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.