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.