Dateline: Autumn, October 18, 2010—This morning I begin my journey to the Philippines, but before I go I need to leave one more thought. I sit here in the forested hills north of Oita, Japan, wrapped in a blanket against the cold, having slept under four inches of quilts. Autumn has come to Japan. It is amazing how quickly it came. A month ago I was sweltering, miserable all the time because of the inordinate heat. It was the hottest summer on record and continued through most of September. I longed for the relief of the autumnal equinox, and now I sit here freezing.

Soon the first leaf will fall, its abscission layer dried and useless, to be carried by a cool breeze away from its tree mates. That is what autumn does. And so it is in life. Most of us reach our autumn years. A bit of frost collects around the temples, our days become shorter, we lose some of our foliage, it is colder at night. These we either embrace with graceful good humor and thankful resignation, or subject ourselves to salves and creams, potions and lotions, nips and tucks. But after all the turning, one leaf has to fall first, to lead the way to decay. Some will hold on till the dead of winter, some will cast off sooner. But there are a few which, for one reason or other, loose their holds far too early. We have all known them, some we have loved.

Last Friday I received word that a dear friend from the summer of ’69 had passed away in 2005. This lively pixie who provoked me and loved me, who was so full of life and promise, had flown away in her late summer. I had been trying to find her for years but now it is forever too late.

While the leaves are still on the tree, enjoy them, appreciate them. Don’t arrive at winter’s solstice filled with vain regret. My friend’s name was Betty Shewmaker. She loved poetry and I wrote her many poems that summer and fall in the style of Rod McKuen, her favorite. So, one last poem, this one a sonnet, in memory and tribute to her, and in solemn reminder to us that the days are getting shorter.

It seems that scarce our summer ends

That autumn breaths her slow decline

Into the deep, whence winter’s winds

Consign us ‘neath the snows of time.

We run through springtime’s fleeting day,

Then strongly walk the breadth beyond;

Till soon, too soon, we stroll the way

Twixt when we are and when we’re gone.

But there are those who share their hearts

Mid springtime’s youth, in summer’s prime;

Who falter, fade and then depart

And leave their friends and loves behind.

Oh, one more time to see your face,

Just one last long and warm embrace.

May God bless your days while they are called today for "the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten." Eccl. 9:5.

Don "Hoot" Miller

Travelogue #4--Leaving japan

Part of the class from Saniku Gauken. An outing to the ocean.

The school on Okinawa.

Dateline: Hofu, Japan; October 9, 2010—One week to go in Japan and then, after a long two day journey, I will begin work in the Philippines. Ah, the land of Jeepneys and baluts, bolos and carabaos. Spent some interesting time there many years ago with the Marines. But I am still in Japan.

I must say I made another attempt at climbing Mt. Fuji last month. After returning from Okinawa, we went almost immediately into a branch school at Kamikawa Genki Plaza, a place not too far from where the organization I work with now calls headquarters. It was a good school made all the better by the presence of some friends from Australia, Eldon and Marilene Stevenson. Great workers and native English speakers. Always a relief. They were going back to Australia on September 28 so Kayoko decided to take them on a little pleasure outing. A drive to three parks near Mt Fuji and even a drive up to the 5^th level. My chance.

The outing was planned for September 27. I had a lecture scheduled on the 26^th and the 29^th so I had a small window of opportunity. If they could drop me off on the afternoon of the 27^th at the 5^th level. I could climb as far as I wanted, rest a few hours and make the final assault to arrive at the summit at sunrise. That seems to be the goal on Fuji-san. That would be the 28^th. I would then come down as fast as possible, find a way to the Kawaguchiko train station and journey back to Tansho. This was my big and last chane of the year. Whereas the mountain was officially closed, you could still climb at your own risk.

Waking up at 03:30, I had my devotions, took a shower, made sure all my gear was ready, and then waited for the others to stir. I never for a moment let the fact that it was raining outside dampen my spirits. Fuji-san was a long ways off and the rain is often very local in Japan. Plus a little rain never hurt anyone, with the possible exception of the antediluvians, the wicked witch of the west and New Orleans.

It was about 06:30 I received a call from Kayoko telling me it was raining all the way to Fuji-san and the trip was off. Bummer! Next year.

On October 1 I flew to Kobe for a weekend series of meetings in Kobe and Himeji. I was housed in a hotel and treated to a boat tour of Kobe bay which was very nice. The meetings went very well and the last one on Sunday was great. But they had to hustle me out to catch a train to Yamaguchi. It was then I discovered my green Microsoft waist pack was missing. I searched my luggage as I had already checked out of the hotel ad it was no where to be found. They called the hotel and they assured us there was nothing left in the room. My problem was I didn’t remember what was in the pack and that is really worrisome. My hostess decided to take me to the hotel for a last try. No one there spoke English and I tried to make it known with arm and hand signals that I wanted to check the room. But it had already been cleaned and nothing was reported and believe me, the room was very small and so one look could capture the whole thing. Then my hostess showed up so the manager, with an air of “I’ll show ‘em”, took us up to the 10^th floor, opened the door with a flourish, and stood aside with a smug grin on his face. I walked in, took off my shoes (a must over here), went to the end of the bed and there, on the floor, was not the green waist pack but my large black backpack. If I was surprised the manager was in shock. "Gomennasai, gomennasai," was all he could say. But I was so thankful it was there.

The train ride to Yamaguchi took a few hours even though it was a bullet train. Very comfortable except for the fact I was wrestling my luggage during the evening commute. It was dark when I arrived at my destination and discovered a dilemma; you could exit in two different directions. Which one would Shige choose? was my question to myself. Taking the one nearest me, I made myself as visible as possible but no Shige. After being there about a half hour I did what I probably shouldn’t have done. I decided to drag my draggage (you no longer have to lug it so why call it luggage?) through a long tunnel to the other side. It was hot and there were stairs to navigate, but I emerged on the other side to a warm reception with no one. Again, I made myself as visible as possible to no avail. Then I made my second poor choice, perhaps. I decided to go back to the other side. But there seemed to be an alley on street level so I wouldn’t have to become subterranean again. It was a long alley with occasional lanes to the main road. Arriving at the end, I was not where I had hoped to be, that being where I had started from. So I walked all the way back to the stairs, went down, took the tunnel, and emerged on the other side with the firm resolve that I would spend the next two days on this side no matter what; I was not going to move again. It was about a half hour later Shige showed up. He had done the same dance but at last we were on our way.

I conducted a series of meetings in Yamaguchi and a few meetings in Hofu. Following my MO, I took a run one morning in Hofu. I like to run but as I already knew, you can’t run to the corner and turn right and right again and right again and be back home. So, I turned right, then left, then left again, crossed the canal and took off towards the mountains. It seemed so simple. Arriving at an unspecified halfway point, I began to retrace my steps. But when I came to the canal I thought it would be nice to run along side it for a while. Surely I would intersect the main road and be home in no time. When will I learn? The serpentine maze of streets, alleys, driveways and whatever can become really overwhelming. But at last I was on the right road and just up ahead was the street I was to turn left on and home and breakfast would be waiting. I turned left and found myself at a factory entrance. I sure am glad I love to run. Turning around, I explored a various streets, finally found a street that looked familiar, passed the same place twice, and happened upon the home street before my legs gave out.

From Yamaguchi I took a train to Oita and a place called Newstart Village. It really isn’t a village but a former silkworm farm converted into a lifestyle center and operated by a wisp of a woman named Yuko and her husband. They are always a delight and she is the busiest woman I have ever seen. They treat me like royalty and the food is the best. The “village” is squirreled so far back in the heavily forested hills that you can hear nothing from the outside. It is idyllic and a great place to end my Japanese leg of this current trip. I can run the narrow roads between the rice fields, breathe the unadulterated air, and sleep to nothing but the sounds of nature. I love it here. But my meetings were in Oita. A doctor I had met in Okinawa had recently moved to Oita and invited me to do some lectures. They were brand new ones I had never done before so I stayed busy in preparation. Lots of translating to be done. But the meetings went well as did the Sabbath meetings in the Oita church. Then I was done.

Now, I can’t recall if I told you where I was going next in a former post. From Japan I was scheduled to teach in the third module of our new medical missionary school just outside of Beijing, China. But difficulties there caused the module to be moved to February. But my ticket was purchased; what to do? I sent out three emails, one to Aenon in Malaysia, where I taught last year; and one to LIGHT coordinator James Hartley. Aenon replied they were in the middle of a major move to a new campus but could find something for me to do. LIGHT said there was a need for a teacher of Daniel and Last Day Events in the Philippines. Utility or Urgency? was the question. I took Urgency over Utility and signed on for a month in the Philippines.

But I had a ticket to Beijing. To cancel it would cost me a lot of money and a ticket to Manila was cheaper from Beijing than from Tokyo. So, tomorrow, October 18 I begin the journey. Car to bus in Oita; bus to airport; fly to Hanada; bus to Narita; fly to Beijing; fitful night in airport; fly to Hong Kong; fly to Manila; car to bus station; 12-hour bus ride to school in northern Luzon. “If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand shall hold me.” Psalm 139:9,10.

I have no idea if I will have email access where I am going, so if not, you will hear from me again from the Big Island of Hawaii. Aloha.

Travelogue #3 Okinawa

Dateline: Okinawa, Japan; September 14, 2010—“Oh that men would praise the LORD for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men!” It was some years ago that I realized King David was thinking of me when he penned those words. Four times in the 107^th Psalm, we hear those words echoed down through the ages. And each time they follow the reason for that praise.

Verses 17 and 18 say, “Fools because of their transgression, and because of their iniquities, are afflicted. Their soul abhors all manner of meat; and they draw near unto the gates of death.” With startling regularity I have found myself in this position and my first few hours in Okinawa I found myself once again harkening back to my favorite psalm.

The bus ride from Naha to Nago was pleasant enough. From evening though the waning twilight into the blackness of island night, we traveled on. How often I found myself out in the bush on this verdant island so many years ago, playing war games, missing home, swatting mosquitoes. Sharing a shelter half tent with my platoon sergeant, a Samoan three times my size. But every afternoon we gathered in the CP tent with the company CO, 1stLt. Cohen where he would break out the hotdogs, sodas and ice cream and tell us, “You don’t have to practice being miserable.” He was a great CO, the best I had from then on.

Back on the bus, there was room on the right side of the bus for the luggage but I kept my carry-on between my legs, wanting to sort through it and arrange things. Having left a few very important items back in Tansho, which my team had to bring to me at Harajaku, I wanted to be sure I was all together. The black bag my team brought to me I now placed on the seat next to me. But I had the best seat on the sparsely populated bus so I moved the black bag to my left (I was sitting next to the window) and slid it onto the floor next to the wall. Perhaps someone else would want to sit in the front seat to see the oncoming headlights. Starting to see the ingredients for a disaster?

When we arrived at the bus station in Nago I was the only passenger. Concentrating on counting out 2130 yen and freeing my large bag from the luggage compartment, I resisted the urge to look back at my seat. I had both pieces of luggage so why look? Foolish pride.

I was met and transported to Yayedake, the place of my stay and labors. I have a lovely room with private bath and windows on two sides so I can catch the evening tropical breezes. After a good night’s sleep, I turned to organizing my room and started looking for the black bag. How many times one can look in the same places for the same thing with the same results is only limited by the realization that this is all insanity. Then it dawned on me; the bag was left on the bus. Not only were my Japanese yen in the bag, amounting to about 50 dollars, but I still had 3700 South African Rand and 6519 Chinese Yuan in the bag. I was sick. Psalm 107:19 “Then they cry unto the LORD in their trouble, and he saves them out of their distresses.” Oh, did I cry unto the Lord. I don’t make deals or offer promises to my God. I confess my weakness, my waywardness and my wretchedness but then claim His goodness, His grace and His great patience. And again and again He hears me.

Dr. Higa’s wife called the bus station and after properly identifying it, the manager said it was indeed in the office. We went down right away and there it was. They wanted me to check the bag in their presence to see if everything was still there. With minor trepidation, I open the bag. There were the yen. I opened the small brown folder and there were the other bills. “Oh that men would praise the LORD for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men!” Again it is confirmed, God is with me, I have no need to worry, even when I make such huge blunders. I offered the man 1000 yen as a reward but he firmly refused it. So good to meet honest people.

Back to Yayedake. The typhoon that somehow skirted the mainland of Japan a couple weeks ago did quite a number on Okinawa. They are still cleaning up the cyclonic flotsam. I suppose it is nature’s way of pruning the trees and thinning the bushes. If so, it did a thorough job this time. It hurts to see all the bunches of bananas shriveling on the ground, clinging to their toppled parent stock. But the air is fresh and clean and it isn’t nearly as hot here as it was back on the mainland of Japan although I am two and a half hours by jet further south. It may be a taste more humid but the breeze make it all bearable. When I run, it takes a couple hours to stop sweating.

We have about 14-16 people attending the lectures, some of them staff, some students. It is the same schedule we followed in Saniku and the students are just as interested. One minor drawback, one I experienced in Ukraine where my late friend and best translator, Bogdan Kruchmar, besides being a brilliant linguist, was a medical doctor. For some inbred reason, if your translator is a medical doctor, you begin a thought and they want to carry it on through biochemistry, gross anatomy and pharmacology, all while you are waiting to tell people it is best to chew their food well, or drinking more water helps cure constipation. I will say a phrase and they will intone a chapter. With Bogdan, I came to terms with his wont…after my sixth or seventh series with him. I am in my struggling phase now with Dr. Higa. He is a great guy and I have known him from former visits. He is a Japanese American living with his Okinawan wife here. Sometimes the subject matter is of such interest to him, he just leans back and listens. It takes some prompting, but he finally turns my cursive into kana, my babbling into intelligible facts.

There is a Japanese word I learned a few years ago reading the November 2005 issue of National Geographic. The word is “ikagai.” Perhaps a loose translation would be “sense of community” or “belonging.” But Sr. Higa, who is Okinawan, told me it is a concept best understood by the people of Okinawa. You see, the Okinawan people are very different from the Japanese people. No, the Okinawans are not, or at least were not, Japanese. Their culture was vastly different from that of the feudal, shogunistic, samurai culture of Japan. They were a peaceful people who treasured life. They have the concept of “nuchi du takara” or, “Life is precious, don’t waste it.” Their northern cousin’s idea of Kamakazi was antithetical to their way of thinking. To an Okinawan, hara-kiri would have been unthinkable. They believed they were to live first; everything else was subordinate to life. “Nankuru nasai,” they would say, expressing the belief that everything would work out and not to worry. With that mindset, they had no weapons and no army.

Okinawans were agrarian people. Yet they traded with all the neighboring countries. They were special friends to the Chinese, currying special favors from them. They did develop the art of karate, not as a Bruce Lee kick ‘em dead offensive measure, but as a form of defense. They also learned to use their reaping instruments defensively. I like the people here; they are my brothers and sisters.

A typhoon, which was headed our way, turned towards Taiwan, but the winds and torrential rains have left reminders of the power of nature. At night the building where I stay actually groans. Deep guttural voices from somewhere beyond the darkness. But it is mercifully cool at night and I have seen but one mosquito my whole time here. Soon I will be back on the mainland. Hopefully autumn has made some inroads.

God bless,

Don

Japan to Okinawa Fall 10-2

Dateline: Tokyo, Japan; September 13, 2010—At first there was a typhoon and then there wasn’t a typhoon, and in between, Mt. Fuji was closed. And the climb that was to happen, did not happen and now I learn the mountain is closed for the season. What a bummer. And I had bought all of the requisite clothing to surmount this, the highest peak in all of Japan at 12,385 feet. So, next year I will try again.

This Monday morning I sit in a Tokyo hotel room conveniently close to Hanada Airport where I will be flying in a few hours to Okinawa. So many memories swarm my mind about Okinawa. It was my first assignment as a newly minted Marine Corps officer. It was 1974 and I was an 0302 infantry officer bound to be a rifle platoon commander in Mike Company, 3^rd Battalion, 4^th Marines. Of all of my memories from that time, the one that haunts me the most is of Private Cheatham. I won’t bore you with all the details, but I first saw him across the aisle on the plane to Okinawa. He was firmly ensconced between two military policemen, a reluctant member of some poor platoon commander’s platoon. Turns out that was me.

Cheatham wasn’t a bad guy at heart, he just didn’t want to be, first, in the Marines, and second, in Okinawa. He had a wife and two sons back on the east coast and would much rather have been there. The 13 months dividing them seemed an unfathomable gulf. Indeed, it did seem hopelessly long. It made all the other branches of the military’s overseas duties of 12 months seem luxuriously short. And those 13 months ravaged many marriages. Fully one half of the staff and officers of my company alone, saw the strain of that separation prove an insurmountable obstacle their marriages. Thirteen months of constant training, totally in a man’s world, only to return home and to a woman who has been on her own for the same amount of time and survived without your help, thank you. So many of us were unprepared to return to the real world. Looking back on that time so many years ago, those 13 months seem but a passing breeze, sweeping in with its elixir of youthful idealism and passing unnoticed in a swirl of years that has cast me upon the shores of my 60’s, wondering where it, and they, all went.

But Cheatham was impatient to get home and embarked on a campaign to involve himself in every malfeasance and misdemeanor he, or his all too helpful buddies, could conceive. No manner of punishment seemed to dent his resolve. He intended to make himself so odious to the Corps that we would be forced to give him his release, discharge him and ship him home on the earliest flight. He took a lot of our time. He was one of the ten percent we spend ninety percent of the time dealing with. Finally he passed the full measure of the system’s patience and was court-martialed and received the prize he had worked so hard to win; a Bad Conduct Discharge, a BCD. Reassigned to a casual company, he was awaiting a port call, or a place on a stateside bound aircraft. He had gained his objective and was happy.

One night he went out to the village of Kin to celebrate. Kinville, as we called it, was a cluster of homes, bars and businesses outside the gates of Camp Hansen. Coming back fully tanked (drunk) the night of August 14, he fell asleep in his bunk. Sometime in the night a “buddy” came in, shook him awake, and offered him some “blues.” Blues were depressants you could buy over the counter and were popular with that segment of men who never felt quite normal unless they were rendered slightly abnormal by chemical processes. Cheatham took a few of the blues and fell back to sleep…on his back. After a while the cheap Orion beer he had swilled began to rebel and the body’s subconscious reflex system caused a spasm, sending the frothy stew back up the esophagus. But being now in a drug-induced stupor, Cheatham could not respond by rolling over and splattering the floor with the foul reward of his celebration. He just lay there.

On the morning of August 15, 1974, as the men of the Third Battalion, Fourth Marines, sat on the parade field awaiting trucks to take us to Kin Blue beach to board ships to become the battalion landing team, an officer came to Mike Company asking for someone from first platoon report to the hospital. My platoon sergeant, SSgt. Inouye, the senator’s nephew, was dispatched. His job was to identify the body of a Marine who had aspirated on his own vomit and died in the early morning hours. It was Private Cheatham. He beat us home by many months. But he missed Manila, Singapore, Hong Kong and eventually the evacuation of Phnom Penh and Saigon. And he missed ever seeing his boys and his wife again. That was 36 years ago and today I return to Okinawa. Wish there was more I could have done for Cheatham. I had befriended him but his desire for home outweighed any other consideration.

And thus it is with my work these many years later. So few people understand the blessing God has in store for them. They see only a life of religious drudgery and not the joys of a life beyond the limits of time and space. So they cling to this earth as their only home and are willing to surrender all and anything for it. And at the end, they find they have missed everything for the relative nothing this life has to offer. But we labor on.

Tokyo is an interesting place. I arrived in the city on Friday for an evening meeting followed by teaching Sabbath school the next morning and having a lecture in the afternoon. There followed a lecture and class on public speaking on Sunday. This was all in the Tokyo Central church where also meets the Tokyo International church, a united nations of members from all over the globe. Africans, Filipinos, South Americans, Europeans, Australians, Americans; from all stations, all walks of life, for many reasons, they come to the Harajyuku area to worship with like believers. It is always a blessing. But it is in this Harajyuku area that an even greater diversity is seen out in the public domain. It is a place of Goths and mystics, tourists and transvestites, women dressed in childlike pinafores and men waxed down like Elvis. A large park sprawls though the area and here they come to see and be seen. They play their music so-called, skateboard, blow bubbles, practice trans-space massage, ogle, google (if they have 3G) or juggle. They sleep and eat, preen and parade, and generally enjoy the passing scene. And as night settles over the park and the motley masses head for their favorite watering holes, another class emerges from the streets and alleys.

Tokyo has a large population of denizens of the streets. It seemed every bench had its occupant as I walked through the shadows of gathering night. Some were striking up their gas burners to cook what supper they were able to forage or beg; some were unfolding their neatly bundled possessions, making their concrete beds as comfortable as possible. The heat has been oppressive this summer in Japan and I am sure these social wrecks look forward to the cooler days and nights of autumn. And as I walk amongst them, they either ignore me or scrutinize me from perspectives as narrow as was Cheatham’s, from lives as hopeless as was his. And yet I do pass on.

My plans have changed quite dramatically, and not just in my intentions for Mt. Fuji. On 18 October I was to fly to Beijing and resume my teaching duties at our new school there. But enrollment problems have rendered the third module impractical and so I was released from my China duties. For that I am sorry but I have learned that whenever one door closes, another opens. I thought first of Aenon in Malaysia. It had been a great blessing last year when I lectured there and so I sent a query as to whether they had any special needs. At the same time I sent an email to a friend named James Hartley who heads up a program named LIGHT and conducts training programs all over the world. Perhaps he knew of a need in the Pacific basin that I could fill.

Aenon responded that they were in the middle of a move but could find something for me to do. James, and through him a man in the Philippines, responded they NEEDED a teacher of Daniel and End Time Events in Northern Luzon. These are subjects I love and so I chose the need over the accommodation. I am excited.

In the Philippines the school, way up north, meets and lives in bamboo huts. For an hour each day they turn on the generator to charge the things needing charging. The rest of the time it is mostly primitive. Suits me fine.

There was a problem, however. I had a ticket to Beijing, not Manila. To cancel the Tokyo to Beijing leg would have cost me a penalty. So I decided to fly to Manila from Beijing, which turned out to be cheaper than flying from Tokyo. So, to fly to Manila I will fly from Oita, Japan, to Hanada, take a bus to Narita, fly to Beijing, then to Hong Kong, then on to Manila for a 12 hour bus ride to Laoag, Philippines. To return I will take the bus from Laoag to Manila, fly to Hong Kong and then on to Beijing. From there to Tokyo and then on to Honolulu and finally a short hop to Hilo. It will be so good to stop for a few days.

More in a bit. Getting ready for the flight to Okinawa.

God’s richest blessings,

Don

Orient 1-10

Some of the class of 2012

Dateline: Tansho, Japan; August 29, 2010—It is late August so this must be Japan. How many years it has been eludes me now, but I have been coming to Japan in August for quite some time. Before last year I would make my way from Narita, the main international airport near Tokyo, to Maebashi and then climb to the cool heights of the Akagiyama range. There, amidst the bears and boars, the deer and tanuki, the pheasants and the tiger keelback, I would make my forays from Misawa to Okinawa. But this year the whole operation I work with called Nihon Kinsai Koiki (NKK) has moved down on the plain near Honjyo in the Saitama Prefecture. And down here it is hot. This is the hottest summer since records began to be kept back in the 1870’s. It is nigh unto insufferable.

Jet lag takes its inevitable toll. This time I began my trip in California so I had a few less time zones to traverse but just one hour is enough to send your circadian rhythms catawampus. Research has shown that the day after the time springs forward in those ill-informed countries still doing the daylight savings thing, there are 8% more traffic accidents. And the day after it falls back, meaning one extra hour of sleep, there are 8% fewer accidents. So, I am glad I don’t have to drive here in Japan, but for more reasons than jet lag. I’m sure I have commented on them before, but the common roads in Japan are a nightmare for the initiated. Narrow furrows of concrete cut so closely to shops and homes along the way as to make it hazardous for occupants to leave home. Sometimes utility poles impinge on the white line marking the edge of the road. One great thing about it all is the law that is a person is found to be drinking and driving, the privileges are revoked forever.

September 7, 2010: Got busy there for a while. Our first school was held at Saniku Gakuin College, the former Japanese Missionary College. It is up in the hills past Tokyo in Chiba Prefecture. It was a supper school session. It was phase one which means this was their first gathering. We will meet together twice more in the next two years. We have a week intensive session, give a ton of homework, and then repeat the same thing the following with a few tests thrown in for good measure. It is customarily very hard to interest people in such an endeavor. They have to take time off from their busy lives, travel to a campus that might not offer the amenities they are used to at home, they have to come up with tuition, and they have to sit still and learn all day. But we have had very good success. I would say over the last six or seven years we have had over 50 students. Not all have finished the course, but all have learned to live healthier lives.

One student in particular, was not a Christian. We don’t require that our students be SDA or even Christian, but they are required to attend whatever classes are being taught, and take whatever tests are given. As I was listening to the students introduce themselves, I was impressed that I wasn’t there just to teach about the laws of health and hydrotherapy, but I was to life up Christ. That was the verse that came to me very strongly, “I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto Me.” So that is what I endeavored to do in my morning and evening worships. Frankly, I benefitted by what I was sharing. On the last morning as the students were speaking of what they experienced with the course, this dear woman was tearful and mentioned, besides the blessing she had had at the school, that she was thinking of returning home and having some Bible studies. That makes the whole trip more than worth the effort, time and expense.

Wednesday the 8^th I will travel to Mt. Akagi and visit friends who work there now whom I met at Uchee Pines. Thursday Marty, an Army veteran, and a few others will travel to Mt. Fuji. There is a traditional expression in Japanese, “One would be a fool never to climb Mt Fuji – but also a fool to climb it twice.” Well, this will be my first time and I am thoroughly looking forward to the experience. That is if the typhoon which is making its way in this direction doesn’t get in the way. All the weather sites has it raining and storming Thursday. Bummer! I am fully equipped for the climb and in pretty good shape, so we will see.

On October 18^th I was to fly back to China and teach for another month there but the school will end after the second module and therefore my services will not be needed. What to do? Well, I can go to Aenon in Malaysia. They have told me they can use my services. And I can go to the Philippines where they need a teacher for the book of Daniel and endtime events. I like those subjects. Now, it would cost me a penalty to cancel the Beijing segment so I have decided to go ahead and fly in to China and then fly from there to either Malaysia or the Philippines. It would be much cheaper to fly to the Philippines but then I have no idea what island the school there is on. I like the Philippines but haven’t been there since my Marine Corps days. So, I have a dilemma which I need to solve in a few days. In the Philippines the staff and students are living in bamboo huts and that sort of appeals to me. So, we will see.

Monday I fly to Okinawa so I will bring you up to date about Fuji, Oki and beyond soon.

God bless,

Don

Travelogue 9-10 Dateline: Cedarvale, Kangaroo Valley, New South Wales, Australia; May 5, 2010—Just as it began warming up in China, I am sent down under where the Aussies are entering into winter. But Australia’s winter and China’s winter are two very different things…I hope. But there are some unfinished details about China I have to tidy up before telling of kangaroos, wallabies and the like.

After my return from Russia, we decided to have a school outing to the Great Wall. The students were excited, as were the staff. The date was set for Thursday, April 22. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of that week were cut and polished in

the womb of weather and came forth prepared for picnics, outdoor weddings, flying kites. But we were in class those three halcyon days. Thursday we awoke to the sound of a steady, cold rain. The surrounding mountains wore mourning veils of gray mist. The staff thought it better we wait till Friday but the students were so excited they all voted to go in spite of the inclement weather, rain and all. We did.

We walked quite a way from the school through a steady drizzle to a main road where we were to catch a bus to Cheng Ping. From Cheng Ping we walked a couple kilometers to the bus line which would take to Badaling, the section of the Great Wall which was our day’s destination. By the time we arrived at the Wall it was pouring down rain. The students? As excited and cheerful as if this was one of the perfect days we had just let slip by.

From sodden huddles under the portico of a large building, the students would

splash through the gauntlet of raindrops to souvenir shops to purchase 2 RMB ponchos of whisper thin plastic. They came in pastel colors so after a while we looked like a lumpy gathering of Easter eggs. I was one of the blue eggs and as they stretched the gossamer film around me, I became a broken egg. They are made for Chinese people, most of whom are rather small.

As the rain abated just a bit the sodden, happy mass of us took off for the entrance to the Wall. It was cold but at last, we were going to mount the Wall. The nerve damage in my left leg was a hindrance but I had a pair of great trekking poles which helped a lot. You have probably all seen pictures of the Great Wall. Massive gray ramparts creasing the sharply undulating hills for as far as the eye can see. How many vanquished prisoners wore out their weary lives hauling huge blocks of rock up these impossible steeps, only heaven knows. Over the many Chinese dynasties in which the Great Wall was built, it has eroded, been built, rebuilt and extended many times. The latest construction took place during the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) and the length was then over 6,000 kilometer

s. This is the wall often referred as “The Great Wall”. But if all the fortified walls built in the different dynasties around northern China are included, the total length would exceed 31,000 miles. T

hat’s hard for me to wrap my mind around since I have walked the Wall. And America, in 2010, can build a fence to defend its southern border. Shame on us.

Some of the students hovered near me, anxious to help the “old man” up the steep grade to the Hero’s Tower. As miserable as the weather was, I loved every step. When we finally were all gathered at the Hero’s Tower, which was as far as we could go on this portion of the Wall, we opened our packs and had lunch. The rain turned to sleet and then, of all things, it started showing heavily. Somehow it only added to the festival spirit all the students seemed to possess and they had passed it on to all of the staff. There were many people at the wall this day which surprised me. Seems in China, when an outing is planned, you execute the plan.

Well, I am finishing this section up on May 20 and China is far behind. The last day they took me to the Forbidden City, mainly because there were two visitors from Poland there and they wanted to see it so I tagged along. Parting early, I went to the airport to check in for my flight. “Do you have a visa for Australia?” I was asked. I didn’t even think to check if I needed one. So here I was, flying in two hours and no visa. Thankfully the visa is electronic and with a bit of searching, I found a business center and soon was legal to enter the down under country where I have been now for three weeks. More about that later.

God’s blessings,

Don

Some pictures...I hope

A Russian supper. Upper right hand corner os an apple pie. Feet of clay, I had supper this night.

The village of Molokova, telephoto

shot from where I was staying.

The great class in Molokova, Russia. Dedicated and interested, it was a pleasure to teach them.

Looking down from the other side of the hill from Molokova, you are seeing the dividing line between Europe and Asia. That is a river, it is April 10, and people are walking on it.

Travelogue 7-10

Home away from home.

The walk up from the valley.

Travelogue 7-10

Dateline: Molokova, Russia; April 9, 2010—Back home in Alabama they are already dealing with 80+ degree days. And here I am in Molokova, a small town less than an hour from the former closed Soviet city of Perm. A cluster of log cabins of ancient vintage interspersed with modern two story weekend getaway cabins with double-insulated windows still lie wrapped in a heavy mantle of ice and snow from the long and weary winter. It would be hard to express the beauty of this Ural Mountain snowscape. Take the most endearing scenes Currier and Ives created and you have an inkling of this pre-Siberia Russian area in early spring. Stands of birch trees punctuate the broad sweeps of jagged pines reaching for the breathless blue of a pollution-free sky.

The Ural Mountains stretch 1,000 miles south from the Arctic Ocean to the Aral Sea. On Sabbath they drove me a few kilometers from Molokova to the top of our part of the Urals and we looked down upon a very wide river, upon which you could see many people walking. The river is much more even and smooth than the pock-marked and torturous highways here. This Ural range marks the conventional dividing line between what is commonly considered Europe and the vast beginning of Asia. Now, calling them mountains, at least in this area, might be wishful thinking. They find their match somewhere between America’s ancient Smokies and the diminutive Arbuckles. Never heard of the Arbuckles? They form but a slight rise in the road in the midwestern USA. So here we have hills called mountains draped with their evergreen shawls, and the white, white snow.

Each day since we arrived, the sun has widened the road we traverse from the village to the lifestyle center where we have been staying. Still, in the shadowed valley between our “home” and the classroom/cafeteria/dorm, the evergreens stand sentinel over their hoard of show, holding the sun’s warming rays at bay so the ice remains thick and snow grasps the retreating winter, daring not to let it go for in its surrender, it also finds its demise. Frankly, it is a blessing to walk this icy part of the path considering other parts in the meadow. Up there, a part of the path where the snow has vanished has been churned to thick, deep mud. But you dare not leave the widening path for the snow is deep elsewhere. A few times I have made the mistake of trying to “snowshoe it” over the crust and ended up with a boot full of snow.

Each night we have a hard freeze and the one-kilometer traverse in the morning is much easier. The mud is ice hard, the water that was flowing the afternoon before is again locked in night’s embrace. The forests surrounding this area are said to shelter bears, wolves, moose, deer and a multitude of other wild critters. It is nothing less than a dream to be here. Steven Grabiner, the vice president of OCI, and I are the only ones staying in the center. At night the only sound one can hear outside is an occasional whisper being passed from tree to tree, whether discussing the two strange speaking visitors below or wishing each other a good night’s rest, I know not. Whatever, I feel more than welcome. But all of this is not the best part.

I have lived in many places, traveled to many lands. And when in quiet reverie I consider the places where I have been the happiest and the places where I would as soon forget, the best was in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Why? Oh yes, I loved watching the sun turning the Big Sheep mountains beyond Marine Corps Base Twentynine Palms pink and purple each evening. Loved running from Joshua Tree National Monument at dusk, lizards and Roadrunners scurrying out of my way. But it was, and always will be, the people that add the most enjoyment to my life. Every aspect of 29 Palms I loved. And here in Molokova I have found another comfortable refuge.

Somehow during my travels of the last two weeks I seem to have done some serious damage to a nerve serving my left leg. Walking is at times can be excruciating, standing is a challenge, and I totter about like an old man. And all these lovely people hover around, keeping me from falling over, helping me put on my boots if I’d let them, offering me rides to the lifestyle center. One of the therapists gave me a series of hot fomentations, another supplied me with two hot water bottles, and the overall manager gave me three cayenne pepper plasters. And one night they fired up the banyo, the Russian sauna. In this part of the world, most people have a banyo. This project has two.

The first we went to was a very small log cabin of unknown vintage. The banyo professor, the name they give to Boris who prepares the banyos for service. The kind people did it here because it was very near where we were staying although the whole walk through the snowy fields and valley to their homes. All day long the logs had been burning, heating the air and the log to their very hearts. It was hot. Once a good sweat was evident, they would beat any willing banyoite with clusters of birch and pine branches, intermittently dousing us with cold water. That accomplished and the heat rising, we would retire to the outside and rub ourselves down with snow. I would lie down and make snow angels in the deep, refreshing crystals. That was the best night’s sleep I have had in a while.

This work in Molokova was begun by a man who owned a furniture factory. He was making a good living but it wasn’t what he wanted to do with his life. So, he sold his business and bought the property in Molokova and began building. This is an entirely selfless ministry he has created and around him he has gathered a dedicated staff, numbering less than ten. And then there are the students, taking the six-month course in medical missionary work. The sanitarium can accommodate 16 to 17 patients and since December, they have had 60 patients. Four of the staff are therapists so they stay relatively busy when patients are here. For our time, they had no patient sessions so they could devote the time to our classes. We would teach all afternoon.

Next winter I plan to return to Molokova, when the nights are long and the temperatures drop to nearly 50 below zero Fahrenheit. It does get cold. Right now it is still light at 9:30-10 PM.

That’s about all for now. God’s blessings,

Don

Travelogue 5-10

Travelogue 6

Dateline: Yaroslavl’, Russia; April 1, 2010—At last, back in the great Motherland. I’ll be here for two weeks and hopefully be able to write a few travelogues between duties. It is my desire to be more diligent with my writing. So many things happen, so many thoughts come to my mind, then disappear like the winter snow on a warm spring day. Of course here in Yaroslavl’, a small city a hard five-hour drive north of Moscow, the snow still lies heavy in mute tribute to Al Gores great piece of sci-fi, An Inconvenient Truth. They have had a hard winter here, as they had in Ukraine, and in China, and back in the USA. It is amazing how deceitful weather can be. On our drive up here, all snug in the backseat of a Lada, one of two Russian-made automobiles, it was lovely outside. The sun had the snow in full retreat, its bright rays warming us even more in the close confines of the speeding vehicle. Then we passed a lake and out in the middle were numerous fishermen, hunched over their boreholes, trying to catch supper. A chill passed over my body.

Those who responded to my question at the end of the last travelogue agreed that third person was not as effective as first person. So, back to the first person, and to the rest of the story. As you may recall, I left you hanging about my train ticket. On Tuesday, my host and hostess, a wonderful couple living at the Union compound, took me out for sightseeing and exercise. We took two metros (subways here) far beneath the bowels of the earth. When we came to our stop, we had to take two escalators to reach the surface. Never have I been on such long escalators. I estimate each one took us up three to five stories.

Breaking into the sunshine, and it was a beautiful day, they took me to a famous WWII memorial park. Very beautiful and, having a special attachment to all things military, most interesting. We also went to a major Orthodox seminary. The Orthodox churches in Kiev are many and huge. The new president of Ukraine is moving the country toward the Russian Orthodox church, as well as slowly closing the doors on all other churches.

Now, in the midst of the memorial park is a very tall monument of a woman holding up a sword and shield. But there is something a bit wrong with the woman. My friend Sergii explained that the statue was taller than a nearby Orthodox tower, and that just couldn’t be. So they shortened the sword and the upper part of the woman’s body so her head sits lower than it should. The Orthodox church has power over here.

We then walked to the site of the Orange Revolution of four years ago. I was anxious to see this history-making location. We were now in the center of Kiev. And we continued to walk, and walk, and walk. You can imagine my surprise when I looked up and saw the place where I had been staying. We had walked all the way home. Great exercise. But what might this have to do with my ticket?

I had been carrying the ticket with me, as well as a camera, tissues, pen, pad of paper, wallet; all these in my jacket pockets. And that night I could not find the ticket, which had cost nearly $100. And it was a ticket for a lower berth, which I always like. I searched everywhere in my room. The next morning I searched more. At lunch I told my friends I couldn’t find the ticket and figured it had fallen from my pocket when I removed the camera, tissues, or something on our long walk. Asking me if I wanted them to go to the terminal and buy another ticket, I told them No. I told them to just take me at the time we had originally planned to leave and I would purchase whatever ticket was available. Myroslava, Sergii’s wife said they would come help me look as six eyes were better than two.

After dinner I went back and continued sifting through my things. Every scrap of paper was scrutinized a few times, every book shaken violently, every suitcase emptied and repacked. I moved all the furniture, lifted the mattress twice, and picked my way through the garbage. It was nowhere to be found. About 6 PM my friends showed up, thinking to take me to the train station to purchase another but wanted to look one last time. “Might it be in the desk?” Sergii asked.

“I’ve looked there three times but it won’t offend me if you look again,” I offered. He did.

“How about this book or that?” he would ask.

“Go ahead and look; I have looked every place but where it is.”

“How about the mattress?” he asked one last time. I knew it was lost and I was going to waste $100, which I hate to do as I consider all I have belongs to God. I had moved the mattress completely off the bed, looked under the bed numerous times, and shaken out the sheets and blankets twice. But I was totally defeated as Sergii tipped the mattress up. And there it was! I can’t even describe how it was there as it was impossible to be where it was in the way that it was. But there it was, bigger than life. We had a sincere prayer of thanksgiving. I then sat down and wrote you the blog about the missing ticket. If you prayed, your prayers were abundantly answered.

We left for the train at 8:40 PM, arriving in plenty of time. Now, some of you know I love trains, especially eastern European trains. But this train put all others to shame. The car I was on was brand new. You could plug your computer in, lower the shades, and turn on the train PA system. It was clean, neat and best of all, this train had a toilet that did not empty out between the tracks but went into a holding tank. The advantage? When they would stop for long periods at stations, the bathrooms remained unlocked. Not so in the other trains I have traveled on. When coming into a station, the doors were locked, and on certain trips, you could be sitting in a station for a couple of hours in the middle of the night. You might imagine the distress that might being when nature called.

But it became even better. There were no more than six people on our nine-compartment car. Each compartment has four beds in bunk fashion and a small table projecting out from the window. And I only had one compartment mate, and he spoke English. He was quite large but was very friendly and we had a good time.

At 11:40 we came to the Ukrainian border and I became a bit tense. That meant we were also at the Russian border and my visa was not good till midnight. I did not need any problems. The Ukrainian border guard was an attractive young woman who actually smiled and was very friendly. We breezed on through and the train was again plunging into the darkness. On and on we sped. Finally I lay down and fell asleep. We were awakened at 3:30 AM, at last it was time to pass Russian immigration. Again, it was a breeze. Whereas the tall guard did not offer a smile, he exhibited but mild interest in this American. No custom’s declarations, no searching the luggage, the counting of money, the searching questions. It was in and out and we were on the way again. It was the most delightful ride I have had in a long time.

One more train ride coming up, from Perm, in the Ural Mountains, back to Moscow. Am I ever looking forward to that ride. Boris Pasternak wrote Dr. Zhivago here. I remember seeing that movie back in the 60’s. I remember the best the landscapes. The train Zhivago rode on through the Russian Siberian wider. Yes, I look forward to that ride. I will take you on it with me.

God bless,

Don

Travelogue 5

The Second school home

Travelogue 10-5

Dateline: Kiev, Ukraine; March 29, 2010—So what is he doing in Kiev when last time you saw him he was at the Great Wall of China. Seems this blog could be more aptly named a bog, as it seems to get bogged down from time to time. It isn’t always because they turn the electricity off, but that happens. Let’s see, we left Don at the second place with his first official warning. But he and his teammates were not alone in receiving warnings. The owner of the second property was receiving threats by the very police department pledged to protect the citizens. For some reason people were not happy. But not all of them fall under this category. One such happy camper came to the school, not as a student, but as a patient.

The first time he saw her, Don had a good idea of what was wrong. She looked like a China doll, great round cheeks billowing over her nose and mouth. Prednisone was the medication and Lupus was probably the diagnosis. He was right. She was on 35 mg Prednisone a day, was weak and achy and her blood work looked very bad. What to do?

Without boring you with the reasons, she was put on a total vegetarian diet with lots of garlic thrown in. She was given two daily doses of Oregano and Thyme oil along with GSE. Nasty tasting stuff. She was also given daily hyperthermia treatments to both boost her immune system and detoxify her through sweating. She would also exercise to tolerance and get small amounts of sunshine.

Those were the physical measures she received. But far more importantly were the mental/spiritual measures. Her mother was a Christian but the young lady, caught up in life and youth, spurned such a “sacrifice.” But now she was up against the wall with the guns of disease leveled against her. It was here her blinders started to come off rather than girded on. We talked much of faith, the power of positive thinking, the assurance of One who can help. She began reading and studying the Bible. On March 23 she had an appointment at a hospital to check the progress of her disease. She already knew that something was different, but never dreamed what the doctors would find. All of her symptoms were gone, everything was back to normal. Of course the side effects of the Prednisone were still sorely visible but we have started her on a very slow withdrawal of that poison. It will take a few months to get back to normal but she and the whole school were rejoicing.

The last blog the school was at its second location and Don had received his first official warning from a country in all his years of traveling. Oh yes, once he and a few others were labeled as smugglers upon entering Canada but that is another story. But the Chinese police were still not very happy for some reason. They began threatening the owner of the property. So he told us we would have to leave. That was Sabbath so on Sunday we were another crossroads. Mark and Paul were out scouring the countryside for another location realizing that, if one could not be found, the school would have to disband. With characteristic good humor, the students and staff packed their belonging and stood waiting in the parking lot for whatever was to come.

About 4 PM Mark and Paul pulled into the parking lot and announced they had indeed found a new place very near the first place. So, in a lone eight passenger van, all the students, staff, luggage and piles of food made the exodus again. The new property was surrounded by fruit trees and filled with trash; the housing that is. What a mess. But not to worry, here came the police.

It was uncanny; they had just arrived and the local deputy pulled up with his female sidekick radiating askance. Seems they are really trying to equalize the gender thing here as there are many female police officer. Don started getting suspicious the officials were unhappy he was there. He had a talk with Mark, offering to leave right away if it might mean the end of this incessant harassment. But Mark wouldn’t hear of it; we were in this ting together.

While the owner of the new property was dealing with the police, his staff were trying to unfoul the living quarters where the school was to be billeted. Apparently the building had not been inhabited by humans for some time and the dirt, litter, junk and vegetative remnants were everywhere. The owner also had other units which were more along the scale of an American motel. Neat, well-appointed rooms with heat, hot water and cable TV. Mark reserved a few of these for the staff but soon the students, those same ones who had endured more than most students could have, drew the line. It could be cold, it could be crowded, it could be inconvenient; but they drew the line on being filthy. By now the police had threatened the new owner and he was working hard to find a fourth home for the school. The school could only stay one night at this location and then move on or disband. Everyone was beginning to get the impression Satan was not too happy with the school and was stirring up much trouble. The owner, a really honest man, took pity on the students and allowed them all to move into the nice rooms for the night for a bargain basement price.

Apparently he had connections with the Chinese army as he was trying to find a place to conduct the school outside of police jurisdiction. That would be on an army base. A base was located and it was as Spartan as Mark had seen. Open squad-bays with outhouses some distance away. Oh yes, and cold showers with plenty of water. Mark asked about the possibility of the three couples having separate rooms but it was repeated, open squad-bays. It just didn’t seem like the right place to hold the school.

The next day, Mark and Paul again were out searching and finally decided that since they had a contract with the first place, one that would allow the school to relocate there without police interference, that the school would move back to where it had begun. So once again, one van load at a time, they were all transported back to the guest house. And what a blessing, the power was on. Hot showers, lights at night, a bit of heat in the room. As they were all settling in, glomp!, the power went off again. The village chief sent someone over and pulled the fuses on the main pole. We were home again and in darkness. But the students endured this with great attitudes. Some of the guys began immediately to string wire, hooking all the rooms to the small generator, and before they were forced to an early retirement, there was light in each room. Don left the next day.

Let’s end this blog with the adventures at the Beijing airport. Don arrived plenty early and breezed through security. Aeroflot, the Russian airline he was flying with, were not manning the counters yet so he stood around as the crowd of Russians going home swelled around him. Thankful to be able to use the first class line because of his medallion status, he anticipated no problems.

When finally the staff were in place and the family who had rushed by him had been taken care of, he shuffled up with his baggage, laid his passport, ticket information and Platinum Medallion on the counter, and waited for a seat assignment. But there was a problem; he was over weight. Well, not him, but his baggage. Seems Aeroflot only allows 20 kg check-in and 10 kg carry-on, and he had 33 kg check-in. “But I am platinum medallion, ma’am.”

“Aeroflot does not allow extra baggage for medallion members,” she replied.

“Okay,” he surrendered, “how much will it cost?”

“Aeroflot,” she offered, keeping herself out of the equation, “charges 30 Euro per kilo.”

Now, let’s break that down. A euro is trading for about $1.34, so 30 times 13 equals 390 times $1.34 equals $522, or almost as much as he paid for the ticket in the first place. And there was no talking himself out of this penalty. While huge beefy Russians were checking their 20kg suitcases and waddling their 113 kg bodies happily away, his 68 kg body went over to the side and began digging through his belonging, determining what he could do without.

He had finally found a blue, double-breasted blazer that fit like a glove in a thrift store. It now adorns a happy Chinaman. A bag of macadamia nuts, tamarind fruit, hazel nuts and another kind of nut are delighting the palates of more people. The pile grew, but he was thankful he had left a number of things at the school. Finally, down to bare bones, he drug his things back to the counter for another weigh-in. This time he was only 4 kg over but there was no mercy; he paid 1120 RMB (Chinese Yuan Renminbi) or about $164. After his flight to Perm next week, that should about be the last time he flies Aeroflot.

After paying the fine and receiving his boarding pass, he started for the gates but an old Chinese cleaning lady, apparently spying the pile he had left. Told him, “Jur, chin plou hun che qzit.” “Okay,” he laughed, “come with me,” and led her over to the stash.

Piece by piece, the two nice shirts, the excellent grey slacks (who needs them? they were for the blazer) some books, all the food they had sent him off with, and to top it all off, a black zippered bag to put is all in. The dear old lady seemed as if she had walked into a dream. She stood with the lid to her trashcan open repeating the only English word she probably knew. “Sank you, sank you, sank you,” as each item was added from his discarded largesse. It somehow made him feel better about the whole affair, but he was getting hot. Why?

Well you might call it cheating , but he was wearing a bit more than he had left wearing that morning. Fishing out his Scott-E vest with the 23 pockets, he had placed his large Bible, probably weighing 1.5 kilos at the minimum, in the large pouch in the back, filled his pockets with nuts, put a sweater over the vest and then his jacket over that. It was getting hotter and hotter. But the cleaning lady was happy and he was heading for Kiev.

God bless,

Don

PS. As I finish this blog, I am less than an hour away from leaving to catching a train to Moscow. Another misadventure; I have lost the ticket. It will be interesting to see what God has planned for me tonight. As you might have noticed, I tried writing in the 3^rd person but am not comfortable with that style. What do you think?

Travelogue 1-10 Off to China

Travelogue 10-4

Dateline: Beijing, China; March 18, 2010—The new housing was great. They all settled in and smiles wreathed every face. The “kitchen” still left much to be desired. It was dark and small with a floor that, if you dropped something on it, it was as good as compost. But let not little things deter us.

The classroom was a dream. He has spoken in many places. Under trees in Africa, in dry rice fields in India, in cavernous halls of Eastern Europe still echoing with the Hymn of the Soviet Union, in simple classrooms of many medical missionary schools, but this was special. A raised dais kept him in view of each student. A static-free PA system with which to project his unintelligible words to the last uncomprehending ear. A projector screen recessed on the dais with no windows nearby spilling sunlight across the Keynote images. And most of all, it was wonderfully warm. Not “take off the jacket and sweater” warm, or “leave the long handles in the room” warm, but “can’t see my breath warm.” And of course the classroom full of smiling and expectant faces. It was a great place, until…

The very day they all arrived, the police showed up. Now, you need to understand, they had just moved about four kilometers, passing the second police station where the happy hour had been spent swilling tea with the chief. So, how does one spell totalitarian? George Orwell must have visited China, or the Soviet Union, to come up with the shocking society we read about in 1984. There were problems again.

The second day, he was called to the restaurant. Oh yes, the restaurant. As part of this new school, there is a restaurant. It is like a large greenhouse with a man-made stream bed meandering the length of the floor. Smaller semi-private dining areas line one side with large round tables surrounded by eight chairs with a large lazy-susan in the middle of the tables. On the other side of the restaurant are the same tables and chairs without their oriental screens separating them from the rest. Whereas the place is closed, people still come and eat there. Chinese people eat just about anything.

One day as he was sitting there with his dinner of rice, steamed vegetables and buns, a group of ladies were gathered around the next table preparing to eat their noon meal also. Being a people-watcher, he languidly ate his meal while enjoying the culture unfolding around him like a fashion buyer sitting just below the runway. A shallow bowl was brought in and placed before these Chinese matrons, as well as a small jar of toothpicks.

It was like a feeding frenzy. The contents of the bowl, which appeared to be small dark nuts, were amazingly attractive to these gourmets. Grasping one of the diminutive morsels, they would poke a toothpick in, spear whatever it was, extracting it neatly and gobbling it down. Asking his tablemates what was the delicacy they were enjoying, they told me they were snails. Oh yum! And me stuck with rice, deliciously steamed and seasoned veggies, and some almonds on the side. No, he ate durian in Malaysia, but no snails in China.

Back to being called to the restaurant. He was told to bring his passport with him. This is never a harbinger of good things, especially here in China. Sure enough the local police were paying another call. One of the men spoke very good English and naturally did all of the talking. But this time it wasn’t the police filling out the forms; this time he had to, as well as Wai Fong and the members of the staff from Hong Kong. Seems that, even though Hong Kong was surrendered to China in 1997, its citizens are not recognized as Chinese by some police districts. This was one of those districts and therefore they had all violated a cardinal law. When a foreigner comes to China, one of the first matters of business, “before toilet” as they learned, was to register with the local police department. It must be within 24 hours. The school had moved on a Wednesday afternoon and it was now Friday morning. We were illegal aliens, and in China illegal aliens cannot obtain food stamps, free medical care, drivers licenses or welfare. We all had to fill out a confession. The hapless American explained in his confession that he assumed he was in the same police jurisdiction and therefore was still under the first registration. He was informed that first, was no longer in the same jurisdiction and second, registration was based on your physical location. They want to know where you are at all times.

This was the first warning. The policeman, who by the way was very cordial, said the next time we violated this law it would cost us 500 RNB and should such behavior continue, it could result in their deportation.

But still the new place was much superior. It was nearer the mountains, of which China has many. They are not like the ancient, smooth mounds America has in the east, nor its craggy granite peaks of the west. Chinese mountains are snaggled dragon’s teeth, rising menacingly one uneven row after another. Abrupt and sharp, they are as evocative of China, thanks to National Geographic, as any landmark here, second only to the Great Wall.

Now, he has felt the cool mists rising from Niagara Falls and been drenched by the cloudless rains of Victoria Falls. He has seen Half Dome at sunrise, explored the cathedrals of Europe and strode Red Square past Lenin’s hopeless remains. He has explored the bowels of the Shrine of Kamakura, been chased by a lion at Hwange, flown a plane, sailed a boat, shot the rapids and rappelled down cliffs. And now, after all these years of wondering, he has touched the Great Wall. Like the raised scales of an ancient Stegosaurus, it traverses the undulating hills and mountains for 2,400 kilometers, from Kansu Province to the Yellow Sea north of Beijing. Begun 200 years before the birth of Christ, this marvel of construction is massive. Each block was chiseled to exact proportions by an army of workers. No haphazard work here, no way. Each exposed stone is slightly tapered so the wall rises at a very slight angle thereby foiling nature’s attempt to throw it down. Not saying the whole gray granite guardian of the northern frontier has weathered the ages unscathed. There are some sections in poor repair. There is but one Rock unaffected by elements of nature or the arms of men, and that Rock yearns for these people.

It was very cold at the Wall, and very cold means it was almost unbearable. Now, Don isn’t exactly a wimp. Cold has never been a major problem for him. Hey, the mercury drops, put on more clothing. Ergo the problem. Packing at the last minute, which is his wont, back in Alabama, he packed from his present frame of reference which was Alabama. You would think he would learn after all these years. Late February in Alabama is early spring. A sweater and jacket is fine…for Alabama, and that is what he packed. A sweater and jacket are not fine for China in late winter. Remember that if you travel to China.

More changes coming up. Read about them next blog.

Blessings,

Don

The class.

Some of the patient, happy, eager students. Some traveled over four days to come here. Some resigned jobs. One is a doctor, one a university professor. You can catch a view of the mountains behind. Very beautiful place.

First school site

You can't see the mountains in the background or feel the cold seeping into your bones, but this is the first site of the school just outside of Beijing. Over 50 people living, studying, cooking and eating in a "motel" which would comfortably house upwards of 20 people.

Have patience, I will figure out, with the help of my daughter I am sure, how to post more than one picture at a time.

Blog 10-3

Travelogue 10-3

Dateline: Beijing, China; March 19, 2010—Moldova is a communist country, but only because their brief fling with capitalism did not markedly improve the lives of the people. How could it? The same people were in power, only wearing a different mask. But China is different; it is all the way communist while at the same time becoming quite adept at capitalism. And bubbling away in this incongruous stew is an ample helping of graft and greed. We have been the victims of this here a few times.
Now, a person would think that in such a totalitarian country, it would be hard to get away with any underhanded shenanigans. I remember back in the 50’s we had three yearbooks in our home, setting forth the biggest events in the previous year. I used to love perusing those volumes, looking at the pictures of unknown people and reading of places I could only dream of seeing some day. Two pictures stand out in my mind. One is of an open-air tribunal, a circle of villagers around a table behind which sits an arrogant young man in uniform apparently lecturing the hapless and totally dejected “criminal” standing in the heat of everyone’s critical gaze. His crime as noted in the yearbook? Exploiting peasants on his 2/5’s of an acre of land. The next picture is of his punishment. Kneeling in the dirt, his arms tied tightly behind him, his head hung in hopelessness, he awaits the bullet from the rifle of the soldier standing behind him, aiming in the middle of his back. I have often thought of that poor man so long ago. And I wonder now how exploitation is any better than what we have been exposed to; extortion and harassment.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy it here for the most part. So far I have gone through a detailed visa process, registered in two police precincts, been interrogated by a Religions Friendship Committee representative, and received my first official warning by another police precinct. The first registration was the first day and I stood behind the glass while a scowling policewomen scrutinized my passport and filled out the requisite form. The second registration went better. The daughter of the woman from whom we were renting a guesthouse for the school, accompanied us to the station. This is quite a gal.
Having spent seven years in Canada going to university, she speaks flawless English, and I mean flawless; she doesn’t even have the Canadianese “ay” after most sentences. As a matter of fact, she almost sounds like she is using Val-speak, a California dialect. She is a friend of the police chief and while the policewomen were trying to figure out how in the world to register an American, our Val-speaker took us into the police chief’s office and we spent an hour talking and drinking tea. He showed us the fine art of making a good cup of tea and that needs to be the subject of another whole blog.
Now, the Religions Friendship Committee is an interesting organization. Note that “Religious” is not an adjective in this case. I doubt the representative was a “believer” nor did he have a taste for those who were. You might paraphrase their organization as the “We Will be Friendly if Your Religion is Kept to Yourself Committee.” He asked me a bunch of questions but made sure I understood they were not friendly to foreigners bringing religion into their country. They aren’t big on imports over here; they major in exports, as you can readily ascertain by shopping any Walmart, and I was made to understand that if I did not abide by the rules, I might well be their next export. Trying to pin me down as to a religious motive, I seized upon a golden opportunity they had unwittingly prepared for me. The Chinese are one of the most nicotine-addicted people I have met. The room in which we were being interrogated was filled with their acrid smoke and a spent butt lay crushed on the floor by my chair. Retrieving it and holding it up for the man to see, I told him, “It doesn’t matter if a man is a Christian, a Hindu or an atheist, this is going to hurt him. I am here to try to keep that from happening.” He and the two policemen with him seemed mildly bored but I am still here. But in truth, that is indeed one of the reason I am here; to help improve the health of the people by teaching this wonderful group of students the basic principles of health.
Things were going well for a while at the school. We, and when I say “we” I mean myself and a Malaysian teacher named Wai Fong whom I have known for years, were all registered and teaching away. Then the water stopped. That was a major occurrence as we had 47 students in three rooms sharing six commodes. It doesn’t take long for the porcelain throne and its environs to become uninhabitable under such circumstances. Seems the village chief has a quarrel with the owner of the guesthouse and was harassing “her.” Fortunate for her she doesn’t live there so we were the only ones being harassed. The second day it was becoming untenable so I violated a rule. Before class I explained to the students the power of prayer and God’s constant care for His children. I asked them if they would like to have a short season of prayer and they were all very much in the affirmative. We divided up in the cramped classroom in groups of two to four and prayed for God to intervene. As we finished, one of the staff leaned over to the sink in the classroom and turned on the faucet. Water gushed forth; and tears fell from many eyes. We saw it as an answer to prayer and a miracle. Water again.
China is cold, especially up in the Beijing area. Beijing has had four big snows this winter and three of them have come since I have been here. The third was wet and heavy and made everything even more cold than it normally is. That is when the village chief, again out of spite for the landlady, but off our power. We heat our rooms with electricity, light our rooms, power our computers and projector with electricity. One day went by, two days went by, the third day came. It was really getting cold and it began that way so it was getting downright frigid. And through it all the students maintained an amazingly cheerful and positive attitude. These are truly remarkable people.
Mark and Paul, the two main leaders of the school, purchased a generator the second day but we could see this wouldn’t be enough to get us through the remainder of the winter and whatever spring would throw our way. But on the third day the landlady told us she couldn’t deal with the situation and released us from our contract. As it turned out, on Sunday Mark and Paul had taken me to another site where they hoped to begin a second, larger school in the summer. So, on the nicest day of my visit thus far, with the sun shinning bright and warm, we packed up and moved the whole school to the other site. What a difference.
In the first school the students slept in bunk beds, 10 to 18 in a room. No closets, no chest of drawers, no privacy, and minimal heat. The new school was a dream. Three person rooms with private bath, a spacious classroom with desks and a raised platform, speakers for the PA system, heat; basically, all the comforts a teacher would expect and desire. The kitchen, whereas resembling a darkened cave, still turned out the most tasty meals. I like all food but if I had to choose a favorite kind of restaurant to frequent, it would have to be Chinese. And here I have it every meal, with no MSG, very low or no salt, no animal products, no oil. Our cook is a master of her craft. It seems as if the less some people have, the more that can do with their little. It is of necessity that make their lives bright because life doesn’t just hand happiness to you on a silver platter. The through the drought, the power outage, the move, the students never wavered. It is a privilege to teach such men and women. But then the next change came. More next time
God bless,
Don