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.