to believe that there’s some kind of secret gospel, and that Jesus wasn’t what the gospels say he is, or that there was some sort of grand conspiracy—presumably so they can ignore the whole thing. When they found I was a “theologian” they plied me with questions on what Gnosticism and the Gnostic gospels are all about. My limited knowledge of the subject seemed to shed some light at least, before we went on to Iraq and other conundrums.
This morning Jeanne and I thought we’d set out on a hike we’d heard about. There’s not much hiking here since we’re pretty well surrounded by lava rock hills covered with impenetrable foliage. A few hundred yards down the inlet, however, there was a trail of sorts that led over the hills. We finally found it after fruitlessly exploring several inlets by row boat. An old woman who spoke little English confirmed that there was indeed a trail, but looked at us as though it seemed crazy to her that a couple of Americans would want to make this hike when we could easily afford a boat to take us.
We trudged up and down the spiky hills for an hour or so, till we came upon a little settlement with 8 or ten huts, a couple of cows, and lots of kids running around. How these people made a living I have no idea, but the place was clean, the dirt floors swept, and the curly headed babies adorable. The mothers loved it when we noticed their children, but the littlest ones cried out in terror at the sight of a big white man reaching out his arms to hold them.
We ended up in a little settlement called Lawi, actually the same place from which we took a boat here the first time. We remembered them, and they us, as we struck a deal for a boat ride back (six dollars for a gorgeous ride along the rocky coast with its mysterious lava caves). By the way, the Swede told us how a few weeks ago they took one of the boats into a large cave nearby and played Mozart’s Mass over the stereo echoing on the walls of the cave. What a glorious sound that must have made. It must have been the first time Mozart was heard in a Philippine coastal cave.
Speaking of music, the young employees here put on Philippine rap as often as they can after dark when the generator goes on. It’s depressing that we export this unbelievably obscene music all over the world, and that’s what many young Filippinos know about America. As Peter commented in his typically understated British way: “The lyrics are a bit on the seamy side, aren’t they, ithough I’m not sure ‘lyrics is quite the word.’” Fortunately, Peter can’t stand more than ten minutes or so of this, and inserts his favorite CD’s--jazz standards, and the Beatle’s “Lonely Heart’s Club Band.” So last night Jeanne and I sang along to “Eleanor Rigby”” and “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine,” while we waited on dinner.

Dispatch from Baras Beach, Wednesday, April 13

Dispatch from Baras Beach, Wednesday, April 13

It’s 8: 20 am, and I’m sitting on the porch of our little hut at Baras Beach while Jeanne does her shoulder exercises. It’s almost embarrassing to describe the setting. I’m on a lava rock promontory overlooking a lovely little bay lined with palm trees and mangroves (imagine . The whole bay is surrounded by the characteristic pock-marked lava, presumably the remnants of some ancient volcano in the area, and out toward the ocean there are many little lava rock islands. (Imagine a South sea island in the movies or travel poster, and you’ve pretty well got the picture, except it’s quite dry hedre this time of year, and especially this year.) This is all protected area, and you can’t even take a pebble from the beach. In fact we ran into the wife of a professor at the U of the Philippines this morning who teaches marine biology and is responsible for preserving coastal areas and coral. She explained a lot of the natural surroundings to us, as well as some interesting Philippine politics.
Our cottage has a thatch roof, woven bamboo wood sides, mahogany floor, except the porch, which has floor of bamboo slats through which you can see the rocks below. I’m not sure I mentioned the mattresses at the monastery, about 2 inches of foam (perhaps a touch of monastic asceticism), but we realized how uncomfortable they really are when we both slept through last night on a 6 inch mattress.
We continue our monastic journey with morning and evening prayers from our trusty prayer book. But what a setting! Last night, we sat on the porch looking toward the west at the setting sun, and the rising crescent moon in peaceful quiet. I’m glad we’re doing this journey during the joy of Eastertide.
We both woke with the breaking dawn and lay quietly as the light grew, until the sun broke over the surrounding hills. After morning prayers on the porch, we headed down for breakfast. The choice was “Full Asian” or “Full Amercain” (our proprietor is no where to be seen), and settled on a combination—the obligatory mound, and I mean mound, of rice, some sugar cured pork, eggs, and a juicy mango. And instant coffee, of course. I don’t think anyone knows how to brew coffee here.
Not much wild life here on land. There are a few chickens roaming the grounds, some dogs who hardly ever move once the sun is up, and thousands of miniscule ants on most surfaces, in fact there are a few climbing on my computer screen right now. I assume they’re in bed with us too, but don’t seem to bother us.
The sea, however, is teaming with life. We began our exploration late yesterday afternoon by taking out a tiny row boat just off-shore among the tiny lava islands. What we didn’t realize is that the evening breeze was stiffening, and the tide had a special rip to it as it flowed between these little islands. At one point we found ourselves struggling to keep from being swept out to sea (next stop Malaysia). Jeanne, characteristically, had numerous comments to make on my sailing skills, not all of them complimentary. In my defense, it didn’t help that one oar was too short, and neither were attached to the gunnels (is that what you call those brass things where the oars pivot?) and kept slipping out. On the less adventurous side, tiny silver fish leap in huge schools over the water, flashing like shiny coins over the water. The woman I spoke of showed us a hermit crab, still in it’s conch-like shell, plus a star fish. We plan to go snorkeling in the bay this afternoon, and have a closer look.
Last night we chatted over some 15-year old rum with Peter, our host, and a young man named Frazier from the UK who was traveling alone around the Philippines for a month. Peter gets more fascinating as we get to know him better. I had imagined him retired from the British
Foreign Office, now gone native, an idea he found quite laughable. He’s a now-retired engineer who traveled the world in his 40-foot sailing yacht while working free-lance for a Scottish company. Every week or two he’d haul into some port and call Edinburgh to see if there was any work. If so, he’d hop on a plane and go there for a few weeks or months, while his partner tended the yacht. He had tales of nearly being shot on the runway in Monrovia, getting lost in Papua New Guinea, and finally landing here on a long government lease. He’s a relaxed and genial host (well who wouldn’t be if you pretty much drank been all day long), which seems his main work besides keeping the books, and gently supervising his dozen or so Filipino employees. The most valuable is the chef, who whipped up a gourmet feast last night (dinner is always at 7:30, an hour or so after dark) of huge grilled prawns, real vegetables (we’d almost given up on the idea that Filipinos eat them), grilled pork, and rice. I should mention that we’re enjoying “Peter’s Paradise” for about $30 a day, including the gourmet meals, all three. I think the Philippines is the vacation bargain of SE Asia, but I can’t remember it being promoted anywhere in the US.

Dispatch from OLP Tuesday, April, 12

Dispatch OLP, Tuesday, April 12, 4 a.m.

Yes, it’s 4 a.m. again, and here I am with a cup of instant coffee (did we tell you Nescafe is the only coffee available here, and, worst of all, Jeanne thinks it’s “not bad”). Here it’s been a week, and I’m still on this weird time warp of waking up wide-eyed at 4. I’m not complaining. I find I like the quiet of the early morning to write and reflect. And, after all, we do collapse at about 8p.m. I wonder if this is going to work where we’re going today for for few days, Baras Beach. Peter, the proprietor tells us one half of the property is more in the party mode, and our half is (he didn’t exactly say it) for old folks).
Random thoughts today.
Some kind of large toad just hopped behind me and is making his way around the room, hopping on the walls here and there in the vain hope of making an escape through the windows. Yesterday during Vespers I watched as some sort of hour inch lizard made his way up the crucifix at the church (a rather vivid one). It was eerie, but reminded me of all the creatures Christ saved in his sacrifice and resurrection. As Paul puts it, “the whole creation will be set free from its bondage to decay at the revealing of the sons and daughters of God.” toads And lizards no less.

It’s out last day at this wonderfully, welcoming place. I can only hope the rest of our monasteries and communities we visit are half as embracing as this. It’s a modern miracle that by God’s grace such places exist in the world today. And anyone of you would be welcomed with as much warmth as we were, I’m sure.

Another strange thing, when you think about it, and it happens to most of us, I think: We’ve been here six days, and it already feels like a sort of home. I mean we walk confidently through the halls—even at night, get coffee, know where most everything is. How adaptable we are! We were worried that we’d feel “homeless,” but home is where you are, and even more, where you’re welcomed.

Yesterday we had the adventure of washing our clothes. I say
“adventure” because this consisted of long white-tiled tubs behind the guest house and numerous clothes lines to hang them up to dry in the warm breeze and sun. We collected two buckets, one for washing and one for rinsing (I’m sure this is rather elementary to you experienced launderers, but that’s not my job at home.) I became the official rinser, while Jeanne kneaded the clothes in the soapy bucket. From there I rung them and hung them on the lines.
Several nuns soon joined us, and seemed quite amused at this unique shared laundry experience. Whether this was laundry day (Monday, of course), or whether we were such a curiosity, I don’t know. Clearly it was curious to have a man assisting the washing in this culture, and I’m not sure all the nuns approved.
But then, there was a strong element of curiosity for Jeanne and me as well: what exactly do nuns wear under a full habit (like
Scotsmen under their kilts? How many of you have had the opportunity to do laundry with nuns, after all? Well I can report that some nuns wear rather exotic and colorful underwear under their rather severe habits. It’s not exactly “Victoria’s Secret,” but it’s not issued by the Vatican either. I didn’t look closely enough to ascertain the exact cut of the garments in question, not wanting to appear overly curious. But my even furtive glances did reveal some less than “hair shirt” garments. Like girls at a Catholic school, there has to be some statement of individuality under the uniformity of the habits. Of course, there were other foundational varieties, more like my mother’s, which seemed to take up considerable space on the line and lack any color. I wonder if there was some rivalry among orders here. (One nun confided that some of the sisters were rather “conservative”.)

We’re all packed up and waiting for our driver. Is he going to fit all our luggage and two big westerners )well one on a moto-tricycle with no more than a 75cc engine? But, believe me, I’ve seen more packed on one of these engineering marvels than on some American 4x4 pickups.
Finally, and most importantly, we felt led in God’s good providence to this lovely place, which has been a most restful, welcoming, and spiritual stimulating place to begin our sabbatical journey.
The offices and liturgies were all done with great care and loving attention. This was truly the main work of the community, and the work was done sensitively and thoughtfully. The music, some elements of which were different every day, the hymns that joyfully celebrated Eastertide, the leadership with quiet voice and unobtrusive gesture, and the generous times of quiet, all drew us before God’s face every day. Daily Eucharist fell like water on parched soul. I found myself always moved by the prayer before receiving the sacrament: “Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.” Unworthy, to be sure, but reaching out for Jesus’ healing presence. (By the way, while the guest master knew who I was, there was never a question about our participation.)

Dispatch from OLP, Sunday April 10, 7 pm

Dispatch from OLP, Sunday April 10, 7 p.m.

Well, not that I’ve ragged on the CRC for a bit, let me tell you something that set me off back here at OLP tonight. After evening prayer, and this must happen only on Sunday since I never saw it before, the congregation was settled down after prayer for the “Veneration of the Host.” On the altar stood an ornate cross, rather like a sun with golden “rays” protruding in all directions, and with a round window in the middle, if you can picture that. There was much folderol and wafting incense while the Abbot went forward, took the large host from the “tabernacle” behind the altar, and inserted it in the little round window. (This is sounding rather deliberately crass for what was quite solemn for those in attendance.) The Abbot never actually touched the special cross, so holy an object it was, but handled it with a vestment hung around his neck evidently especially for this occasion. After the host was in view in the window, the cross was raised for all to view, while all kneeled and prayed.
This is the closest things have come here to what the reformers always referred to as Roman Catholic idolatry. Jeanne, who you know was raised an Episcopalian, is nevertheless Protestant enough to share my instinctive distaste for this display and the veneration.
I’ll have to read up on this practice in order to evaluate it fully, but I’m sure in my Protestant gut that something’s off the rails here. As you know, Calvin convinced me that Christ is really present in the sacrament, not physically, but by the power of his Spirit. Why were we venerating this physical object instead of worshipping the risen and ascended Lord, as our hymns and liturgy so wonderfully directed us?
So I went off to my room and listened to some “oldies but goodies” on my Ipod, which calmed me down considerably. There’s nothing like Marvin Gaye “sittin’ at the dock of the bay” to soothe the troubled breast.
One more thing. Evidently this is a place where many nuns and other lay persons come for the traditional 30 day Ignatian retreat (from St. Ignatius), a venerable series of religious exercises from the 15th or 16th century. The Guest master of the monastery, Father Bruno, an affable soul, offers “lectures’ each morning and afternoon to the groups. As we drank some tea in the refectory we couldn’t help overhearing the gales of laughter coming from the lecture room. I love the fact that the retreat here is a time of fun and laughter with the Lord as well as solemn reflection, which is happening too. Many of the nuns visiting here work among the very poorest people of the country, and I’m sure their time away here in this beautiful place is deeply refreshing.
By the way, we’re going to a beach this afternoon recommended by one of the nuns who was ecstatic about swimming in the underwater caves there. I wish I could visit it with them. There’s something about a crowd of nuns splashing about in the ocean that tickles my imagination. Is there a “habit” for swimming? I didn’t ask.
Looks like we’ll be out of touch for a while again, at least till next Saturday. We’re going in search of an Internet café on the island today to update the blog and some emails, not wanting to go over to Iloilo City again. The place we’ll be spending the next few days is out of touch except by cell phone.

Dispatch from San Miguel CRC, Sunday, April 10, 10 am

Dispatch from the San Miguel CRC: Sunday, April 10, 10 a.m.

Having already attended 6 a. m. Mass, at a decadent 9:30 we made our way over to the local CRC in nearby san Miguel. (The CRC in the Philippines is an independent denomination still supported by the CRCNA. Our missionaries here function mainly as teachers and trainers for Philippino personnel.)
The congregation met in a small (single stall garage size) building with bars over window openings, and numbered about 25 people of all ages. When we arrived for the 10:30 a.m. worship service there was a class meeting that continued for another 20 minutes. The Pastor/elder, who had rushed to the entrance on our arrival, pointed us to our seats, politely greeted us, and briefly introduced us to the gathering, politely greeted us. At first it seemed that we were, understandably, perceived as “inspectors” from North America, and the pastor launched into a long explanation of the teaching that was going on, until I told him that we would be pleased if they just continued as before.
A young woman (20 or 21 years old) was teaching from a book called “Reformed Worship,” while the pastor wandered from back to front, sometimes interrupting her to make a point clear. Once, in fact, he corrected her use of “men” to “humans.” (This was all done almost exclusively in English.)
The class was on Reformed worship, and the main point of the teaching focused what some Presbyterians call the “regulative principle” in worship, which means that anything God does not expressly command in worship in the Bible is forbidden, a rather narrow view of public worship, and one more in use by conservative British and American Presbyterians than in the European Reformed tradition. What amazed us was that this was being taught in a rather sophisticated manner to a congregation that seemed to consist of mainly of people of limited education. The pastor was sharp, and obviously had the “regulative principle” down pat, though I’m not sure he understood the nuances or ramifications of his teaching. It was rather like the mode of teaching I grew up with in the CRC when Berkhof’s “Systematic Theology” was the norm, and learning its contents and structure was the center of theological education.
As the sign outside made clear, this was not a Bible study class, it was theological study, and they were out to teach people what it meant to be Reformed. Once in a while a question would asked by a congregation member, often quoting the Bible, with which they were obviously familiar, with some honest pride. Big theological terms were tossed out by the teachers, sometimes with their Greek and even Hebrew background. I wonder how many North American Reformed Christians would hold up in such a class, but then, I’m not sure exactly how much of this was getting across to the class members either.
It was obvious that they were seeking to maintain their identity against two great opposite “enemies,” if that’s not too strong a word—the Pentecostals and the Roman Catholics, who were far more numerous, judging from the churches and signs as we traveled about. (Our driver that morning had almost insisted on dropping us off at the huge open-air Pentecostal gathering, and seemed to know nothing of the small CRC church nearby.) The Pentecostals were characterized as those who, instead of following the regulative principle, followed their feelings and tried to please the people rather than God (“man pleasers” as one congregation quoted from the Bible). Of particular interest was the music and lyrics of Pentecostal songs. The lyrics were acknowledged as semi biblical, but the “band” music was badly infected with a worldly rhythm in which there was much hip swaying and “breast shaking.” The Roman Catholics, who on the other hand seemed less a direct threat, were idolaters, Mary worshippers, traditionalists, and ritualists. Against all these the Reformed stood alone in truly seeking to honor God alone by their biblical worship.
The class ended, and the group moved directly into worship, led by a layman of the church who was called the “liturgist,” a term I did not expect. The service began rather abruptly with a reading of the Ten Commandments, followed by the Apostle’s Creed sung in a march-like cadence (no swinging anything here). Then the “Glory be to the Father…” to an almost dirge-like melody. The liturgist quickly gave way to the Pastor/elder who led in prayer. There was no general welcome, no hymns, no confession, and no acknowledgment of guests even beyond us. In fact, I don’t think any had joined the congregation for worship who had not been there for the “theology study”. Obviously the main event here was preaching, as the pastor focused on a text from the end of Luke 24 where Jesus appears to the disciples to show them his hands and feet, revealing he’s not a ghost, but the risen Lord. He gave us the outline he was going to follow, and then followed it, often with great fervor and solemnity, a few growling shouts (I never saw him smile in the class or the service). He seldom touched directly on people’s lives, sticking mainly to the theological points of the text.
We had to leave before the service was over since it had started about a half hour late, which we might have anticipated expect that monastic life is nothing if not timely. We left a note for the pastor, along with an offering, with the man next to us, whispering that we had to make it back for lunch and the pastor could contact us at the monastery if he wished. It would be interesting to know the effect this news might have on the pastor, but we haven’t heard from him yet. The friendly young man led us out ton the street and flagged down a moto-tricycle for us. He had asked some very pertinent and thoughtful questions which were not fully answered, and I complimented him on his questions.
It’s hard to know what to make of all this. There was a ripple of the North American “worship wars” in what happened, and they were clearly on the side of focusing the whole of worship on God, which resonated with me. Yet the worship itself seemed strangely empty. It was more like extended teaching, focused on expanding human knowledge after all, and not on God.
Upon reflection, I’m sure the whole experience also hooked me in some uncomfortable ways because it reminded me of some of what I disliked most in the CRC 50 years ago in my youth, setting itself forth as the only true church (quite literally) against all mistaken, if not false forms of church life and doctrine. I’m not sure, of course, how much what we experienced is characteristic of the CRC in the Philippines generally. Again, I was greatly impressed by the level of Bible knowledge and theological sophistication by the pastor and the congregation; I wonder how it’s all applied.
God bless the CRC of the Philippines. I’m sure it has a significant ministry in this nation and culture.

Dispatch from OLP, Sunday, April 10

Dispatch from OLP, Sunday, April 10

It’s the Third Sunday of Easter, and I’m awake again at 4 a. m. I don’t know if this is merely continued time adjustment or some inner voice calling me to the peculiar contemplation of writing. Whatever, I find myself eagerly, well, willingly, responding to its yearning.
We both thrive on the rhythm of the monastic schedule. We don’t usually attend the “minor” hours during the day, but always join in for Lauds (Morning Prayer and Vespers (evening prayer). They are similar in structure in that they begin with an invitatory (O Lord make speed to save me. O Lord make haste to help me.) This begins the time of prayer with the pleading voice of total dependence on God. This is immediately followed by the Gloria Patri (Glory to the Father….) with its characteristic gesture of bowing toward each other, and the altar, representing Christ. So the office establishing the two crucial elements of prayer, utter dependence and reverential worship. The assembly then breaks into a hymn, which is something many monastic communities I’ve visited tend to skip, but which I believe is absolutely essential to creating the joyful atmosphere of prayer (monastic prayer can often seem rather somber, though it is not). In this case, as I mentioned before, we are singing the familiar Easter hymns I’ve known since childhood in English, which seems strange to be singing in far-away Guimaras. (I will have to ask Father Bruno, the guest master, about this seeming peculiarity) At any rate, I’m probably quite the topic of conversation around here as the guest who sings the hymns heartily, and a bit too loudly.
Two or three Psalms follow, each with a refrain at the beginning and the end, while the Psalm is chanted. Each community has developed its own peculiar rhythm and tone of chanting, so it takes a few days to feel comfortable. (I think I mentioned this one is led by an organ of sorts, a little electronic job that fits quite nicely needs of the community.) And this one tends to use so many different books, it becomes a bit of a chore to know where we are, but a helpful nun always sidles up when we’re shuffling books to point the way when we look baffled. After the Psalms there’s a short reading, usually from an epistle, and often related, in this season, to Easter living.
Then the silence. It is more prolonged after a reading, but it punctuates the whole of monastic prayer like a rest punctuates music and like negative space in a painting gives life to the subject. It provides space for reflecting on what was said, and for what was not said, the thoughts and longings of the heart, or sometimes, its noisy, persistent voices, which must also be attended to. I used to think I needed somehow to escape the noisy, clamoring voices in my heart and mind, but I’ve come to realize they are as essential to prayer as the more lofty thoughts and intentions. They ground me in the gritty reality of my life before God with an honesty that requires deeper trust in God’s grace. More importantly, sometimes they contain clues that lead, like the sleuths of the heart, to the real prayer, the deepest longings, the sins I don’t want to face. But in this time and place, so anchored in human dependence, it’s not so fearful or shameful. It’s simply who I am, the one God accepts, loves, and has received baptismal identity in Christ, and the daily food of grace.
In this community, as in most, the prayer widens to embraces the whole world with petition and response. With each petition the response, suiting the season, gets repeated by the community like the peals of a bell, louder and more persistent: “Risen Lord, hear us.”

Leaving Guimaras by pumpboat

Leaving Guimaras by pumpboat,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Ortiz St. in Iloilo

Ortiz St. in Iloilo,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Vegetable stand in Iloilo

Vegetable stand in Iloilo,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Dispatch frm OLP, Saturday April 9, afternoon

Our friend and official motor-tricycle driver Primitivo Ester arrived right on time to take us down to Jordan (Haaw-daan) the local port where we get a pump boat to Iloilo city. (We had made arrangements the day before.) We arrived at the wharf to help fill a large pump boat for about 25cents for the 15 minute trip. Arriving at the head of Ortiz Street we made our way first to the city market. Jeanne was hoping to find some island crafts, especially fabrics that are only made on Panay. What we found was mounds of flies buzzing on fish, various animal parts, alongside fresh fruits and vegetables. Not a craft in sight, but then we didn’t venture that far. The place occupied a city block and was made up of narrow labyrinthine paths into the dark bowels of the market. Call me a chicken, but I, at least, preferred to stay where I could see shafts of outdoor light coming through.
From there we found our way by jeepney (local open air bus) to a large sopping center complex, making us feel like we’d been set down in University Park Mall. Seeing such a ”western” place in such a far- away locale is unnerving and deeply disappointing. If “freedom is our great export, it comes at an enormous cost to the civilizations that clamor for it, and are overrun by our great western marketing machine. We both noted that not a single person we saw wore what years ago was the standard Philippine costume of long, fancily embroidered, pleated shirts for men (Bill Svelmoe can give you the name, and I was hoping to find one for myself) and colorful skirts for women. It was all tight pants and skimpy blouses with slouching jeans for the boys. The radio stations, mostly English language, sounded like 105 FM, while most of the people we met couldn’t understand much English. We did shop for a light blouse Jeanne needed (no size big enough—a medium in the Philippines is like an early teen size in the States. This does not make for a happy shopping experience).
But the main purpose was to find the internet café of which there were several in the complex. The place vibrated with loud techno-beat music for gaming, which seemed the main pastime there. We downloaded our blog and uploaded our postings, as well as taking care of our emailing. We needed the assistance of one of the techies there, who seemed much more attuned to gaming than how to find Microsoft Word. But we did eventually work it out.
We then set out on a long walk. Jeanne’s right. You can never get the real feel of a city unless you walk the streets. Iloilo is not a pleasant place, jammed with traffic, choking on smog and blowing dust. It’s unfortunately, rather typical of a cities in SE Asia. Fancy new buildings next to crumbling block stores. Fancy hotels alongside long narrow alleys. Busy passersby stepping over filthy sleeping, almost comatose beggars (I couldn’t help thinking most of them would be dead within a month). There’s an undeniable energy here, but my heart sinks at the cost of this “progress”.
On a happier note, the goal of our walk was a restaurant complex on the river we found in a guidebook. It wasn’t quite what it was cracked up to be, or we were here off-season,--and early, but it was a fine, exotic meal of every sort of seafood imaginable. At one point we had about ten of the waiting help gathered around all giving their attempted translations of the menu selections. They giggled, not at our expense I don’t think, but at the human endeavor to find a common language, especially for food.
After a great meal (about $15 US, all included--we were told this was the place to retire, living well on Social Security, as long as it lasts) We then picked up a moto-tricycle back to Ortiz Street and the wharf, a little worried that we wouldn’t find a boat so late (8:30), after the regular water taxis have ended service. But who should show up but the same guy, Ramy, who brought us over in the first place. I hesitate to chalk this up to angelic visitation, since we were paying well, and he wanted to make a deal for the rest of our stay. We had to be let into the monastery gates since it was just after 9 p.m., and it’s locked up tight. The doorman let us in with a smile, and asked about our day. We also got to see the secret of tomorrow’s menu posted on the back of the kitchen door, part of which was disturbing, but most of which was delightful.

CRC Church sign in San Miguel, Guimaras

CRC Church sign,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

This is the sign I commented on for theological content in one of my posts.

OLPchurch interior altar

OLPchurch interior altar,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

A view of the serene interior of the monastery church. The tiles are so clean they look like ice, which is ironic considerng the temperature.

nuns in meditation

nuns in meditation,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

Some of the many retreatants staying in the guesthouse with us. You might say they're habitual visitors. This is not a partying group!

J on boat to Baras Resort

J on boat to Baras Resort,
originally uploaded by Len and Jeanne.

We're on a little "pumpboat" exploring the coast.

Dispatch from OLP: April 9

Dispatch from Our Lady of the Philippines: Saturday April 9:

Yesterday morning we got our favorite “tricycle” driver (he drives with relative caution and always arrives on time) to take us to a nearby beach. It was a lovely ride, and we got to see more of the island life and culture. Despite Jeanne’s protests, I stood straight up on the back of the sidecar for a panoramic view with the wind in my face, and drew many curious stares from passers by.
Again, it’s clear that this is not a tourist mecca, thank goodness. There wasn’t an Anglo in sight at the beach. We were looking for a place called the Baras Beach Resort (watch how you pronounce that, it’s not what you think), which stood out in our guidebook as a quiet spot on a grand promontory overlooking the ocean. After our driver agreed to wait, we engaged a little pump boat to take us to the place that was only accessible by water. As we rounded a corner on the rocky coast interspersed with little crescent beaches, we saw it and immediately knew this was where we’d spend the last few days in the Philippines.
The proprietor, an elderly British man who, like so many other Foreign Office types had “gone native,” owned the place for 15 years. More about it later, after we’ve spent a few days there. But just to give you an idea of why one should seek the out-of-the-way places, we will be paying about $20 a night for a cottage on a cliff overlooking the ocean and sunset (yes shower (bucket again), and toilet included). In addition he has his own chef who whips up culinary delights (affirmed by a German visitor) for about $10 a day.
Back at OLP (Our Lady of the Philippines) we took our first nap (afraid to disturb our newly established pattern of sleep) on the hottest day so far, went on a short walk, sat on a “porch” swing in a mango grove, and slowly walked back for Vespers. The rhythm of the prayers is settling in, and settling into us. Knowing that the community will gather, along with the guests (still mostly nuns from the various islands, and a few men on, I think 30 day Ignatian retreats) for prayer calms the soul and deepens the sense of waiting on the Lord. Part of the familiarity to me is that the basic form of prayer is the same in Benedictine monasteries the world over, and is also the form Jeanne and I follow in our own daily prayers. The pattern is Psalms with responses, a reading from scripture, a hymn (almost all of them familiar Easter hymns to us, down to the “thee’s and thou’s”—today we sang “The Strife is O’er, the Battle Done”), and ending with the sung Lord’s Prayer, and a bow to God and to each other. Not a bad way to begin and end the day. And I always remember you all in my prayers.
There was some much-needed rain last night. We heard it clattering on the tin roof of our compound. I awoke early again, ready and willing actually, to do some writing and reading. Since the day starts here with Morning Prayer at 5:30 followed by Mass at 6, it seems best to follow a sunrise to sunset schedule, and it feels quite agreeable. (There’s not much of what you’d call a nightlife here, and it’s lights out and silent after 9p.m.)
Besides the novels we read and the backgammon for leisure, I’m absolutely delighted with Eugene Petersen’s new book (first of a projected four volume “spiritual theology”) called Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places. What wonderful companion for this journey.
Mass this morning was surprisingly full. I think lots of neighboring people joined us. Most delightfully, some of the Mass was sung for the first time this week in the native Tagalog, a lilting poetic language it seems to us. The tunes fit the words well, as we sang, for example-- Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world, have mercy on us. Especially rich was the Lord’s Prayer, when the nuns broke into a kind of bird-like descant.
Breakfast today consisted of little smelt-like fish, a sort of spam-like meat, and, you guessed it, rice. I quite liked it (well OK I’d like a spinach and feta omelet better), but Jeanne passed on the spam for more bananas, again.
This afternoon we’re off to Iloilo City for some shopping (Jeanne’s looking for native fabric) an Internet Café, so we can post all this, and dinner out by the sea.

Dispatch from OLP, April 8

Dispatch from Our Lady of the Philippines Trappist Monastery:
Friday April 8
Fifteen minutes after landing on Guimaras (the port is Jordan (haaw daan) we stood with our luggage in front of the monastery guesthouse. It was tranquil, peaceful, and wonderfully welcoming, as the house lady let us in and showed us to our room. We soon discovered that this was the only air-conditioned room in a guesthouse of about 40 rooms, where signs warned about overuse of electricity. We immediately made up our minds. If the other guests did not enjoy the cool air, neither would we. The fan in the room works just fine, and as long as you don’t move too fast it’s like life as I remember it in August back in the 50’s as a kid.
Lunch waited for us (we had arrived about 20 minutes after noon, and all the other guests had eaten) It was good, and we soon learned, rather typical. Rice (always) fish, almost always, some other sort of mystery meat (Jeanne thinks goat), and something called a “fish ball” which is like an orange colored dumpling tasting vaguely like fish stew. It was all quite edible (note we do not say fabulous).
We settled into our room (actually two rooms, the outer one a kind of office), and fought the temptation to sleep, wanting to train our bodies for a new sleep cycle. We did take a much-needed shower after all those hours of travel. Actually the room has a shower, but then there was a bucket and scoop underneath with a lower spigot, the purpose of which became clear when we discovered the shower didn’t work (probably to reserve precious water since there’s been so little rain here) so we performed the bucket over the head, wash, and another bucket over the head routine, which is surprisingly quick and efficient. No hot water, of course, but who would want that in 90 degrees and high humidity.
After the “shower” what a joy just to lay flat after 43 hours in some sort of seated position, with a fan directed on you. Just as the eyelids were about to be overcome by the force of gravity, we forced ourselves up for a walk of a couple miles into San Miguel, the main town on the island. Evidently only the poorest of the poor would walk such a distance, and the people who flew by on jeepneys and motorbikes (more later) stared incredulously at two anglos trudging along the road. Those who stopped seemed almost offended as we politely refused their offer of a ride.
We soon found out why. As we approached San Miguel, the dust flew so thick it stunk our eyes and clogged our noses. Dirt was everywhere, along with wind-blown plastic bags, and assorted debris. We did persist into town to shop for some hand soap and detergent to use for hand-washing clothes back at the monastery.
Then, would you believe it, just as we stumbled into the “town square” (little more than a dusty crossroads) there was a big sigh on the corner “Guimaras Christian Reformed Church.” Actually it said “Christian Church,” with “Reformed” in parentheses underneath (we’ll document with a picture). I wondered what that meant to the local Philippinos. They certainly knew it wasn’t Catholic. It reminded me of our now seemingly forgotten search for a new name to replace South Bend Christian Reformed Church. We walked a couple blocks down the lane, and found the church, but learned the pastor only came on weekends (probably from Iloilo, so we’ll check back on Saturday to see if we can find the Pastor and gauge his reaction to our staying at the local monastery. But there was another sign, which we will post. Now this is much more than a sign, it’s a theological lesson in itself. While we worry about giving offense, like cute aphorisms, or the times and activities of the church, they spell out their theology. (Wherever you go, no matter how “independent” it’s still the CRC, but 40 years ago) I should mention that there’s an illustrious 30-year history of CRC missions in the Philippines leaving a mostly indigenous and independent Christian Reformed Church of the Philippines. Ron and Lou Vander Griend spent most of their years here on the nearby island of Negros, and, I’m wondering whether he may even have had something to do with founding this little congregation.
We headed back to the monastery on the most ubiquitous form of transport on the island, the “tricycle,” a 50 to 75cc motorbike outfitted with a ingenious sidecars with seating for two, back to back, 4 if you’re Philippino, plus assorted boxes and baggage on top. The kid who drove us back to the monastery hit the road ready to impress the Anglos with his skill and daring, and passed several trucks on curves and hills, hitting bumps so hard my head hit the steel top again. We tried to convey that being duly impressed with his Eval Knieval talents and could he please slow down, to which he, smiling proudly, conceded.
We arrived back in time for Vespers (the main evening prayer). A group of nuns in various habits were here for a retreat, (we’re the only Anglos here so far). The church is large, spacious, and mostly open to the outside, with the smell of flowers wafting through while birds chirp happily while they flit around the vaulted ceiling and splash in the large shells for “holy water”. The monks, in the characteristic white robes with brown scapular of the Trappist order, chant the Psalms in a sprightly, lilting fashion accompanied by a small electronic organ that leads with chords. The organ also makes it easier for guests to follow along, which is heartily encouraged. Vespers ends with a beautifully quiet fifteen minutes of “meditation.” The only sounds are the birds and the breeze rustling the leaves.
Supper followed, pretty much the same as lunch. This time, however, the fish came as a pile of, well, real fish, with heads and fins intact, fried and stacked for our eating enjoyment. Actually we both devoured it (well I did), slowed down, of course, by frequent bone removals. (Now here’s a study: the etiquette of removing tiny bones from your mouth. We looked around the tables for hints, but somehow all the others showed no signs of disposal problems. Were they eating them, or much more efficient at getting the flesh off the fish without a mouth full of skeleton? And then dessert—little fried bananas, sweet as honey. There are little bananas after every meal, actually.
It didn’t take us long to collapse into our beds (singles with a two inch mattress and a strangely rectangular pillow). I woke up at four to write this. Fortunately the room next to ours is unoccupied so I could write without disturbing Jeanne. I loved it in the quiet and dark, thinking through my experiences as I wrote.
At 5:30 the bells rang for Lauds (the main morning prayer) immediately followed by Mass. It was so peaceful to wait in silence punctuated by bird song, and then chant the Psalms, hear the epistle, and sing the Lord’s Prayer to a simple, Philipino melody. Just as the Mass was to begin in walked 30 or so nuns from a nearby convent school. As they marched in, all in white, so orderly, quiet, and graceful, it was like doves descending on our worship. The Mass was dedicated to Saint Jean Baptiste LaSalle who promoted Christian schools, which explained the nun’s presence.
Well, it’ time to do my sadistic part in Jeanne’s shoulder exercise, and then we’re going out to do some more exploring, especially a local waterfalls and a couple of deserted beaches. At least in April, this is a south sea paradise sans tourists, I’m hoping is never “discovered.” Though that may be a disservice to the rather poor local people.