Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
His gaze stopped and rested on mine. For a moment I thought he was going to address me.
I froze, still embarrassed by my ridiculous attire.
Suddenly he smiled and said “good morning” in English. He welcomed any visitors, at
which point every head wheeled around and stared directly at me. I shrunk back as far as I
could in my pew, sweat beads forming visibly on my brow. The pastor then launched into
his service, opening with a hymn in English. I couldn't believe it, but there was an organist
playing an old pedal wind organ that should surely be spending its final years in some mu-
seum. The organist pedaled away furiously, keeping up with the enthusiastic chorusing of a
hundred innocent souls. The wholesomeness of it all washed over me, and I relaxed, even
allowing myself to hum the vaguely familiar hymn.
They all sat down with more throat clearing, coughing, and rustling of frilly pink frocks
and patent leather shoes. I cast a look around. Why, there were some very fine young fillies
scattered around the congregation. I could have sworn that there were even one or two ap-
preciative, stolen looks.
Suddenly, the booming voice of the pastor knifed through my wicked fantasies. He went
off in the local Maori, or Cook Island, tongue. He was very dramatic and theatrical. I could
not understand a word of it, but he was fascinating to watch. To be perfectly honest in my
observations, as inexperienced as I was with the goings-on inside churches, I would say
that this pastor, on this tiny little island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, was one of the
most moving speakers I had ever heard. His choice of silences and volumes, hand motions,
and thumps of the Bible in front of him certainly kept my attention riveted. I stole a look
around the room; everyone's white eyes were focused adoringly and faithfully above on
their holy man.
It was getting very hot inside now; even the locals were sweating openly. The women were
fanning themselves with handkerchiefs or little palm-frond fans, and the pastor went on
and on with his endless sermon. Two more hymns were sung, a metal collection plate was
handed around, and I burnt with renewed shame. I had forgotten to bring any money. Faali,
bless this man, surreptitiously waved me a coin from his pocket, which I gratefully accep-
ted and placed in the noisy metal plate.
Mercifully, we were filing out into the cool, breezy sunshine and fresh air. I shook hands
with the smiling pastor at the door. He thanked me for visiting their little church. I couldn't
wait to get out of this uncomfortably hot white dress shirt, but I do believe my rotten soul
had been salvaged there on that sweet little island and in a language I did not understand!
I was in for a further shock when I got back to the boat. Olivia had just arrived while I
was at church, and not only that, but another very fancy, foreign yacht was nosing its way
up the west passage. My quiet, little anchorage was soon bristling with foreign boats and
