Leaving Japan

Dateline: Narita International Airport, Tokyo, Japan; October 24, 2011—And then the trip was over. Two typhoons, summer’s heat and autumn’s chill; trains, planes and cars and a bit of shoe leather; hundreds of people and long days in preparation, all come down to this day. This day I depart Japan. It has been a good trip and God, in His infinite goodness, even has me flying business class from New York to Atlanta. And so far, from Tokyo to New York I have an empty seat beside me and nothing in front of me for about for or five feet. Yes, it will be a good trip.

My last weekend was spent in Harajuku, the avant-garde mecca of the Millennials, and they gather from all over the world to see and be seen. Friday evening I had a meeting in the International church and spoke on Revelation 14:7. What an important message for this time. “…for the hour of His judgment is come…” There is so much in that one little phrase. Some people call Fukushima a judgment, or Port au Prince, or Hurricane Irene, judgments. No, when God judges, it is absolute. These are but warnings on impending disasters on a magnitude we have never knows. Daniel 12:1 calls it “A time of trouble such as the world has never seen.”

Sabbath morning I spoke to the combined International and Japanese churches and in the afternoon to the International church, this time about the need to build walls of protection around ourselves, our children, our homes. Never has this message been so important.

Although it had been raining Friday evening, it was dry Saturday afternoon so I decided to walk with my hostess though the Meiji Shrine park. It is hard to believe you are in the middle of Tokyo when you are in this forest. Old trees reach over the trails that wind through this expansive tract, shading the runners and bikers and occasional wanderer. You would think it would be more crowded and but for the fact that it borders Yoyogi Park, it would be. But Harajuku teems with young people and they are drawn to the broad vistas of the park that they might see and be seen. There you can see anything and practically everything. A drummer ensemble beating away on retired food tins; a massage therapist practicing sekhem-seichim-reiki touchless massage; skateboarders doing their tricks, musicians playing their gigs to the disinterested passers-by, lovers-just-met grabbing what energy they can from the moment and for the moment. It is an interesting place but I much prefer the Meiji Shrine ambiance. It was a nice walk home.

Sunday I have a short lecture to a cooking school about the increased need for water and phytochemicals in the body. So many people have bought into the false notion that we much drink milk to protect out bones. But since Fukushima, and the resulting plume of radioactive isotopes fanning across the world, milk doesn’t look quite so tempting. Within weeks of the explosion, Oregon, California and Arizona were finding levels of Iodine 131, Cesium 134 and 137 in their milk 2000% above containment levels. Radioactive mild. That doesn’t sound too good for the bones or the thyroid to me. As never before it is time to reassess our diets and determine what is the best for today, for today is vastly different than any of our yesterdays.

It is interesting to sit here and watch the places come and go. A while ago a Korean Airlines jet was backed out and set off for the end of the runway. The four Japanese men who had pushed back the plane and stood as wing guards, stood facing the aircraft and attention. They then bowed to the flight crew but remained in place as the plane pulled away. They stood there waving to each and every passenger from front row to back. They did not cease waving until the plane was well beyond them. Now, that’s service. The little bit extra, the respect for those who travel that the workers might have a job. A parting farewell to an unknown people going to unknown places. A few moments of respectful farewell. Yes, it has been a good visit.

God bless you all until next trip.

Don Miller

Looking back at Okinawa

Dateline: Saitama Prefecture, Japan; October 20, 2011—It is the eve of my departure from Saitama Prefecture, anticipatory to my departure from Japan on Monday. The long trip, stretching back to July, is coming to an end. But there are a items which bear mentioning, and for them this post.

We need to go back to my running accident in August and take the damage all the way to Okinawa. The fall on the rail road tracks had been a bad one, but I have sprained my ankles before, besides breaking one in a motorcycle accident in ‘68. But the damage this time seemed to hang on too long. As we entered October there was still a lot of swelling and tenderness, something that has never happened before. Then one of my students decided to take a look. And this student is not your average student; he is an osteopath. He attended out Phase one class at Genki Plaza two years ago but was unable to return last year due to a medical conference he had to attend. So this year he traveled from Tokyo to Okinawa to complete Phase 2.

He told us that he was outing into practice the things he had learned in Phase 1 two years ago, and those things were the very basics. I taught the lifestyle principles, and by the way, there are fifteen and not eight for those stuck on NEWSTART. The results of his implementing the simplicity of healing? He was losing patients. Why? They were becoming well and no longer needing his services. Rather than mourn the loss of revenue, he is overjoyed at the success he is having. But I am sure his patient base will build up from patient referrals. But this has nothing to do with my ankle.

He first palpated my back and noticed at once some problems with vertebral alignment. Now, I had not asked him to check on my ankle but he followed his inclinations and ended up at my feet. And there it was, something I had not noticed before. My medial malleolus was on the same plane as my lateral malleolus when normally the medial should be nearly 35-degrees higher. In other words, my ankle bones gave indication that my fibula had somehow been jammed higher as a result of my running accident last August giving cause for the constant swelling and pain and onward tweaking of my vertebrae.

At this point, and something was lost in the non-translation, it seems he wanted to show me how he worked his way through medical school…as a pretzel maker. I have never been so twisted, turned, yanked and popped as he did me that evening. Now, I am not one to passively allow myself to be distorted, contorted or water boarded as all seem like forms for torture. But I tried to relax. It was a cross between pro wrestling and gymnastics. But when he was done, the swelling began going down. This guy has amazing hands. He worked on a number of the staff and students. He will be a powerhouse when he returns to work armed with more simple health principles and his already well-honed skills as an osteopath. Okinawa was a good experience.

One more post before I take my journey home.

God bless,

Don

Shinosaka--The train adventure

Dateline: Asama 555 Super-express bound for Takasaki, Japan; October 16, 2011—Where does time go? The appointment in Osaka consumed many hours and days in preparation for a two and a half hour lecture on cancer in an auditorium (pictured left). And now it is over and the bullet train hastens me toward home base in Kamikawa, Saitama Prefecture. It was an interesting weekend.

A few years ago I met a pharmacist near Maebashi who was cut from an entirely different bolt of cloth than his fellow pill vendors. This man, I will refer to him as O-san, is more the neo-alchemist, hands-on Edgar Cayce purveyor of health by whatever means available type of guy. He picked me up in a pouring rain Friday afternoon in Osaka and took me to his place of business. There we met a middle-aged man, accompanied with his wife and daughter, who had been anxiously awaiting our emerging from the downpour. We cleared an area around a small table and went to work on the reason for his being there in such inclement weather; he was struggling with Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. There, beneath sullen shelves of amber bottles, a shrine to whomever, and foothills of papers, we began mapping out a strategy. O-san leaves no stone unturned in his quest for health. He is a sincere and very intelligent man.

Already the man’s voice was affected by the ALS and his swallowing seem

ed just a bit of a struggle. But as we made suggestions, many of which required radical lifestyle changes, it seemed as if the disease was more preferable than the changes. “No beer?” he would query with a real sense of panic. “No fish?” he would whimper. The more we talked, the greater the sacrifice seemed, but we felt confident his wife and daughter would keep him on the straight and narrow. Knowing the path he has to tread brings real sorrow to my soul, for him and his family. But O-san is working with five different ALS patients and having some measure of success in slowing down the progression of the disease, which right now is the best we can hope for. People are recognizing that the allopathic model isn’t working and are looking for alternatives. It is a daunting task.

O-san, a gregarious man, knows many people and one of them owns a hotel near his business, so I was taken there for my time in Osaka. The owner, a retired ship’s captain, is conversant in English and made me welcome in his retro-hotel. As a good forme

r ship’s captain would, much of his help is Filipino, the rooms are spartan but adequate, and you can’t open the porthole, or window in this case. And the constant drumming of the incessant rain lulled me to a comfortable somnolence as the gently rocking of the many ships I have served on would so often do.

Most people have one main concern when hosting vegetarians; how do you feed these creatures? O-san had made numerous calls to NKK, asking about my eating habits as if I were some feral animal in need of special handling. He was told I liked beans and rice, potatoes, edamame, any fruits and that I ate a lot of food. So, in 8x4x3 inch plastic containers it came, stuffed tight, enough food to have kept me satisfied for a week. Four of the large containers, four smaller ones, besides a bag of fruit and two commercial entrees probably intended for a microwave, which I didn’t have. All this for the three meals I ate in my room while in Osaka. O-san knows how to take care of a person.

On Sabbath my host not only took me to church, but attended church with me. There is one SDA church in Osaka major, which is a sad commentary, and a good number of its members are foreign teachers at their English language school and domestic workers. There were Africans, Filipinos and members from the Americas. When last there I had met a teacher from Zimbabwe who ended up attending our courses at Uchee Pines.

“You know winda?” O-san asked after church in his valiant effort to converse in very labored English.

“Yes, I have one in my room but I can’t open it,” I answered back.

“Ooooh. Uh, no, mean winda, teacher here before.” He was referring to the teacher from Zimbabwe.

“Oh, Lindah, yes, yes, I saw her this summer in Virginia,” I said happily, realizing we were communicating rather well now.

“Ooooh, virgin,” he replied, trying to grasp this new twist in the conversation or perhaps understand a new vocabulary word..

Backpedaling, I tried to right the sudden misunderstanding; “No, no, I saw her in Virginia, the state of Virginia, in America.”

“Ah, Virginia, you live Virginia now,” he asked.

“No, I was lecturing in Virginia, the state, and Lindah, for former teacher here, came to a meeting.” The picture was becoming clearer to him. Sometimes you have to listen very hard.

Sunday morning broke blue and cool; the perfect day. I had decided to take the train back to Tanshu after the meeting so was all packed up and waiting O-san’s arrival. We went to the meeting place, a civic center in a lovely part of town on the nicest day of my stay thus far. My translator was there and we sat down and in one hour went over the lecture. I had sent O-san a list of vocabulary words the translator might need to become familiar with, as I was talking about Cancer in post-Fukushima Japan. O-san had misunderstood my communication and made my three-page list into a handout for the attendees, all in English replete with my italicized instructions to the translator. Well, at least the people had some extra paper on which to take notes.

The small meeting hall was very nice with room for 78 people. We ended up with over fifty which we considered quite a good showing. After all, people were charged 5,000 yen ($65) for the 2½ hour lecture. I was to lecture under a spotlight that almost completely blinded me to the audience on the left wing of the stage. O-san had a projector the size of an average college textbook which projected a clear and bright picture completely covering the stage-

sized screen. My translator sat in a chair behind a desk on the right wing of the stage with her notes, two electronic dictionaries and a microphone before her. It was the smoothest lecture I have given in a long time. Before I spoke I noticed I had two little white holes in my double-breasted blazer. But they would be hidden behind the podium so I gave them no thought.

After the meeting there were some individual questions, some personal thank-you’s, and some sincere farewells. A tall young man was wheeled up in a wheelchair. He was visiting Korea six or seven years before, had caught a cold and somehow, so they say, the virus had settled in his T-7 vertebra. He could feel pain in his legs, would have muscle cramps, had tactile sensation, but he couldn’t walk. These types of cases are always baffling to me, and apparently to the medical community too as he was prescribed a wheelchair and that was it. Never even given physical therapy. Something is going on in his T-7. So, we will have to hear the rest of the story next year but we made some treatment suggestions that, if followed, could bring very favorable results if there is any anatomical possibility of recovery. One more thing to pray about. But I teach always that “perfect health requires a perfect circulation” and if we can promote a healthful condition of his spine, great things can happen.

It had been a great day and I was looking forward to a relaxing train ride back to Tansho. It had been suggested that I could come home on Sunday if I chose, as the tickets were good for three days. O-san gave me a thrilling ride to Shinosaka (he likes to look at the person he is talking to which is not a great idea in Osaka traffic) and soon I was on the Superexpress to Tokyo. Between Tokyo and Osaka, the two largest metropolises in Japan, up to thirteen trains per hour with sixteen cars each (1,323 seats capacity) run in each direction with a minimum headway of three minutes between trains. And it is not cheap for the convenience of traveling at between 240–300 km/h (149–186 mph). But being Sunday there were a few changes in store for me. One, this Bullet train was on a milk run, stopping at every station between Osaka and Tokyo. On the way down we stopped but four or five times. And it was more crowded heading home, but seating was available and I was able to relax.

[Okay, I am now back in my Japanese home and this is the rest of the story.]

In Tokyo it was a bit more problematic finding the right train. The security policeman directed me to the right direction and if you have ever been in the main train terminal in Tokyo, you know how important that might be. And you are also thankful the

y can all say track numbers in English and point in right directions. The guards have always been so helpful. Entering the wing through a turnstile, I scanned the marquee for Takasaki but could not see it. A helpful attendant pointed me to stairs leading to tracks 12 and 13 so I thanked her and headed up the long flight, looking back once to see the attendant pointing further down the hall. Emerging to the track level, sure enough the marquee announced Takasaki. But at all three mentions of Takasaki it said, OFF LINE. My only companions on the platform were pink and green dressed train cleaners, all looking at me with wondering curiosity. There was a problem here.

Lugging my suitcase back down the long flight, the smiling attendant pointed me to the next flight of stairs leading to tracks 14 and 15. Emerging again, I saw no mention of Takasaki, but every train seemed destined for Nagano. I showed my ticket to a helpful mother and she pointed me to the yawning doors of the nearest train, a mere ten feet away. Could it be that easy? I mean, this trip had been like clockwork, not having to wait more than a few minutes ever. Sure enough, on the moving marquee in the first car I entered, Takasaki scrolled by. What a great feeling. One more hour to Takasaki on a bullet train, a four stop ride on a slow train to Tansho, a ten-minute walk and bed. I was feeling great.

The trip to Takasaki was relaxing, but not so much as to lull me to sleep. Once fell asleep on a bus on the way to work when I was stationed with the Marines in Atlanta. Woke up at the end of the line in a part of the city I was not familiar with, all passengers having quietly departed, and the driver luxuriating up front at my discomfiture. Not again. The thought of waking up in Ohno, Japan, in the middle of the night is not my idea of a nice adventure, especially with the cost of riding on trains here.

So right at 11 PM I was in Takasaki and went looking for the small spur line to Tansho. Surrendering my tickets to Takasaki to gate attendants, I asked “Tansho?” The two of them looked at each other, scanned a little book, and said, “No train.” But I had just arrived here a few days before on a train from Tansho, so one had to go back. So I asked again, “Tansho?” figuring they might not have understood. But they had understood. Then it came to me; weekend schedule. The last train for Tansho had departed at 22:27. The next train would be 05:28. As Oliver would say to Stan, “Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into.” But then I thought, A new adventure.

Adventure it was too. There is a hotel attached to the train station named Hotel Metropolitan Takasaki. There a moderate single room costs $143. Not even an option. Wandering about the station, I was considering my options. I could walk home, but remembereing the time I went for a short afternoon walk and took six hours to find my way home, that idea was nixed. Besides I was lugging a very large suitcase which had gone to Osaka filled with 40 bags of herbs plus my clothes. I thought of just wandering aimlessly for the six hours, but knew I would be completely wasted the next few days, so nixed that idea too.

Outside it was lovely. Cool, a good portion of moon tracking across the sky, and a mostly deserted promenade with little alcoves fitted with marble benches trimmed with shrubbery. I had found my Budget-bed motel. Now and then people would hustle by, bundled against the falling temperature, but I slept comfortably till 2 AM when the cold shook me awake with its icy hand. But I was so thankful two hours had passed. I am reminded of a favorite Bible verse; Psalm 130:6 “My soul waits for the Lord more than they that watch for the

morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning.” Anyone who has ever walked guard at some lonely bunker, or sat by the bed of a sick loved one in the darkest hours, or huddled in the darkness of a cold night, knows what David was talking about.

Rising up, it seemed prudent to reenter the train station. It was then I noticed every “room” along the promenade was filled; street people occupied every bench. I wondered whose bed I had occupied that night. Strange; I called it an adventure, they call it home. Back inside, where it was very bright, there were small bundled mounds of humanity sprawled everywhere. One woman, wrapped in a blanket and surrounded with her bags, kept sleep-filled sentinel at the door. Another man, a ways up the hall, was stretched out on a blue tarp. In one well-lit area off the main hall there were perhaps a dozen denizens of the deck, chaff of choice or circumstance, sleeping blissfully. Most had suitcases, not your American-style homeless one with a

shopping cart filled to overflowing with seedy possessions, but respectable and nobly reclin

ing in such a way as not to offend a passer-by. The Japanese are very respectful for the most part, not like the rabble occupying the Wall Street jumbles around the world right now.

I chose to stand guard at the doors opposite the woman at the other end of the station. Two sleeping guards. Wow! I remember when I was Officer of the Day in Okinawa back in ’74 and found two guards sleeping at an armory. But that is another story. No need to stay awake here as the station police were there all night.

My fellow campers.

Now, God, who knows the end from the beginning, knew all of this was going to transpire, so He had allowed me to make a little mistake. I had left a double-breasted blazer in Japan last year and brought another one with me this year in much better shape. Before leaving Friday morning I had packed the wrong blazer, the one with the two little holes, the one that should have been turned into rags. But now I had the perfect sleeping mat. I would not have used the good one for such a purpose, but here I was, needing at least two more hours of sleep, and the jacket made a perfect mat for me. And the jacket I had worn on the trip was one I had bought in a Salvation Army Thrift store in California just before departing for Japan so I’d have an adequate garment in which to climb Fuji-san. It looks brand new and is an insulated Columbia jacket. Nothing but the best.

By now I was one of them, the street people. I felt not one twinge of embarrassment, or shame, or humiliation. No, rather there was a freeing sense of, “This is okay; this is a blessing.” All the other occupants of the Down & Out Inn were family and I felt a great sense of…well, happiness and thankfulness. I slept comfortably till 04:30. Freshening up in the public restroom in another part of the station and then proceeding to the turnstiles, which were all still closed as no trains were running yet, my roommates were slowly stirring. One woman looked over at me walking by and said, in perfect English, “Good morning.” I smiled and returned the greeting. There was a sense of belonging, of something shared that was not sordid or demeaning, but rather a sense of shared satisfaction at making it through another night peacefully. It had been a good night.

I caught the 05:28 to Tansho for 320 yen and was soon climbing the stairs to my snug little garret on Kamikawa Street. It had been a good weekend.

More on Okinawa later. God bless, Don

Okinawa

Dateline: Okinawa, Japan; October 10, 2011—It seemed a mini-typhoon ushered us onto this island and a windy monsoon will see us off again, and between the drops we have held another school up in the western hills at Yaedake. Sitting in my room now, with the wind roughing up the foliage out in the jungle darkness, it is hard to believe the week that seemed so long is now over already. As always, it was a heavy load of teaching but very rewarding. Challenging me to work a bit harder was my purchase of a book titled Fighting Radiation & Chemical Pollutants with Foods, Herbs & Vitamins. The book is ever so much more germane since here at Yaedake there are mothers with young children who have fled the main island of Japan because of Fukashima. This book, which is out of print but sells at a premium price on Amazon.com, is amazing. Not only is it a primer in atomic radiation principles, but explains radioactive decay, compares the common nutrients these decay elements mimic, and offers rational methods to protect from radiation damage.

One of the most intriguing bits of information deals with tobacco. Since 47% of the adult population in Japan smokes, this is vital information. Lead-210, with a half-life of 22 years, is an insoluble radioactive particle in cigarette smoke. The lead-210 collects in the lungs and further decays into polonium-210. Back at the farm, tobacco growers use phosphate fertilizers which contain significant quantities of radium-226, two of its decay products being lead-210 and polonium-210. The plot thickens. The use of high porosity papers, perforated filters might cause the smoke to contain higher levels of lead-210 and filters seem to have no effect against polonium-210 inhalation. One estimate of the radiation threat from smoking 29 cigarettes per day as equal to a chest x-ray. So, for a pack-a-day smoker, that would me 300 chest x-rays per year. Next Sunday I have a large lecture in the city of Osaka and they want me to speak on cancer. This information will have them listening closely. One possible problem is the translator. I lectured in Osaka a few years ago and the translator was a professional translator who probably trained to be a business translator because we wrestled with every sentence. I am sure after the lecture she entertained serious thoughts about joining the Rwandan ballet.

It is always good to be back in Okinawa because, other than Mexico, it was the first time I had been outside the country. I was a newly minted 2^nd lieutenant rifle platoon commander back then, the premier job in the Marine Corps. But I serve a different Commander now and don’t stand to lose all that I lost back then. But I do love this island.

It must be mating season right now. The giant snails that slime their way through life can be seen in love’s embrace in the wet grass, motionless in their fecund efforts to provide a next generation. And all during the day there is a universal tinnitus caused by the mating call, birthing squall or free-for-all of ten thousand invisible insects. The sound rivals the cicada infestation of about 20 years ago in Cincinnati, my hometown. The one advantage of this constant staccato is it drowns out my own tinnitus. But being indoors most of the time the insects of my inner ear kept me entertained.

It is getting late and we leave at 0530 for Naha so I will continue from Kawikawa.

Blessings,

Don

Nippon Saniku Gakuin 01 Japan

Dateline: Nippon Saniku Gakuin, Chiba Prefecture, Japan: September 22, 2011—Although I have lived in America the majority of my life, and in Alabama far longer than I ever could have dreamed, I have only experienced one hurricane. That would be Opal in October 1995. During that one the Red Cross used me as a shelter manager in Georgia. Can’t even remember one while stationed in Key West from ’75-’77. But I have experienced many typhoons while flitting bout the Pacific. I remember our ship trying to outrun one between Luzon and Okinawa in 1974. Still think about the poor sailor who was washed off the fantail late one night and never found. That was Thanksgiving day. I was the Damage Control Officer for Camp Hansen, Okinawa, when a powerful typhoon blew through a few weeks later and was back on Okinawa exactly 30 years later when the news was saying, “This typhoon is the largest in 30 years.” Caught them both.

Why this discussion of typhoons? One just blew through here yesterday. It was very bad in some areas and the wind here was furious. The college where I have been teaching hangs tenuously to the side of a pine and bamboo shadowed mini-mountain and gazes learnedly over a patchwork of rice fields below. The wind would thunder against the buildings, pounding on the windows like an irate williwaw. I was in a special office for guest speakers and so was secure and working away. Then my translator came in and asked if my windows were closed down in my guest quarters.

I like windy days with their freshness and power. I like storms with their booming voices and pyrotechnics. But to forge out into a dark maelstrom weighing not much more than the flotsam flying past and carrying an umbrella the size of a large pizza, is not my idea of a fun way to spend an evening. The rain wasn’t coming down, it was coming across. The tortured umbrella bent valiantly to its task, literally. It was an interesting walk.

When I arrived at my quarters, two windows were found to be open. One had let in a lot of rain which fell mainly on the used linens of team members who had already departed. They were slated to be washed so nothing lost. The other window was right over the full length of my bed. Visions of a pre-potty training sleeping experience slogged through my head. God is good; there was not one drop of rain on my bed and very few on the windowsill. I was amazed but I don’t know why because my Father is always doing things like this for me. I grabbed a towel, put it in a bag and swam back up stream to the office. The towel was to wrap around my wet body which my work continued.

Before this typhoon it felt as if I were home, at least heat ad humidity-wise. It has been nearly insufferable since arrive in Japan with the heat. But this typhoon drove it all away and since then it has been very cool to the point that blankets feel great at night.

I was at Nippon Saniku Gakuin for nearly two weeks. The first week we held a Phase 2 school for the students who had taken the Phase 1 last year. Here we get more into common diseases, their prevention and treatment. It was a very good session. Then most of the team left and it was just me and my translator for the second week, or three days thereof. But they were long days. I was slated to teach five 90-minute classes each of three days to the 4^th year nursing students. The fifth class each evening was practicum, which was a relief. I had all females with but one male the first day. They were very interested, doing something I don’t always see here. They looked at the presentation with obvious interest and understanding. Problem is, I like to ask questions as part of the learning process. Looking into their bright and awake faces, I would ask a question like, “What would you do is a person was playing tennis on a hot day and suddenly stopped sweating and passed out?” Basic nursing 101-type question it would seem. They all smiled politely, checked their notes and smiled some more. One would whisper an attempt at an answer so quietly the other students would turn interestedly to try to hear what profound bit of wisdom one of their own had offered. A bit of whispering would ensue before the volume was high enough for my translator could catch it. It was suggested that by asking questions I was only frustrated myself and intimidating the shy students. But we had a good time of it.

The first night I took the one male student to my quarters to demonstrate the hydrotherapy technique I had taught them in the 4^th class. It was the hot foot bath and I decided to give was better than to receive so the young man received a good treatment. Now, he spoke no English and I speak no Japanese so we had quite a time of it. That was the last I saw of him until we were waiting for the bus the day we left. The college van drove us to the bus stop and when we disembarked, he was walking up the road to the same bus stop. Being a holiday, the first day of autumn is a holiday here, he was apparently taking off for Tokyo. But when he saw us, he decided there was something he needed back at the Seven Eleven store and turned on his heels and retreated. He did not reappear until our bus arrived but assiduously avoided eye contact with me or Sheila, the translator.

He was a very Japanese looking young man. Thick dark hair, very almond eyes, totally insouciant. As I was giving his that treatment, I thought back 70 plus years and wondered at how things had changed. I love the Japanese people but always wonder if this one or that lost a loved one, a relative, in the war. I think of my own uncle Gordon, lost flying out of Guadalcanal in ’43. I wonder at the little lanes and the young men who left their homes forever way back then. And then I write.

The Sons of War

They knelt upon tatami mats

And drank their Saki down;

Tomorrow they would leave their homes

To serve the flag and crown.

They left their mountain hamlet towns,

They left the rice-green plain;

Those precious sights, they knew somehow,

Would not be seen again.

Honshu gave her finest youth,

Kyushu offered more;

Hokkaido and Shikoku both

Consigned their sons to war.

Mother’s wept, as mothers do,

While watched inscrutable

The fathers, as their sons, their heirs,

Fed Ares’ crucible.

And swelling past the rising sun,

Beyond the beckoning deep,

The tide of war crashed on the shore

With thunderous marshaling beat.

The Pearl in the Pacific felt

The first of conflict’s waves;

And ushered souls, too soon, into

Two thousand watery graves.

Then from Pacific’s coasts across

To Atlas’ shores they rose;

The finest youth, the nation’s blood,

Marched bold into war’s throes.

Two worlds of youth, of boys-cum-men,

Met on broad fields of fire;

And fought to gain the victory

To which both would aspire.

Alas, but one who struggled there

Could gain the victor’s prize;

But win or lose, it cost the same;

The blood of countless lives.

Long after war was swept away,

And friends were made of foes,

Still lie the bones ‘neath sea and sod,

Still stand the cross’ed rows.

Moldova to Japan

Dateline: Kamikawa, Japan; September 11, 2011—Last time I posted I was in Bulgaria and that was a long time ago. I have a few comments in this post covering Eastern Europe and a few comments at the beginning on Japan. For a few of you, knowing I am in Japan, you might be thinking, “Did he do Fuji-san?” Well, that was my sincere intention. The official climbing season ends the end of August so I booked a ticket to leave the USA on 29 August. Arrive the 30^th, climb the 31^st, be back in Kawikawa the 1^st. Yes, that was the plan. The plan didn’t work out.

Running is something my body has to do. Back in California everything was going great, not an ache or a pain anywhere. One afternoon my run took me to some railroad tracks. They are defunct and running along each side are paths horses use, as well as bikers and other runners. It was over 100^o but the low humidity makes heat hardly noticeable. At one point the trail meandered off into the dry California weeds and thorns, and they can be meaner than a union boss at a Labor Day speech. So, I went onto the tracks, running the ties. It isn’t all that hard, just have to adjust the stride a bit. But somehow the track troll grabbed my right ankle and I went down hard against the rails. The left knee brace saved it from a decent shredding but couldn’t help my running pants. The left elbow received four little holes and the left shoulder made hard contact with the rail as did my ribs resulting in a minor costochondral separation. Oh yes, and the right ankle was badly sprained. Bummer.

It was a long, slow walk back to the home where I was staying and I immediately iced the ankle and the ribs. For a couple of days I was in exquisite pain but still I kept the possibility in the back of my mind that Fuji-san might still feel my tread. With the simple remedies the ankle was feeling better in a couple of days. The ribs were/are a different story. Seems they were just beginning to hurt the first few days. This all happened about August 23 and I still can’t sleep on my back for the pain in the ribs. But still Fuji-san loomed above the Kanto Plain, tantalizing, beckoning, teasing. Surely I could tough it out. But apparently God doesn’t want me climbing it at this time for at the very time I was arriving in Japan, so was Typhoon Talas. It was a bad typhoon, as if there might be a good one. Over 33 known dead and many more missing. So, the most climbing I have done here is climbing into and out of bed. This is good because jetlag takes its toll.

Tomorrow we leave for Nippon Sani-ku Gau-ken, the college where we will be conducting one of our schools and where I will be lecturing the nursing students. The college is located in the same prefecture as Tokyo but it is up in the hills and very beautiful. Hopefully it will be high enough to escape some of the humidity and heat that is cooking us down here in the flatlands. More on this as it happens. Now to catch up just a bit.

Dateline: Bacau, Romania; June 3, 2011—As is my wont, I am far behind in my travelogues and now, as I sit here on this gently swaying train threading its way from Bacau to Bucharest through promising fields and forested hills, I reflect on a wonderful journey. I have always loved well-laid fields, the quilt of the earth. The bright yellows of the canola blossoms, the verdant green of spritely corn, the various hues of brown. There is the new turned earth, bearing its ebony soul for reception of life-bearing seed. There is the sienna hay, much of which has been laid low by the sinewed, tan arms of the farmer and his scythe. And there are the dusty khaki lanes traversing field and forest. It evokes the happy memory of driving across the Allegany and Blue Ridge Mountains and through the Shenandoah Valley in the mid-fifties. Yes, very happy memories. And today I relive them a half-century later and thousands of miles distant. Oh yes, and punctuating the motley tapestry of spring’s offering are the blood red poppies, nodding gravely as we tremble past.

Bacau was the city but Podis was the place of my sojourn. Podis is a new lifestyle center 300 km north of Bucharest set back in the hills of the sub-Carpathian Mountains. Many of the workers there were former students of mine at Herghelia, the center near Tergu Mares. Now, I have been privileged to serve in many schools and centers around the world, but this one had a special luster. All the workers love Podis, feeling called and privileged for the opportunity to work there. It is not a school so there are no students “marching unwillingly to school.” No strong, domineering personalities, no malingerers, no complaining. It was family and I was made a beloved member. Even the patients, coming from every walk of life, embraced me. It reminded me of Psalm 68:6 “God sets the solitary in families.…” Indeed it was a family.

Each day I would teach the staff principles of health and practical applications. Then I would have meetings with the patients. A number of the patients decided to give up the evening meal and as a diversion, I was asked to deliver a lecture to them during that time. It seemed as if I had at least half of the patients, some still chewing their food they had wolfed down prior to coming to the class. Even with the anchor dragging need to use a translator, everyone seemed to enjoy the meetings.

The director of Podis pointed to the forest rising up behind the center and told me to pick a place; they would build me a house if I could come and live and work there. I have often thought that if I were to be stranded in a country, Moldova or Romania would be good places to be. In these countries, the people have learned of necessity to grow their own food, to gather their own fuel, to draw their own water; in other words, to live close to the bone and still thrive. When the US infrastructure goes south and Walmart SuperCenters close, you have a prescription for anarchy. And I believe this time is coming and not always with stealthy step.

Herghelia, Romania; April 29-May 25—It had been two years since I taught at Herghelia. The day I arrived, after and all-night bus trip from Chisinau, Moldova, I was being shown around the campus which was being readied for the Outpost Centers International Leadership Retreat May 16-22. Herghelia had bought a large circus tent which they were retrofitting as a conference center. It was quite impressive. Inside there was a ring of steel poles supporting the roof and some of those were posing an obstacle as they stood ramrod straight across the front of the speakers’ platform. They had devised a plan to angle certain of the poles inward to a large wooden beam about eight feet above the floor in the middle of the tent. For some reason they decided this wouldn’t work so were taking the metal poles down. I was helping and all was going happily along until they came to the last pole. A man was pounding on the pole to knock it loose and when that was accomplished, the beam was also loosed from its perch. I ducked and started to run out of the way but I was too late. And the ducking only gave the beam extra time to build up momentum. It caught me just behind the right ear and across the back of my head knocking me to the ground, skinning an elbow and knee, and sending me into two weeks of dizziness.

After teaching for two weeks, we enjoyed seeing friends from around the world as the OCI retreat unfolded. From meetings in a tent to meals in another, we enjoyed a week without rain and showers of blessings.

Sarata Noua, Moldova; April 14-28, 2011—It was good to be back in Moldova again. Biser drove me back to Bucharest and I caught a train to Chisinau, Moldova. I decided to splurge and take a first class berth. It cost just over $60 which wasn’t much over the next lower option, and for an all-night journey, it is well worth it. The compartment I was assigned had two beds although I as the only one occupying, and it was bordering on opulent. It was a most comfortable ride. As we rattled through the gray dawn, evidence was everywhere that it had been raining a very long time. The sodden fields gave no evidence of verdant spring. The ubiquitous geese complained from a sea of choices and farmers gazed from kitchen windows at the quagmire before them. I found out upon my arrival it had been raining for eight days straight, and that after a long and very cold winter.

Serghei Costas met me at the Chisinau train terminal and soon we were jolting along the pock-marked road to Sarata Noua. Moldova has some of the worse roads I have traveled, and that says a lot. And previously, almost the whole length of the drive there had been walnut trees lining the highway. They formed a natural corridor, especially in the summer. It was really quite impressing and took one’s mind off the constant pounding his body was taking on the winter-scarred road. But now, by some fiat from Chisinau, the trees are being cut down, leaving the landscape even more denuded, if that is possible. Moldova has lost most of its forests and now even the farmland is being overtaken by vineyards. Wine will come next, and then the baleful results of its intoxicating and poisoning influence.

My time in Sarata Noua was rich, as usual. We traveled up north to give a series of meetings at various churches. In one church I was answering a question about someone having an allergy and explaining about the number one food allergen in the world, which is milk from a cow. Turns out most of the members of the church were dairy farmers. Their employment made my explanation no less valid, but did require a bit of tact and humor. When it was all over we were all friends and I was invited back to live amongst them any time I wanted. They are really beautiful people.

There is a family at Sarata Noua with a special story. The father and husband was a very successful businessman, having a number of lucrative ventures allowing them to live very comfortably. He is just one of those types who can make things happen. So, he decides to immigrate to the USA and really strike it big. Things were going fine but before a year was up, he returned with his family to Moldova. The reason? He felt he was losing his children to the influences of America. I am afraid the exhibition of our freedoms is overshadowed by the fecundity of our excesses. So now he and his family live an extremely simple life and the children and thriving in a simple, natural environment.

And there is one more family at Sarata Noua that makes it imperative for me to return. Stas, Adriana and Yana, and soon another addition to this beautiful family. Both were my students a couple years ago and now work with the school there in Moldova. The whole campus was built from a failed youth camp being constructed by the Soviets. When the iron curtain fell, everything stopped. All of the buildings were decrepit by the time the school moved in. These people are miracle workers. There was one building, a rude, dark row of rooms filled with coal, dirt, rubble or assorted junk. A wrecking ball seemed the only solution for this eyesore. Well, now Stas and family live in the end two units which have been turned into the nicest little apartment I have seen. It is noting short of miraculous. Tiled walls, wooden floors, lovely walls. It is amazing what a bit of work, ingenuity and building materials can do. I look forward to returning this winter.

India follow-up

Dateline: Kiev, Ukraine; March 29, 2011—The last week in India went by amazingly fast necessitating a little finishing up of the first leg of my around-the-world journey. It was a sun-starved week, that last week in Mungpoo, compared to the sun-warmed week previous. Human nature being what it is, I was yearning in India for warmth when in three months time I will be remembering with fondness the coolness of the nights and chill of the mornings while living in the oven called Alabama.
During my second week at Mungpoo, I was awakened late one night by the most eerie and haunting sounds I have ever heard. Swirling through the fog of somnolence and calling from somewhere in these foothills of the Himalayas, came long and mournful moans expiring in broken, breathless sobs. Beginning far out in the darkness, it groaned nearer and nearer until finally passing below our school and melting back into the darkness. I heard this two nights in a row before one of the students mentioned it during breakfast.
“Did you hear the monk last night?” he asked.
“You mean that strange sound passing below us?” I replied.
“Yes, that is a Buddhist monk scaring off the evil spirits.”
Seems the “horn” he is blowing is made from a human femur. Probably the previous owner, if he were still alive, would have some serious thoughts about which were the most evil of the spirits; the unseeing and unknowing ones existing in the imaginations of the monks, or the monks themselves. The morning after the night of blowing the bone, the monk retraces his steps and collects rice, oil and turmeric for his labors. Quite a racket.
The Christian churches here have unique issues to deal with. One is of polygamy. A woman has been attending the small SDA church in Mungpoo who would like to be baptized. The problem is she is a fifth wife, her husband having four other current wives. Matter of fact, the husband wanted to be baptized too but polygamy is against the principles of the Christian church, therefore the dilemma. He quit attending but number five faithfully attends.
Another member of the church in Mungpoo is a former alcoholic. He so abused his first wife that she eventually died. So what does the man do? Finds and weds another. But the drinking continued. One evening he came staggering home to a supper his wife had spent hours preparing. He passed it by, having no appetite for aught but the bottle. His wife was so upset she poured kerosene, not on him, but on herself and struck a match. She survived but struggles with the disfiguring and restricting effects of the scars. Her husband was eventually baptized and is a faithful church member, but the consequences of his, and her, actions are permanent.
Students wanting to complete their forms, or as we call them, grade levels, have to take comprehensive tests, many of which are given on the Sabbath. One of the young men attending the church and studying, is preparing for the form tests, but he will not take them on the Sabbath. Not taken, many doors are closed. The following year the tests might be on different days and he will try until he can take them all. He is a bright young man. It is his sister who is the 5th wife. The mother invited me to eat with them on my last day in India. They live way down the previously mentioned steps.
An Indian yard resembles quite closely a southern USA rural yard. No grass, just well-packed and swept dirt. Not a blade of grass finds the light of day there. But flowers perfume the perimeter of the yard. It is azalea season here, as it is back home in Alabama, and they are everywhere. The people in this region take particular pride in having an attractive yard and home, no matter how modest that house might be.
The family I visited lives in a room about the size of my bedroom back home. Dirt floors, no screens, thatch roof, all facing a million-dollar view of the valley and opposing mountain. Cooking is done in a separated shed; meals are eaten on the bed. We sat and talked for a long time before it was time to eat. Sheets of newspaper were laid on the bed as a tablecloth. When the food arrived, it was only for Joseph, my translator, and me. It always feels strange to sit in a home and eat a big meal while the hostess and her family watch. But that is what they do.
My last morning, March 28, began early with a jeep ride to Siligari where Joseph and Sandra did some shopping before Joseph and I caught a motored tricycle cab to the airport in Bagdogra. From there I flew to Guwahati and then on to Delhi. It was a very nice flight and the price, for the whole four plus hour flight, was a modest $72.10.
Delhi is a beautiful airport, clean and completely modern, belying what lies just beyond its sparkling walls and polished floors. It is a tidy room in a dilapidated and decaying house. I had been told to find the Pre-paid taxi stand as that is the surest way not to get cheated. Where that stand is located, I have no idea after searching for a long time. I did happen upon a Post-paid taxi stand. Duh, all taxis are post-paid but I somehow thought this would be an honest alternative to the elusive Pre-paid cabs. I was quickly ensconced in a cab, told the driver where I wanted to go, and we were off to nowhere. He had no idea where either of us were going but he was making good time getting there. I had instructions written out giving the exact location of the hotel, which I had reserved through Hotels-com. He would scrutinize the directions, talk on the radio, and bury himself in the atherosclerotic traffic. We made a full circle around the airport, which is very large before he seemed to settle on a better direction to the missing hotel. I have been in holding patterns before while waiting to land, but this is the first holding pattern I have ever encountered waiting to go to bed.
At last I saw the hotel, a ramshackle derelict looking place on a typically dirty, crowded street. India defies description. Inside wasn’t all that bad. I was told I would need to leave by at least 2 AM to catch my 5:30 AM flight so it was a sort night. I asked the surly clerk to reserve a ride for me the following morning which he agreed to do. He did not make any arrangements I found out at 1:45 AM but a ride was able to be secured and I was wicked away to the airport. And now I am in Kiev.
More from Bulgaria coming,
Don
PS. After three and a half hours in the Kiev airport, I flew on to Bucharest, Romania and then my friend drove me to Banya. Bulgaria. It was a few days later I discovered I had left my camera on the plane from India to Kiev. That was #2 camera lost this trip. I need help.

Dateline: Mungpoo, Darjeeling District, West Bengal, India; March 14, 2011—You can mark it on your calendar; today I did it again. For those who follow my travelogues, you might surmise to what I refer. It might begin, “Once upon a walk…”

Last Sabbath, after dinner, the students wanted me to tell part of my testimony so we set out to a special place they frequented. It was a good walk from the school, out of the village area in which we study, down roads being carved into the mountainside and paved with large creek rocks from the river far below, past the newly planted vineyards and orchards which take the place of the denuded jungle growth, and partly down a ridge to a lovely spot under some large cedar trees the British planted 100 years ago. It was a great spot and a lovely day. They carried a guitar and sang some songs. They can really sing wonderfully. Then I spoke for about an hour before we headed back to the school.

One of the young men lived down the mountain and was employed during the week in building a new set of steps up the mountainside. And everything, from top to bottom, is transported on the backs and necks of humans; male and female humans. Women with baskets or sacks suspended from straps across their foreheads, will carry 100 pounds and more back and forth. Amazing people. One of the students here, Honock, grew up doing this type of work. He lived a ways from the nearest road and had to carry food on his back; like 50 kilo (110 pound) sacks or rice. And when he worked building roads or retaining walls, he would carry 100 kilos of concrete, 50 kilos on each shoulder. He is quite a guy.

Well, these stairs being built really looked attractive and so I thought I would explore them a bit closer. So Monday I set out on my little adventure. It is amazing how they construct these paths and stairs. Using mostly rounded stones, they do a rather creditable job of making a solid platform for each step. Once the rocks are in place, they cover the whole stair with concrete, making it look as if it were solid concrete. Trouble is there is a bit of dishonesty here in India. If 100 sacks of concrete are allocated for a job, 70 might be delivered. The rest? A little kickback for the people in power. And so the fewer sacks of concrete, the less binding material in the final product which causes the concrete to become brittle if not downright rotten, The leading edge of most of the finished stairs are already broken away.

All this I was observing as I descended the mountain thinking for a long time I would come to the road that snaked down to the main highway. The stairs and the connecting path wound through people’s yards, gardens, orchards. Here, as in much of the world, growing food is not a hobby; it is bare existence. It seems as if not too many Americans wandered this far from the main thoroughfares. I was scrutinized with a combination of incredulity, curiosity and caution. Finally the stairs petered out in the middle of nowhere and the paths whispered over the steep ridges in every direction. And as far as I could see, there were no major roads below and I was far nearer the river in the valley below than when I began by corriganistic journey. (See Wrong-way Corrigan.) It was then that light broke over me and I realized that in walking to the lovely Sabbath spot we had passed over to another ridge and now on Monday I was going down the far side of it, straying further and further from the familiar. So, once again I startled the folks tending the gardens, bearing the burdens, cooking the meals. What goes down much come up and it is amazing how much longer those steps became in just a short time. I was a tired puppy when finally home came into sight.

The next day was “take a walk to the tea factory” day. We had held school on Sunday to allow the school’s director, Sandra Horner, to arrive from Nepal, as she wanted to go with us. The tea factory can easily be seen from the school but banish from your mind any idea that it would be a short walk. You can see the moon too. The tea factory was on the side of the facing mountain. As the crow flies the factory was probably no more than two or three miles away. But none of us were crows, although before the day was over I mused a time or two about why some people might cling to the futile belief in reincarnation. So we skirted the mountains, walking perpendicular to our destination for about three hours.

I love walking in mountains and here you can never get lost. Not just because of the trails, but because the trails are lined with empty purple packets that held the national pastime; dipping. In the USA we have Skool and other types of leukoplakia-producing snuffs. Here they mix the powdered tobacco with betelnut, catechu, lime and various spices and flavorings. The packages ominously depict the black silhouette of a scorpion with the words “Tobacco Causes Cancer.” Seems not to stop too many people as the wrappers are everywhere. Little wonder oral and stomach cancer are so high in India.

Around 9:30 AM we all set out, carrying packs and glad for an opportunity to be out in nature. It was the best day of the week as far as weather. Sunny and warm. At one point on the walk we came to gorge through which ran a very lively and clear stream. I was told that stream was the source of all the water we and the area of Mungpoo use. From high up in the mountain, the water cascades down to the river below but somewhere up there a pipe enters the cold, soft water and into the community flows life. And the water is very soft, and very cold. Those two factors make showering a bit of a challenge although I am used to it by now. You learn quickly not to use too much soap as soft water does not cut soap very well. And when trying to rinse soap off your cyanic body with very cold mountain water, rapidity is a necessity not just a courtesy to those who might be waiting for their hypothermia treatment. At last the training I received on Naval vessels in the taking of Navy showers was paying off.

This gorge was the crossing point to the other mountain, the home of the tea plants. On our side of the mountain the main cash crop is the cinchona tree from whose bark quinine is extracted. Whereas it is not as much in use anymore for treating malaria, they continue to propagate trees, plant them and harvest their bark. The other side of the mountain is tea. Sort of reminds me of Deuteronomy when the children of Israel lined up on facing mountains, Mount Gerizim and Mount Ebal, the mount of blessing and the mount of curses. Medicine and poison. Interesting contrast.

We stopped along the way and had lunch, served from a pot we had been carrying the whole way. It was great to empty that pot for it became heavier by the mile. We ate beside a dirt road carved through the midst of tea shrubs. This mountain was an undulating sea of green, each shrub a perfectly rounded wavelet swelling up the side of the mountain and sinking in its furrows. We had passed through tiny hamlets on the way to the fields themselves. The homes grasp tenuously to the side of the steeps, the front door on the level of the path and the back door, if they have one, suspended 20 feet above the “yard.” These are hardy folk.

We went through two tea factories, one of which had been established in the 1800’s. Not being in the peak of the tea season, not much was going on. But it was getting late and we had a long way to go to arrive home. It must have been after 4 PM when we turned homeward, not the way we came, but straight down and straight up.

I like to consider myself as being in shape. Following the road down made the trip probably almost 10 times longer. The mountain is so steep that the roads consist of switchbacks, hairpins and pirouettes. I can't ever remember thinking I might not be able to complete the mission. I have humped the mountains of the Philippines carrying all my gear, a 2-niner-2 and a machine gun my men couldn't carry, and lead the whole way. I have run sub-three hour marathon and worked long days planting trees, but this was and ordeal. But the "troops", the students and staff, cheered me on and we all finished in fine shape. Nice day off.

Some have asked me, “Don’t you get tired of traveling?” You must understand the thoughts that filtered through my mind on the afternoon of October 1, 1984. I was driving through the gates of Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point for the last time. My fourteen-year military “career” was over. I was now a member of CivDiv (Civilian Division), a member of the great unwashed masses with no order, no esprit, no direction. My traveling days were over. It was the end of traveling that imposed itself upon my senses most powerfully. No more travel, no more new sights, no more new challenges, no more respite from the boredom of the status quo. I would no longer be free to Go.

Little did I realize God had a bigger plan in mind for me. The plan required cutting short my retirement plans by six years, meaning no big paycheck after 20 years of service. It meant losing just about everything I owned, that which I had sunk all of my savings into. I meant being separated for long periods of time from the one dearest to me. It meant enduring the monotony of the status quo uncomplainingly and faithfully for a few more years at wages that would have made the poverty level look attractive. But through it all God was with me, leading, pleading, supplying all my needs. Then He said “Go.” That’s what I do now.

But again the question comes, “Do I ever become weary.” Oh yes. Few realize the rigors of this work. The almost constant isolation, cut off from the gentle flow of humanity by language, custom, duty. The constant requirement to give, to teach, to counsel, to prepare, to study. I will spend hours preparing for each hour taught and I will teach 3-6 hours a day. Then missing the familiars; the family, the few friends I have back a world away. No phone, no internet, no cheering words. But then I think of those who have dedicated themselves to years in this environment and am ashamed of my selfishness.

But I do miss seeing all the spring flowers in bloom that I have planted around my little home in Alabama. To feel the warmth of a fire on the hearth, the pleasure of a hot shower, a bowl of granola with blueberries and almond milk. But then the advantages of this work overwhelm all other considerations, and the benefits have been monumental this trip. Meeting new friends and changing lives. And the young men at Mungpoo were the tops.

More to come.

God bless,

Don

Mungpoo somemore

Dateline: Mungpoo, Darjeeling District, West Bengal, India; March 13, 2011—A week has come and gone. Internet is not a thing readily available on this mountain so you won’t be hearing from me on a regular basis while I am here. Twice I have been able to check emails via a staff member’s computer with cell phone connection, but I suspect this and other travelogues from the current leg of my journey will be sent from New Delhi the night before I fly to my next appointment; Bulgaria.

I arrived in Mungpoo 24½ hours after departing Kathmandu. Someone was surprised we made the trip in such good time. Assuredly, it was not a good time in quality even if it were good time in quantity. For the last 2½ hours on the first bus (we took four different vehicles on the trip), we limped along with a broken fan belt. Water kept boiling over so we would stop, someone would find some fetid pool, scoop up a bottleful, and replenish the radiator. But we were “home” now. Having not eaten a meal since lunch the day before, the school had some rice and vegetables set aside for us. This meal was my introduction to Everest-sized proportions. The students ate a lot of food in the Philippines when I was there last fall, but here it is as if the physical needs of a reincarnated Norgay Tensing lives on in all of the youth of Nepal, and all of the students here in the school, as well as the surrounding region, are Nepalese. For some reason England gave West Bengal, formerly a part of Nepal, to India after WWII. And can these young men eat! Being taller than the average Nepali, the students must have mistaken me for a bottomless pit like themselves. For the first few days I struggled to empty a plate so loaded with food it could have served as a serving platter for an African family. Why go to all the effort? Conditioning. First, we were always being reminded of the poor starving people in China while we were young as a means of getting us to eat everything on our plates. And we are not far from China, Mongolia, Bangladesh and Tibet here, so, I forced down herculean proportions of rice, vegetables and legumes. Second, when I was in Marine bootcamp, we would be marched to the chowhall and entered its confines with the drill instructor’s charge ringing I our ears: “Get in, get it and get out!” “Sir, yes sir.” That all changed a few days ago when I started shoveling abot half my (the plates are served already loaded) onto a clean plate and eating just what was needed.

Eating presents an interesting challenge here. Of course we have rice about every meal, and we eat two meals a day. It is good, whole rice with one problem; stones and sand. One of the daily tasks devolving upon the students is to sit at a table with a mound of rice and go through it one grain at a time, separating all the foreign matter, and there is a lot of foreign matter in this rice. But still, after all that meticulous labor, it never fails that while we’re eating our meals, an ominous crunch, crack or groan will signal the familiar news that someone has found one more piece of terra firma. This has been my experience a number of times and I just hope my teeth can survive this leg of the journey.

Typically, the seasoning of the food in India, as well as Nepal, registers somewhere between blistering and cauterizing. This school has chosen wisely not to promote the flaming seasonings which all the students grew up with. The students are now used to the more bland, but very tasty, meals. India, South Korea and Mexico lead the world in esophageal and stomach cancer according to some reports. The report authors, as well as this writer, believe it is as a result of aromatic oils which cause the burning. All hot spices contain such substances as capsaicin, myristicin and eugenol. These aromatic oils irritate the alimentary canal from beginning (mouth) to end (anus). A study conducted by Yale University and a college in Mexico found that tobacco increased the risk of lung cancer by 1000% while hot peppers increased the risk of esophageal cancer by 1700%. So, I’ll probably keep my stomach here, but the teeth are in more jeopardy.

There are nine students in the school in Mungpoo. One of them, Jisoya, came to my room the other night wondering if I would be willing to share some of my Keynote (PowerPoint/PDF) files. Of course I was so he produced a flash drive and I plugged it in. He told me there were some pictures on it I might be interested in. In the village in which he lives, the Hindu’s rose up against the Christians, all of the Christians. They swept through the village, which was quite large, burning the homes, cars, motorcycles and possessions of the Christians. They also burnt their churches. The coup de grace of this Indian form of the Night of Chrystal was the killing of the Christian pastors. This is not an uncommon event today in India. Religions intolerance is rearing its deadly head with new boldness. It seems as if many of the major religions of the world have built their power and congregations, not so much by appeal of logic and purity of doctrine, but by force of arms and appeals to the flesh. Thus you have pilgrimages, indulgences, “honor killings,” candles, saffron and works. Jisoya has lost everything.

What are Jisoya’s plans? Go back to his area and open a school like the one he is now attending and also open a lifestyle center where he can minister to the physical needs of the villagers, Hindu’s included. This is the caliber of the men I am working with.

God’s blessing,

Don