PEACE PILGRIMAGE - HIROSHIMA, NAGASAKI

19. PEACE PILGRIMAGE TO HIROSHIMA AND NAGASAKI (1992)



Millions of Paper Cranes from all over Japan

 I’d read plenty of accounts of the horrors of the atomic immolation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I had squirmed to accept that “we”, the victors, had inflicted such unspeakable destruction on a civilian population. I had also read and argued the justification of such an awesome weapon, pitting the possibility of one million allied lives in a Normandy- style landings with ensuing battles against an enemy which had shown the kind of savagery in Iwo Jima. But it wasn’t till I had read Paul Glynn’s simple book, THE SONG FOR NAGASAKI that I became convinced that it is never justifiable to use atomic weapons. Pope John Paul 2 proclaimed this with passion. I also became more personally involved as Marists had done much in the continuing challenge of  reconciliation.

In fact, it motivated me to make a mini pilgrimage to Cowra, a few hours south west of Sydney along with my two brothers, David and Denis. I got caught up in Fr. Tony Glynn’s crusade of reconciliation as part of his long mission at Nara in Japan. Many former diggers had handed over their WW2 prize trophies, the ceremonial officers’ swords as a sign of peace and reconciliation.

That was no easy gesture as the memory of the ghastly atrocities many prisoners had suffered in the Pacific War. Here just outside Cowra town among this softly rolling landscape the Japanese Gardens are a sheer delight. Visiting in the spring or autumn is a real treat with the blossoms in riot. The attendant buildings are all in traditional Japanese style, where light plays through the papered walls, feet shuffle over gleaming wooden floors and all is exquisitely simple. Winding tracks take you through a range of delightful aspects and the lake gleams with coloured carp. In a simple garden I found the smiling, bespectacled face of Fr. Tony in terra cotta portrait.

Why Cowra? Well, we three Murphy boys drove on to the site of a mass breakout of Japanese prisoners in World War 2. It was bold, swift and ultimately suicidal. Some Australian guards were killed as the prisoners  breached the fences and scattered through the countryside. Where to go? There was some plan of jumping on a train but the plan was not thought  through. But according to the Bushido code that impelled so many, it was preferable to die in the attempt than return home to undying shame as some kind of non-person. In the following days squads of soldiers searched through the surrounding areas. Eventually, only a small number gave themselves up while the rest had used various means of ‘hari-kiri’ in an “honourable death”.

While studying at the Jesuit University of Ateneo, in the East Asian Pastoral Institute in 1969, I had become a close friend of  Naoko Ishida or Sister Elizabeth, SSND. He was a survivor of the Tokyo Fire Bombing in 1945. It became a rare and precious friendship. Over the years we had kept good contact through letters, tapes, cards and a rare call.

So, when I accepted the invitation to a course in Rome in 1993, with an obligatory stay in Paris, my mind went into over-drive in planning the route. That’s when inspiration kicked in. Why not fly north to Japan and then across to the US and onto UK and Paris? Brilliant! Why not, as well, make a peace pilgrimage to Hiroshima and Nagasaki with my friend, Sr. Elizabeth?



Friends since 1969

 And so it was that I landed in the evening at Osaka, followed Naoko’s instructions and took the train to Nagoya. On the way, I phoned from the train to confirm my arrival and there she was to greet me on the station. Like myself you could see the burnishment of wisdom and age and grace; but I had forgotten just how small she was! It was a “blessed” reunion. Soon enough we arrived in the Catholic compound. A strange set up. Within a large, fenced, walled square there was a large church, and even larger kindergarten school, an impressive priests’ residence (all smiling Indonesian MSCs) and a range of smaller cottages around the periphery. A sisters’ community lived there as well as a Marist novitiate! Fr. John Walsh had one Japanese novice. I was their guest.

I was there some five days and did get a real taste of Japanese culture, including an unforgettable bath in a local “club” that Fr. John insisted on. I was so impressed with this throbbing city, replete with a magnificent castle and temple.

The highlight, of course, was the Peace Pilgrimage. Hiroshima was a brief train trip away. (With the super efficient rail system- which made me realise how far we were trailing behind) The resurrected city was a revelation. Maybe, I hoped for a quiet day where I could stroll meditatively about and roam around to take in something of the enormous tragedy when a clear, blue day was suddenly engulfed in unimaginable horror. There is no such day. Every day there are hordes of school children from all over this country of 100 million, who stream to this hallowed spot in a plea for peace. Each of them comes laden with a “weapon” of peace, a paper crane. Together they string them and they hang in garlands in every available place. Each of them is a prayer to ward off any such demonic destruction in a hazardous future.

Together we strolled around, taking in the various monuments. A large mound like some gigantic boil hides a horror at the heart. Here there are numberless remnants of people, fathers, mothers, children all bulldozed into one huge unmarked grave.

The large, imposing modern building at the centre is a museum. I had an unnerving experience there. The centre piece is a large model of the old city and the impact of the bomb. Hundreds examined it and you could feel the mounting emotion as they took it in. It suddenly hit me that I was the only Caucasian person there. Were they accusing eyes pointing my way?  Maybe, they thought, I could have been the son of the pilot of Enola Gay, who, apparently, never felt any remorse. I tumbled downstairs and into the sunlight.

I captured our visit in photos. There we are standing by the monument to commemorate Pope John Paul II’s visit on his quest for peace. And in every photo there are these countless garlands of cranes. For a place of immense death and grief the children are like a  springtime of life and flowers.



Masses of School Children Visit.

 Nagasaki was very different. In fact, this is where Fr. Paul’s story is played out. The hero is a catholic doctor, Takashi Nagai. By some quirk….miracle his hospital, quite close to ground zero had survived the blast, being shielded by a hill. It was in the terrible aftermath that so many victims, walked, crawled, dragged themselves, or were carried through the seared landscape to this hospital. For days, the doctors and nurses worked around the clock, giving what little succour with their pitiful resources. It was only after some ten days that our doctor Nagai was able to take time and search through the ashes for his home, where his wife and family had been. In this vaporised setting there was no sign of his people. Eventually, scratching among the ashes he glimpsed some metal. There was a congealed lump of metal and plastic. He was holding his wife’s rosary in his hand.

His wife had been a rare survivor of that Catholic remnant that had survived the most  bitter persecution ever visited on Christians. With a ruthlessness and terrible efficiency over many years the Shogun Tokugawa had hunted down, rooted out, tortured and killed every Christian. It was in reading that remarkable novel, THE SILENCE by Japan’s  most famous novel and a catholic, Endo that I experienced a horror of torture that eventually broke the Jesuit superior who headed the catholic mission. A pitiful few were able to survive to some rocky islands well off the coast. For 300 years they had struggled through so much misery. With no priest, bible and dwindling resources they eventually made contact with the early Franciscan missionaries, who arrived as part of an opening to the west, after the American fleet, under Admiral Perry opened the country to western influence….and trade.




Dr. Nagai's Home

  So, in some way Nagasaki was the Catholic centre in Japan,  that boasted only 1-2% Christian after countless missionaries had laboured there. There is a magnificent monument to the twenty six martyrs crucified on the hill. Behind it there is startling church by Gaudi, the Spanish architect. It writhes and shouts. The two towers, instead of lifting magnificently to the sky in glory to God, are two twisted arms, raised to the skies and begging for mercy. An old Franciscan wooden church, restored, has some rich connection. Here, working for some years before returning to his homeland to be engulfed in another holocaust, was Saint  Maximilian  Kolbi.

For me, the most precious sacred place is the old “shack” that doctor Nagai where he lived and worked for many years in his research into atomic radiation. Eventually, this mysterious disease claimed him as well. Surely a saint but maybe not with the backing for the full pontifical process!!

We attended a Mass in the rebuilt cathedral where the piety of the people so impressed me. The façade of the cathedral still features some of the statues that survived, minus a nose or arm, with the mutilation giving a message as well. Outside, strewn around are large chunks of the original cathedral. Only a short walk away in a Peace Park is a towering sculpture. A massive hero, of   powerful physique, is sitting on one leg , one arm pointing to the sky and the other to the east. Again, it’s a plea for peace and justice.

The two days had provided many moving experiences for me. I felt I had somehow touched the spirit of doctor who inspired so much hope for our uncertain future. Since his time, near fifty years we have lived through some perilous times when fingers seemed poised over nuclear triggers. Our prayer would be that the Spirit of Peace work in the hearts of leaders and so prevent another cataclysm.

The fruit of friendship that Naoko and I had shared and celebrated had been one of the most unexpected and marvellous gifts. As we were passing a beautiful sculpture of a young Japanese geisha, in exotic attire, with a swishing fan outstretched, I grabbed the opportunity of a last photo.

The title of this masterpiece was MADAM BUTTERLY !! Was Pinkerton again moving on?



A Plea for Peace





Left- Monument to Martyrs. Right - Gaudi's Church



A Plea for Peace

NEW YORK FILM FESTIVAL 1984

26. NEW YORK FILM FESTIVAL (1984)

“Here, feel my head” said Victor, the star of the PNG movie showing at the New York Foreign Film Festival in Feb 1984.

Gingerly I pushed into his Afro hair and there was a sizable lump on his cranium.

“That’s where Peter Leonard hit me with a four by two”

That wild American monk certainly left his mark.

It was a strange encounter. Here I was in the Big Apple from August 1983 to September1984 while attending Fordham University in the Bronx. It was quite a magical year for me. This encounter with a Bougainvillean was just one of many unexpected and fascinating experiences I had.

Coming from a renewal course in Switzerland I lobbed into a community of young Brothers in the ‘Gold House’

Murdock Street

in the “upper” Bronx. Now, that had not been my intention at all. In planning this Master’s course, I had hoped to live with a large community of Brothers at “the Mount”- Mt. Saint Michael’s Academy with its 1400 mixed race high school students. In such a large institution I was guaranteed a dream run as far as services provided. No cooking, no house keeping, and other fringe benefits with a range of some twenty Brothers whose company I would surely enjoy. That plan was derailed when the Provincial approached me and requested that I beef up the small community across the road.  Without my addition the community there would collapse. When a Br. Tom Lee left, it meant that two unprofessed Brothers- Tom and Mike were left stranded. Canon Law demanded a professed Brother accompany them. If not, they would have to decamp across the road.

 I was hesitant. But in a burst of manic good, will I acquiesced. God was most gracious in response, because in a matter of a month I realised the decision plunged me happily into the culture in so many lively ways. Certainly, in the institutional setting I would be cast into a formalised monastery eco-system. Besides, I do believe I have the rare distinction of being the only Australian Brother to appear on the US appointment list…..and as SUPERIOR.



Kieta harbour. Marist school at Rigu (foreground)



It wasn’t long before I realised this was the best mistake I had made in a long time. Mike and Tom were great company, both teaching at the “Mount”, full of enthusiasm and so very entertaining. This was a most pleasant immersion in the US culture. We had others joining our community for several months like Br. George Fontana  and for four months, I enjoyed the company of Justin, an Aussie of great charm and wisdom. (In fact WE WERE THERE to see Alan Bond’s billion dollar yacht, Australia II, wrench that fabled American Cup and cart back in triumph to Australia.) The ‘young guys’ would invite their friends and through them I met quite a few of the teachers. We took turns to cook and shop and that certainly extended my skills. Hard to believe that I found I always cooked better if I had a scotch while perched over the stove. Most days I would be caught up in study for most of the day, and in the evening I would head for Fordham University where the Jesuits carried on their great tradition of education. The whole experience was so enriching and exciting.



Br. Danile and his ambulance

 Another rare stroke of luck was the appointment of the new Solomon Ambassador to United Nations. Francis Saemala, an ex-student of Tenaru in Solomons, who had risen and risen after some wild years after graduating.  Now, with his wife and two children he luxuriated in a penthouse in Manhatten, several solar systems away from his village in Malaita! We became good mates and enjoyed various outings together. One such treat was an invite to the NY Foreign Film Festival. The fact that a PNG movie had made it to this exalted stage demanded our attendance.

The movie was well received. It chose a familiar enough theme: the impact of rapid transformation of culture, where one’s world is suddenly upended and you find yourself drowning in this revolution and anomie with all its destructive power which embroils you in a whirlpool of self destructiveness. Much of it was very familiar to me as it was filmed in Bougainville and Port Moresby. At that stage, the island of Bougainville and its people were in state of upheaval with the arrival of western power and culture with the development of a huge copper mine at Panguna. (Much later this would unleash a war of such viciousness and human cost that the country even now struggles to cope)

The “hero” in the movie, Victor was but one of a generation of smart boys who were selected for university, far away from home in Port Moresby,and where they would be exposed to so many challenges and crises. It was a brutal uprooting and a monumental culture shock.

But, it was the high school part of his story that fascinated me. It was set at our school, St. Joseph’s at Rigu in Bougainville. Among the extras there were several of my mates- like Br. Peter Page, as Principal and Br. Danny McEwan as the infirmarian/nurse who had set up his own ambulance service!!

One notable absentee was the “soldier of fortune” Marist Brother from the States- a very redoubtable Brother Peter Leonard. He had lobbed into Kieta direct from a warzone, South Vietnam. Here he had been engaged in the tactic of “strategic villages”. Walled around and with high powered security they were supposed to keep the Viet Cong at bay when they rampaged during the night. Peter had some leadership here. But in a deal between the Australian and American province there was a swap and we scored this tough missionary who could have stepped out of Fort Bragg. I recall a fascinating conversation with him in Sydney when a bunch of us Brothers showed some disapproval of the U.S. tactics where patrols seem to roam through the jungle, radios blaring and the odd grunt smoking pot! He listened intently and then drawled.

“Yeah you Aussies are pretty good and return to base in good order, but we deliberately draw fire and then pound them with artillery or gunships.”

I sadly reflect on that monument in Washington where 50,000 young men are commemorated in that futile war.




Miilitant at Panguna mine.

  Back to the movie: there were class scenes and sport scenes, and there were work scenes.  Here, in the gardens the boys grew much of their own food- kau kau, pana and cassava. In a third world country this was so necessary to help keep the school afloat and the boys well fed. In one such scene, Alfred was less than industrious or willing. While the others slashed and dug, he was “swinging the lead.” Unhappily for him, “Brother” caught the culprit red handed. But, there was a twist: the American Brother in the movie, was a rather gentle Louis Dubois. Well, Louie administered punishment well enough, a slap with the shover on Albert’s backside. Ah, but the truth had been doctored with a kinder spin put on this explosive reaction of our Brother who had spent time in Vietnam and was noted for his toughness..

Alfred was able to put this right that evening in New York.

When I accosted him, after introducing myself with “Alfred I said:

“ I’ll bet that was Br. Peter and not Louis who made his mark on you.”

With a certain passion, and maybe some pride, he was able to highlight the real scar he still carried buried under all that afro hair.

BOUGAINVILLE CAMEOS

66. BOUGAINVILLE BLUES



Rabaul Harbour



The Sydney Sun evening “rag”, masquerading as a newspaper, on that evening in August 1969 was prophetic. In the most amazing photos splashed across the front pages, it shrieked of civil war in the copper- rich island of Bougainville. There were extra-terrestrial “thugs”, police with gas masks, and riot gear belting into bare-breasted local women who were spluttering and blinded by the tear gas. I stared disbelievingly. Was this the peaceful Bougainville where our Brothers had worked since the early forties-with a brief break while the Japanese military rampaged through the islands?

 The Australian government surely had not anticipated such a fury in its mandated territory. But these women were not going to tamely hand over their land (It’s a matrilineal society) for a big hole in the ground; even if millions, billions of dollars of precious copper would gush. How could they have any conception of the soft-talking Bougainville Copper men’s proposal? How could white people gain any concept of what LAND meant to these people? Of course, later on, they realised this crisis  could have been “better handled”. In yet other photos there were pathetic images of old men in near rags with bundles of dollars piled on their hands……A sort of modern snake oil salesmen again on the plunder trail.

By the time I arrived a few weeks later, it seemed that peace had descended. Little did I know, and still less did the government realise that this “ulcer” would fester and break out into outright war with huge casualties to the people of this beautiful island. That would be near twenty years down the track.



Laurie Chan with German missionary

 Air travel was slightly haphazard in the sixties in PNG. Well, it wasn’t an everyday schedule. In a trusty Fokker I had flown from Lae to Rabaul. I gaped at the view down below. A magnificent harbour ringed by ranges and mountains, and with two grumbling volcanoes as guardians of the town certainly impressed. As I had a few days stopover to connect with a flight to Kieta in Bougainville I enjoyed the hospitality of the Chan family. The patriarch, Laurie was a legend. He had returned “home” from St. Joseph’s College in the thirties, and with the traditional Chinese gifts of tenacity, clever organisation and sweat he had set up some small stores at different spots around the islands. In a small ship he would do the rounds in supplying and marketing.  It was  on one such trip that Laurie was the last one to see our three Marist Brothers: John William, Donatus and Augustine on the Japanese destroyer near Chabai in north Bougainville in August 1942. Like so many other missionaries they were murdered, shot at the stern of the vessel and left in the wake of a speeding warship.

.My experience gave me a huge admiration for the pioneering prowess of these Chinese traders with skills developed over centuries. Without them, the islands would surely have suffered without that commercial drive. Sadly, they were often the first victims of attack and rampage in any political upheaval.

It was an education for me as a guest of the family. Laurie’s business had thrived since the war. Along with many other Chinese they had set up large stores, general stores which bulged with merchandise. They might have been wealthy but lived so simply. Upstairs was a virtual warehouse. Around two or three sides there were living areas- bed rooms, bath facilities and a living room. Downstairs, attached to a thrumming store was the kitchen with dining room.  Some twelve or more Chans, ranging over three generations, from new babies to Laurie and his wife gathered around the table for meals.  Michael, the eldest son, had followed his dad through Joeys and was proud father of the first grandchild. It was a happening place, with delicious food.

Laurie had shown me the sights. Just around the harbour was a thriving Catholic Mission with the impressive name of VUNAPOPE. In English it meant THE POPE’S TOWN. And yes, by PNG standards it was surely a town. It boasted schools, hospital, farm with chooks, cattle, pigs etc, work shops which could produce most items needed, a ship building yard and slip, and of course, nunnery, missionary residences. And yes, an impressive cathedral with an equally impressive German Bishop! The Missionaries of the Sacred Heart had indeed built for the future.

Independence was still six years away but the “natives” were now permitted to drink alcohol, a new won “freedom”. Their ‘commitment’ surprised me. At a simple bar at Kokopo we stopped for a bottle of South Pacific, the local beer. I noted the locals were buying by the carton and then camping close by with a few mates or ‘wantoks’. When that carton was finished they would buy another.



Celebrating at the Openning of New Teachers' College

 I was blessed in my timing. An event of national importance was about to be launched. The Christian Brothers were to open a Teachers’ College at Vunakanau, some thirty minutes out of Rabaul, up on the heights. The Brothers had been a driving force in education with much emphasis on teacher training. In this project all the finance came from the West German government. Their ambassador was there, to take the credit, but it was some Duke from the UK who “cut the ribbon”. It was a day of marvellous colour and celebration with so many singing and dancing groups to display their culture. However, there was a shadow cast. The Mataungan Association, a kind of local union movement, had black balled the event. There were some awkward gaps in proceedings and much embarrassment It also accounted for the heavy presence of Australian plain clothed police. Maybe, the more intuitive would see this as an omen of problems to come.

Laurie farewelled me as I climbed up into an old DC3 for the run to B’ville. It wasn’t long before this lush island with its mountain range and 6,000 feet high volcanoes came into view. As we rolled to a stop on Wakunai air strip I got quite a shock. It was my first sight of a nun without wearing all that suffocating clobber but wearing a modified veil. And horror! I could see jet black hair and yes there were a few curves. The revolution of Vatican Two Council had hit in these distant islands. It would be another near decade before the bulk of Aussie nuns joined this missionary in something other than a medieval outfit.

A warm greeting from Br. Montfort Hickey at airstrip and a rough twenty minute drive to the pride of Marist Education in the island, at Rigu, just around the bay from Kieta. As the “capital” it boasted a few Chinese stores, a few administration buildings and a very, very basic hospital. The Brothers, with some lay volunteers ran a superb boarding school of near three hundred boys from all around the island. Over the next week or so I would learn much more. I even got to take a few lessons in the lower secondary. I kept it light and involving and I do think we both enjoyed it!!!



Sports Field at Rigu College

 An extraordinary highlight was the choir performance on the second night. Blessed with much musical talent and able to capitalise on the innate musical ability of the boys, Julian Quinlan could create magic and dazzle. No wonder he walked away with so many prizes. In a very warm night, with the Brothers and staff in easy chairs on the veranda, Jules and his boys turned on a stunning performance. With my brand new Philips cassette recorder I was able to capture for a decade and more to come. Nine part harmony, which I had not heard before, seemed to be a simple ask for this bunch of “Sistine Chapel” choristers. Making the night even more spectacular was the sight of these very dark boys, with dazzling teeth and wide eyes as they weaved their spell. Among them was a young star from Buka Island who would feature more memorably as a Marist Brother. His name was JULIAN HAKUMIN. (Sadly, he died this year of 2010).

Two incidents or events still bring smiles and astonishment to my mind all these years later. First there was an uneven soccer match. I’m not sure whether my reputation as a soccer star of Harry Kewell stardom had preceded me, but I do wish it hadn’t. In any event it was pure fantasy and that was to be revealed in a most humiliating way when the boys challenged the staff to a soccer match. Luckily, we couldn’t field a full team of eleven and so the German cook, a lady of some spunk joined us, with a few boys who really had some amazing skills. Well, it was a riot. I reckon the students had not enjoyed such a fiasco for years. The final scored could have been in the high twenties but thanks to some slight skill in our combined team as well as mercy and mirth displayed by the students we were not entirely annihilated. I recall forwards slicing through our feeble defence and as they were about to score yet another goal they would do a somersault or back flip with astonishing gymnastic ability. I also learnt just how unfit I was. I was to rue that in a few days.



Upwards Ever Upward

 The second image that comes to mind was down by the beach. As I was strolling along in the late afternoon, I noted the mission ship, skippered by the legend, Br. Aloysius had just returned and dropped anchor. Two Marist Missionary Sisters,quite solidly built and in voluminous white, were helped into the dinghy to be rowed ashore. “This could be interesting” I thought as I noted the waves of two feet or so, slapping noisily on the sand. Surely the sisters would take a ducking in scrambling to shore. I had not counted on the expertise and chivalry of two men. As the boat approached the shore, they waded out some distance up to their waists. Then boatswain with great skill steadied the dinghy. With cool precision and timing, as the boat rose on a wave and with sister poised, the waiting men swept up their precious cargo and carried to the shore. Brilliant!

A great challenge awaited me.  I had requested to visit one of the bush missions if there was any chance. Well, it was all arranged. Thankfully, Jules was my companion. One of the Rio Tinto Land rovers with Frank Poholski, an ex-student from Marist Broken Hill and engineer in the new project, picked us up early and we sped along the coast. It was amazing to see the town of Arawa arising as a new centre. It was here that those courageous woman had taken on the police and bulldozers. Soon, enough we’re climbing steeply on a road under construction. I had to admire the skills of the local driver as we slithered and spun and crabbed our way through some very sticky sections. We arrived at the mine, still in its experimental stage with crusher and other plant and staff accommodation. From here it would be all uphill.

I really wasn’t prepared for this challenge. It gave me some insight into the Kokoda track where those young Aussie Chockos had slowed the Japanese advance in 1942. At thirty six years of age I would not have made the first stages of the track, let alone fight.  We set out confidently enough. Upward ever upward. Jules was breezing along by comparison to me. I got a shock at one stage when a small group of men met us coming down. Each had a machete or a bush knife  twirling in hand, and I felt distinctly uncomfortable. It was much later, that I learnt that everybody carried one, almost like an extension of the hand as they cut and flicked their way through the jungle.



A Breather Near Village Gardens

 I tried the old trick of frequent stops to admire the view, but in reality, I was drawing breath. I know I lost a stone in sweat. But eventually, the track levelled and we burst though the bush to behold a lovely sight. On a cleared, green patch of land about the size of a football pitch there was a neat school and teachers’ houses. I thought I was hallucinating. Just behind I could see the missionary’s house. I stumbled on in great hope.

Fr. Willy Weemus, a very dynamic Dutchman was a great welcomer. I could not thank him enough as he shoved a cold beer into my hand. Divine! A shower, lunch and a kip and I was ready to take on the world again. We went to say hullo to the teachers, a fine bunch, some of them graduates of our “teachers’ college” trained so well by Br. Cornelius and Br. Ken. The kids were a lively, colourful bunch as they kicked around a soccer ball. I declined to give any kind of exhibition!!

Later, I had my first experience of modern communication among the scattered mission stations.



Such a Beautiful Sight



the Bishop ran the sched- a radio hook up in which news was passed, contacts with families in the district and orders of vital supplies. I would get to know more about this vital means of communication later in the Solomons.

It was a memorable night. If this was mission life, I thought, bring it on ! Well I could easily be fooled. Fr. Willy had gone to great lengths to treat us right royally. An excellent meal extended into the hours as we chatted and shared stories. Later, he brought out one of his treasures, a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. He then cranked up his hi-fi and on this mountain top, in the middle of the jungle we lifted at Handel’s Messiah cast a spell over the compound. Wonderful.



Our Host, Fr. Weemus and Teachers

 The return journey was a piece of cake!! We enjoyed a stopover in the staff quarters, enjoying a fine lunch before taking to the Land Rover again. It was my last night before flying out and so I decided to “treat” the Brothers. Along with Alistair, a Pommy volunteer I hit the two or three Chinese stores. How disappointing. There was so little. I found some white wine, some chocolates and suspect fruit. It was a small celebration. Next morning I was up at crack of dawn and Tom farewelled me as I left for the airstrip. But I had a marvellous souvenir: a cassette tape of that winning choir of students at Rigu.

It would be some twelve years before I would return to this fabulous island. That little chorister, Julian Hakumin would be a star again. But this time as a young Marist Brother, about to take his final vows on his home island of Buka. In the meantime he had completed schooling, gone to Fiji for his Marist training and teachers’ college. While I was at Tenaru in 1975 he had been appointed to the staff of St. Joseph’s where he became a super star!! It was wonderful to see the impact on the high school boys and girls to have “one of their own” teaching them. He had a magnetic personality, was a captivating teaching and with that high wattage smile and sparkling sense of humour he outshone Sydney Poitier in any of his movies.  I was able to feature him in the movie I made on the school. From there he returned to Rigu, his old school and again “walked on water” for his own people. In 1981 I flew from Honiara to represent the Solomon Brothers at Julian’s big day at the parish church of Hahela.

The Mass was memorable with wonderful singing and dancing to bring the liturgy to life. After Mass there was much feasting and dancing and general celebration on this rare occasion.

In the evening there was a shift of focus, to the family village of Nova. We bumped along on the back of a ute and then had a twenty minute walk through the bush to the village. From a distance I could hear loud music and it wasn’t jungle drums. Powered by a generator there were strung coloured lights, pop music was blaring and the smell of roasting pig was so enticing. The crowd of people gave us Brothers a grand welcome. This was the first time they had hosted such a group of VIPs. They were out to impress and they certainly did with style and a certain excess.



Br. Julian Hakumin



They had set out several tables and after introducing us to the “big men” of the village we sat down to enjoy ourselves. But there was a difference. In a short speech, Julian’s father welcomed us, and then instructed the men to share themselves around among the Brothers and then gave a most extraordinary direction “”And you will not just eat. You will talk with the Brothers.”

 I was used to such feasts around villages which follow a traditional pattern. The “chief” will call out the names of the guests in order and with direction as to how much food they can take. As they claim their share, they wrap in banana leaves and then take off to their houses. Or, they actually sit around the food along the leaves and then get about the business of eating. Nobody talks!!!

Well, our companions were admirable. In pidgin English we got on just marvellously, all the while the music pounding on. Oh, yes, there was beer, thank God. Also thank God we were not invited to partake of a deadly concoction over near the stage. As guests arrived with all kinds of liquor- whisky, brandy, soft drink, beer and any number of other brews they poured all into the great drum. Wow, what a PUNCH that delivered.

With a full belly and glowing contentedly, the real entertainment began. Dancing.  No, not the traditional style but “jiving” to the pop music.  We were not sure how we would be involved. Boys and girls, young men and women were shimmying and shaking out there under the lights without any contact of course. Then, one of these “dark eyed, skinned Suzans” approached and almost self consciously invited one of the Brothers to join in. Ken (or was it Bob?) leapt up and joined in with gusto. Soon, we were all up and making complete and happy idiots of ourselves.

And so it went on merrily for “hours”. Well, until we each knew we had reached our limit. But the star of the night was our most venerable sixty something Brother Alan Elliot.  As a near retiree he had come to Bougainville just a few years before and worked as an infirmarian at our new school at Buin. Blessed with a wise and pleasant nature he got new wings and relished his work mission. It was one of his most satisfying chapters in a most interesting life, including his early years as a boundary rider in the backblocks of South Australia.

Tragically, the seeds of injustice sown back in 1969 and the consequent despoiling of the country with too few of the profits going to the local people, reaped a whirlwind. Before the end of the decade the mine would be shut down, war would have broken out and years of violence and enduring bitterness would be launched. A “civil war” would be waged with the PNG Army heavily involved. The casualty count has not been confirmed but it was placed between 10,000 and 20,000 according to different sources. Our prize school at Rigu would be torched and a former headmaster and gallant guardian of the school, Br. Brian Leak would be lucky to make it to Solomon Islands to the south, despite a helicopter attack. It was a daring dash. He is sure that it was Mary, Our Good Mother who saw that flimsy outboard boat and terrorised passengers make it to safety.

It was our singer, Julian Hakumin, now the headmaster, had to try to steer through those last hazardous years. Along with other local Brothers they suffered the deprivations of blockade and a life sliding back into subsistence level. Even the bishop was reduced to silence as he returned to his home village to wait out the cyclone. It’s a tragic and complicated story.

Of course, the Brothers would return and be significant in restoring some hope to a shattered people after ten years of agony.

I have one enduring image of Julian which I treasure. Coming home on leave I found he was training over at Dundas, so I invited him out to lunch. We drove over to a favourite “watering hole” at Woolwich. It was midweek and a very sunny day. As we skipped across the road, I thought, I hope there are no racist yobbos in here. I need not have worried. I ordered two beers and one of the locals looked around at Jules with his satiny black.

“That’s a great suntan you’ve got there mate.”

Now, that might have “thrown” other people I know. Jules had the perfect response or riposte.

He laughed, with his face lit up with the humour and with his display of perfect white teeth.

“Yeah, you’re right mate. It’s the best.”

The whole bar joined in the fun.

LIGHT UP FROM LAVA

LIGHT UP FROM LAVA FLOW (1969)

“It’s the greatest revolution the Church has had in 400 years.”



3000 bishops assemble

 Our professor at East Asian Pastoral Institute, Alfonso Nebreda SJ, certainly impressed me with that statement back in September 1969. As a world-class theologian, in fact, one of the stars who was able to deliver a very relevant message, he had recently made his mark at a conference in Medellin. He was at the cutting edge as the Church took up the immense challenge of Vatican 2. I felt privileged to “sit at his feet” over those eight months in Manila. He was but one of a group of charismatic Jesuits who made up the bulk of staff at this top flight university, Ateneo de Manila. While Alfonso would not have graced the cover of any upbeat magazine as a sex symbol, his fellow Spaniard, Juan Mateos certainly would. A Spanish grandee to his finger tips, he was a real heart throb to the ladies. With his sense of presence, drama and charism his message had such an extra grace and depth. And no wonder. We were drinking from the wells of Eastern theology and mysticism. Apparently, with the message of Mary at Fatima, “Russia will be converted” impacting on them, the Jesuit high command decided to be ready for this unimaginable revolution. They would be ready to parachute in specially trained Pope’s shock troops. They selected highly talented young trainees and immersed them in Eastern Church culture. Juan was one of this “brigade”. The fact that the promised miracle seemed to be postponed did not deter them. They were able to enrich our understanding of great treasures that we’d lost in the tragic split of a thousand years ago when the Orthodox churches took a different road.

We were a rare and varied bunch of students from twenty four nationalities. Just a hundred of us, a neat split of 50-50 men, women. Nearly all were working in East Asia, nuns and priests dominating. I was one of a handful of Brothers. There was just one lay woman, one layman.

We certain-long lectures, with papers for all the courses. These included Theology (moral and dogmatic) Scripture, Sociology, Liturgy, Psychology, Philosophy. Being part of the National system we followed courses in Filipino History and Culture. All very rich and demanding. It had to be as this post graduate course of the university was aimed at a Masters degree.

There was plenty that was bracing, new, and liberating that helped usher us into a new age of Church. An area that attracted as well as daunted some was the Group Dynamics which linked in with the Psychology course. Ms.Tessie Nitoreda, who led this with brilliance, became a cult figure over the years. The highpoint in her course was a weekend devoted to a new-fangled and experimental process called Encounter or T groups. We volunteered to join a group of twelve which met Friday night after supper, then proceeded to work all through Saturday and Sunday.



1969 - The hems are rising.

  It was quite punishing. To sit and share personally with such a group for some thirty hours involved risk. Most claimed it provided good learnings and a real impetus in personal growth. Others were not so convinced. Our group was blessed in having Tessie as our trainer, as she could head off potentially damaging situation and help in necessary healing. Even so, there were tears and some highly emotive times. On the wider scale these T Groups have now ceased. In that age of almost obligatory self disclosure there were obviously not enough trainers of Tessie’s professionalism.

After those thirty hours I was completely wrung out, as were the others in our group. Saddling up for a solid week of lectures without a break was too bleak a prospect. I had to get away and breathe freely. My friend, Br. Richard, a Dutch Brother working in Pakistan was also eager to vamoose and chill out. And so we teamed up.

Where to go? Just by chance we met a pair from the previous T group who had escaped for a few days to a little village by Lake Taal. The lake itself is a crater lake some twenty km by twelve km. In the middle is another island with its own smaller crater lake. From a high ridge it’s quite a stunning sight. But it could be dangerous.



EAPI  studnets on picnic overlooking Lake Taal

  Some two months before the volcano island had woken with massive explosions and became vary nasty indeed. In fact the government has evacuated all those people on that rich, loamy island, as well as others within fifteen km on the mainland. It was a very tense time forthousands of rural folk. Just over twenty years later a nearby volcano, Pinitubo, near the US Clarke Base, erupted with catastrophic force, killing thousands and burying the countryside in metres of ash. But in 1969, after lots of huffing and puffing the monster seemed to be losing interest. Oh, there were still rumbles, the plume of smoke snaking into the sky and with some impressive night time fireworks. As yet the farmers had not returned to the island but the surrounding country slipped back into easy gear.

Our friend, Fr. Patrice gave us directions to San Nicolas, the little town by the lake. It turned out to be a hair-raising ride. Most of the buses seemed decrepit and ready for the scrap heap but their dauntless drivers, backed up by the most enterprising mechanics, who work wonders out of copper wire and various scraps, keep them chugging away. After half and hour we shifted to an open-sided bus with toast rack seats. The driver was either on some drugs or belonged to a kamikaze club. He drove at reckless speed, carrying on a conversation with passengers with their chickens and bags of supplies while twirling the wheel with one hand. Amazing!  Filipinos have great devotion to the saints, with pictures, rosary beads and crosses festooning the windscreen. They must be kept working overtime to avert disasters at every turn.

Really, I should have bailed out and walked. In all probability Richard and I could have joined some towering inferno when we stopped at some derelict service station to refuel. Here was our driver, nonchalantly filling her up, with the butt of a cigarette dangling from his lips and fumes wreathing in the air.  Did I pray? How else did we ever survive? Where was Mary?

We reached San Nicolas and found the little cantina where Patrice and Jean had stayed. We were taken aback by the welcome which nearly swept us off our feet. Girls in bright skirts and disarming smiles could not do enough for us as they ushered us in, provided a lovely lunch and showed us our quarters for the night. Well, maybe that should have alerted us to some unusual game plan being played out. But we were both ingénues.



Lake Taal and Volcano

 We really had no plan of action but we were hoping we might get lucky in the evening as our friends had. So, a stroll around the town, again impressed by the Spanish imprint with the architecture of the church. To me there seemed to be a very paradoxical attitude to the colonisers who benefited greatly from four of exploitation. (I smiled at the quip:

“What do you expect : 400 years as a Spanish colony and 50 years of Hollywood?”) From my recent study of Filipino history I marvelled at the great patriot, Rizal, who led a tough fight for independence and paid with his life. But of course, before the goal could be achieved the US moved in to add its own little slice of empire.

There was quite a sumptuous dinner in the evening and enter the “villain of the piece”, the town mayor, a heavy man with a certain ponderous presence. He seemed to take a shine to the two honoured guests. And being a man of influence he was able to organise a most daring treat. Together with some Peace Corp types we were driven to the lake.

The old monster out there was still snorting and in troubled mood. But, we were assured there was no real danger and would we like to go and take a look. Why not? Who would ever get such a chance again? And so a group of us piled into this large, deep hulled outrigger canoe for the adventure. The lake was choppy with a brisk breeze blowing. The outboard kicked over and we were bouncing and cutting through the waves. It was awesome, no doubt. There was a tickle of fear in my throat. Against the black sky the volcano reared up quite menacingly with its fiery maw belching smoke and every now and again there came a “whump” and some white hot rocks were belched into the black. We were closing in to circle around the island. Just at that stage the motor cough, splutters and dies. The tickle became painful. With great skill the driver re started and we moved on. Coming around the side of the island I gasped. This hissing, fizzing black lava river, streaked with red was boiling into the lake. Scenes from various horror movies came to mind.

There was a beach just along and the skipper got our agreement to land there. Yet again, I cussed because I had left my camera behind. This was pretty close to the action. The beach was strewn with large chunks of coal black stone, any of which would have wiped us out. But, looking up we could see that the rocks shot out were thudding down some hundreds of metres away.

 Plucking up some courage, we ventured down to the lava river. We confronted near two metres of black wall. It was warm certainly and deep through the cracks you could see the red hot molten flow. This was unreal surely. We roamed up and down. Then, in an act of dare and bravado I mounted the “wall”. I was wary of course, and tested each step thoroughly. But it all seemed safe enough there. To add a finishing touch I asked for a long piece of grass, which I pushed down deep into a crack, ignited and then lit up a “Malboro”.

Back at the cantina, the mayor was waiting and entertained us. It was becoming clear that this was no “freebie”. At one stage, he pulled out this enormous weapon from his belt, a Magnum. We were awed and interested certainly. He assured us that, as a mayor, he needed to protect himself. Moreover, this piece of artillery would blast a hole “in that wall over there”. We were impressed by his authority. Then he turned the conversation to the target that was behind his largesse.



Ateneo University

 “As we all know, Ateneo University is the best.” We nodded.

“And it’s not always that easy to gain admittance”.

Again, we nodded, realising that we two were exceptional in our own way.

“Now, I need your influence in getting my nephew in.”

Oh God, what had we got ourselves into? If we backed out would he unholster that Magnum again?

We played it cool. But not very wisely.

In fact I wish I could replay the scenario, having developed some of own people skills in the meantime. As we innocently and ingenuously explained that the two of us were “only Brothers” with really no power, I could see his brow darkening by the moment. Summarily he drew the meeting to an abrupt end and stormed off.

Next morning, after a fitful night, we were leaving. But where was everybody? Those smiling senoritas had disappeared. There was no breakfast, there was nobody. All very strange and a bit unnerving. Eventually, a rat clappity bus arrived and we were happy to board and high tail it out of sleepy San Nicolas. No doubt the mayor was playing with his weapon and keeping the simple folk in a suitable state of terror, while those two hapless Brothers headed for ivy walls of Ateneo