The Worth of a Dollar

In this country, we have money. Every one of you reading this post is rich beyond what some could ever imagine. We drive through Starbucks just because we are in the mood; we blow $10 on a lousy movie just for something to do on a Friday night. And we all know there are people starving around the world and much better ways to spend our hard-earned cash, but sometimes connecting our resources with a viable, life-changing cause is too daunting and we suddenly remember we should be saving for a house or paying off our school loans and ignore the call to help our brothers and sisters in need. Well, I want to change that.

Enter Threads of Hope, a ministry started by a missionary to the Philippines who recognized a real need and decided to impact an entire community. In the gorgeous island of Puerto Galera, tourists come with pockets loaded looking for a good time and the local Filipinos meet the demand. Sadly, for many of the women, this involves prostituting themselves in order to keep food in their kids’ bellies. Many Filipino families living on the island live in extreme poverty – but you’d never know it sunning yourself on the white beaches. It only looks like paradise to the outsider. I wanted to get closer and so I saw an inside look at the community that changed my life and perspective. I stayed in their homes, ate their food and sobbed at the heart-wrenching stories of how poverty can tear a family apart … and force people to do things they would never normally do.

The Filipino women of this

First view of the beach

Angie with Alona, the remarkable gal who oversees all the bracelet-making operations

Angie & Angie, one of the darling girls from the community

The women making the bracelets on the beach

The bracelets

community have a remarkable skill in making bracelets – hand-woven, using colorful threads. The women sit on the beaches making the bracelets and sell them to tourists as they pass by. Threads of Hope goes one step beyond this by marketing the bracelets to those who can’t buy them in person – and then giving 100% of the proceeds back to the families of Puerto Galera. As of right now, through the proceeds from selling the bracelets around the world, 50-plus families are able to earn a decent income.

They are twisted, braided and woven using every color of the rainbow. They look splendid on your wrist or ankle, for guys and girls. If you live outside of the Portland area, you can order them through me and request specific colors or just let me surprise you when I send them to you. If you live nearby, you can pick out the bracelets in person. In the U.S., the bracelets sell for $1 each (or however much more you want to donate for the cause) and 100% of the money goes to Threads of Hope, which goes directly to the Filipino families. You’ll have to check out my previous post on here, “Some Call it Paradise,” to hear about my trip to Puerto Galera and seeing the women make the bracelets. Also, if you’re interested, visit www.threadsofhope.com.ph, the official site containing loads of information and photos. 

I can’t think of a better way to spend $1. I look forward to hearing from you.

The Hardest Goodbye

I am now in my final week in the Philippines … and it is a busy one. I will be teaching a three-day writing seminar to local Filipinos at a graduate school starting today. I have been busy preparing my notes, but don’t know quite what to expect. I am also in the throes of writing my first magazine article to be published in an upcoming issue of Jeepney, a street magazine here in Manila. Plus, there are the 36 children at the orphanage who are my priority and my first love.

There are stacks in my head of things I still want to write about from my experiences here. I just know that these other writing and teaching commitments will consume my remaining six days and I may not get a chance to publish another blog post before I leave. So I have decided to continue the blog after I return home and write about some other things that I simply cannot get out of my head or heart. Writing about such things helps me to process them.

Look for me in Portland July 30 – I will be de-liced, slightly tan, and craving American food and cold milk. And yes, I will be changed … from the inside-out and bursting with stories to tell and photos to share. God is here in the Philippines and I have found Him in places I never thought possible. Now He has asked me to share some of the stories of the brave men, women and children who have looked for Him, found Him, and have now devoted their lives to spreading the Gospel. And as long as there are 12 and 13-year-old boys running the streets, searching for the slightest resemblance of a home and young girls who sleep with men in order to send a few pesos home to their starving families … I will keep writing. I am one voice, there are many others – I cannot help but tell the things which I have seen.

El-Shaddai – God With Us -my summer’s theme.

What the Mountains Saw

I wonder if the mountains wished the sun had been shining that day just enough to cast their shadow over what they saw. A covering of some sort, like a shadow could provide, would have been appropriate. But there was no sun, no shadows in Mindanao that day … only the mountains - a silent witness. 

Much like Juan* had been … silently watching as his father took the life from his mother. Oh perhaps he screamed, cried, but no one heard. And just like that – Juan was on his own. His mother, dead; his father, dead to him. He fell into the care of his aunt and uncle who did everything but care for him. And his heart turned cold and rebellious and his feet wouldn’t stay at this new home and so he fought life … but life answered with blows that did more than just leave scars on his body. His heart was wounded, and at nine years old, he lived a life on the run – in and out of government-provided homes as quick as he found a reason to leave.

Then Juan arrived at the children’s home in the city of Malaybalay and he stopped running. Love, yes, that was worth staying for. There was always someone to notice when he didn’t feel like eating - was he having a hard day? Did he want to talk about it? I noticed how contented he seemed one afternoon as we walked home from school together. At what point did he realize he could trust people? He knew he had found love at the children’s home, where the staff patiently stand by him during his rapid mood swings and lovingly correct his wayward behavior.

Juan has learned to return affection. And the small boy whose eyes twinkle like the stars he spent many nights under, has also learned to initiate love. He sprang on me from behind – still in his school uniform – his arms held my neck and I smelled ripe fruit on his breath. His cheek pressed hard against mine – both were smooth, but one bore the unmistakable print of abuse. I instinctively looked up for some kind of answer for the scars I saw etched on a face I had already come to adore. The mountains were there, when I looked up. And I knew they knew. Such magnificent witnesses! If only they could move. If only the mountains could have moved on that day, to rescue a boy who saw far too much, who hurt far too much.

But they stood there, silent, and I hated the mockery of it all. Such a powerful creation: the Kitanglad Range – the mountains, so magnificent – but what did it matter? My heart ached, my faith was buried, and I too, was nothing but a silent creation.

But Juan was smashing my cheek with a rice-filled kiss and then I noticed something I had never seen before about the mountains. They pointed up, lifting my gaze – my hope – beyond them, higher even than their 9,000-foot peaks. Yes, they were made to point to something, Someone, far greater than they. And I understood and respected the mountains for their role – and clung to the faith I could feel rising in my spirit.

During my 10-day trip to the island of Mindanao, I knew my faith was increasing. One night, I dreamed my mustard-seed faith moved the mountains.

The stories kept coming and I knew I’d have a lot to absorb for a while. Each child possessed a history without a heritage. So I talked with them about the good things in their life – and spent time doing the things they love. We played basketball for hours under the hot afternoon sun; it was a very scrappy game, each of us fighting for the ball and laughing when it got so wet with our sweat it slid right out of our grasp and occasionally making a shot. After I had called timeout and downed a glass of water in hopes of cooling off some, little Ge-Ge asked me, Ate Angie, what color are you? I looked at her puzzled knowing she knew I was white. Then she reached up and ran her finger along my cheeks and forehead and asked, How come you turn so red?

Mt. Kitanglad and its companions also witnessed the arrival of new life. During an afternoon kickball game, one of the boys had sent the soccer ball careening down the field and I ran after it. The ball came to rest directly in front of a mother goat who was in the process of birthing. As I bent to retrieve the ball, I watched as two goat kids slid into the world in a slimy pouch. I stared in awe, ignoring the other kids across the field who were shouting at me to hurry back with the ball before Ariel made it around all the bases. Pretty soon a large crowd gathered around the new mother, witnessing the babies’ first bleats and the first wobbly steps to reach their mama’s swollen teats. And Juan was there, pressing against the other children for a look. Life, family, love. I think he could finally believe in those virtues.

*Juan’s name has been changed.

Of Jeepneys, Bruised Hips & Spiritual Dogs

And now, just for fun … a sampling of the many, many times I have silently gasped at the transportation here … encounters I’ve wanted so badly to share with someone – things you only see in a Manila day.

There are many competing forces on a Manila road as each person works to squeeze a foot, a wheel, a tire, or a hoof on a road jammed with other feet, wheels, tires and hooves. Jeepneys are the most popular method of public transportation. Constructed after WWII jeeps and able to transport close to 30 people, they are the distinguishing feature of the city of Manila. And after riding in one, you’re never quite the same.

The first dozen or so times I hopped on a Jeepney I was fortunate enough to be with a Filipino who escorted me through the gauntlet. The first challenge comes in knowing which Jeepney to get on. A very small sign on the front and sides indicates the Jeepney’s final destination and what direction they’re heading. The entire body of the silver Jeepney is painted and decked out - I mean decked out - with colorful murals. Mermaids and fairies, Winnie the Pooh and Spiderman, Michael Jordan and Bugs Bunny, all stretch across Jeepneys as the colors fly down the street. Some of the Jeepneys bear the portrait of a child. All the Jeepneys come with a name, a personalized silver plaque displayed across the front: “Angelica”, “Princess”, “Zeus”, “Michael.” Inside they are often just as decked out as the outside, with more bright paint, stickers, advertisers’ labels, and bells, whistles, necklaces, rosaries, and charms dangle from the front of the cab. Loud music blares through the speakers and combined with the continual honking from other vehicles, conversing is nearly impossible on a Jeepney. 

A Jeepney driver is an amazing person. Always male, always alert or we’d all be dead. Two hands firmly on the wheel - except when he is shifting gears or pulling a cord inches from his face to blare the horn or reaching a hand back to collect the fare from passengers. Often he’ll have a handkerchief or towel over his head to catch sweat. And always in his left hand, fanned through his fingers, are peso bills.

So I hop on the back of one of these creatures. Two benches face each other and the ceiling is so low you have to stoop nearly in half to walk down the aisle. The key is to just sit down as soon as possible so you’re not thrown to the front of the Jeepney. But where to sit can be a problem. The benches are lined with people, thighs pressed against thighs, shoulders angled to conserve space, arms unsure of where to rest. And just when you think there’s no possible way one more body can fit on, the driver pulls over to the side of the road with a jerk that would normally send all the passengers flying had we not been packed in so tight, and a mother and baby and teenager all pile in and you realize one of them will soon practically be on your lap and you’ll be half-way on the lap of the guy sitting next to you. Everyone’s sweat mingles together and handkerchiefs are wiped across faces lined with perspiration that turns your white tissue grey because of the pollution. Then you dig for 11 pesos and pass your fare through the hands of the other passengers to the driver.

Of course you must have your eyes peeled for your stop. When you want to get off the Jeepney, there are a few ways to do it. If you are seated close enough to the driver, you can simply request he stop with “para po” and hope he hears you. If you are seated in the rear, clanging a coin against the metal handrails sometimes works to alert the driver of your stop. And some Jeepneys come equipped with a cord stretched across the ceiling with a small sign instructing, “Pull D String 2 Stop.”  

The actual ride in “Jessica” or “Flower” is a series of lurches in traffic that puts New York City to shame. During my first few trips in a Jeepney, I forced myself to close my eyes or look straight out the side to keep my heart from stopping as we came within inches of all the other vehicles and people vying for the road. I came to appreciate the sign in nearly every Jeepney: “God Bless Our Trip”, “El Shaddai Be With Us” and knew that He truly must be here … on this Manila road.

If I thought Jeepneys were as foreign as you could get, I was surprised by my first – and am still surprised, I must say – by the other most popular method of transporation: tricycles. There are two types: motorized and non-motorized. The latter involves a bicycle with a side seat and is used only for short distances (I have only ridden in these a handful of times).

For a foreigner, I have become an expert in the other type, motorized tricycles. I ride in one several times a week and have come to enjoy the trip. A motorized tricycle is a motorcycle with an attached side car. The whole thing is covered, though the sides are all open, and up to eight people can ride together (though this also involves sitting on laps). Two people can sit side-saddle behind the driver on the motorcycle seat, and the rest pile in the side car. I have two particular memories in one of these vehicles that I will never forget.

On our way up to Smokey Mountain, we encountered the after-effects of a hard rain on a low-lying slum. A deep puddle of mud and water stretched nearly across the entire road at one point. I was riding in the side car and had a small space between the driver’s arms where I could see what lay just ahead. I glanced at the flooded road and thought, there’s no way he would ever attempt to drive us through this. But his motorcycle lurched forward, plunging into the water. No one else seemed to even bat an eye, but I was lifting my feet instinctively to avoid getting wet. Suddenly, the tires spun out and the side car tilted dangerously to one side. We were stuck. The guys jumped off the back of the seat and a few guys watching us from doorways splashed over to help and with a lot of revving of the engine and pushing from behind, they finally freed the tires and everyone hopped back on. But we were soon stuck again in another deep pothole filled with mud. I thought for sure we would tip over as the motorcycle spun around and plowed over the potholes. Somehow we made it.

Another time was when I was in Puerto Galera. We were coming down from the pastor’s house at night to eat dinner, packed into one of the motorized tricycles. We had to descend down a rather sharp, completely unpaved road. The motorcycle’s wheels twisted and turned as we hit rock after tree root, threatening to throw all the passengers straight out into the night. I was wedged next to Alona and several times before making it down the hill I just stared at her in unbelief as we plowed over the road. She read my thoughts and laughed. Apparently she had been down this road a time or two before and had made it out alive. The side car is so low to the ground that you feel every rock and pothole scrape the bottom of the seat. I had a few bruises from that ride.

Sometimes, it is quicker, less harrowing, and cheaper to just walk to your destination. But in order to cross a busy street, you literally have to walk straight out in front of the traffic with your hand held up and pray the drivers see you. In most of Manila, there are no stop signs, traffic lights, or rules of any kind so it’s every man for himself. Or every goat … or dog … or rooster, all of which also share the space. Motorcycles seem to be the vehicle of choice here. They are cheaper, of course, than cars and seem to have no limitations. Whole families can ride down the street together – the man at the handlebars, the woman clings to the baby with a toddler wedged in between the two adults. Often none are wearing helmets, all wearing flip-flops dangling inches from the road, weaving in and out of traffic, going places no car can go. I am almost hooked on motorcycles.

Besides the poverty of the city, the transportation - and the pollution caused by the transportation – is the single biggest difference between my life in Portland and the one here in Manila. The smog over the city is horrendous and I was told by Filipinos the pollution in this city is the third worst in the world. I think my lungs must be black by now (probably as bad as if I’d smoked my whole life!) I quickly learned why Filipinos carry a handkerchief or towel – to wipe away sweat, but more importantly, to cover one’s nose and mouth when out in the traffic. By the end of the day, I always look a little tanner than I really am – grey smog stuck to wet skin.

And some other – very random – tidbits perhaps worth noting …

• Nothing ever fully dries in this humidity … hair, clothes, towels and skin feel damp throughout the day.
• Some unusual signs I have read along the street: “St. Peter’s Death Care”, “Circumcision: Bloodless, Painless”, “Wanted: Female Bedspacer, Inquire Inside”, “Midwives: Lying In” (not sure what this means but I’ve seen it more than once)
• Dogs are definitely spiritual animals. At the open-air church in Puerto Galera, two of them curled up around the pulpit - in deep spiritual meditation, I’m sure - awakened only when the preacher stepped on their tails during his sermon.
• When a Filipino man asks you if you want to “go out” it may just mean walking outside together.
• When someone dies here, a two-week long wake follows the death. In a squatter community, the casket is placed on the road, surrounded by people all day and night so that the body is never left unattended. I could not help noticing after my second time walking past the gathering, that flies were also gathering around the open casket. Men and children sat around playing games and smoking cigarettes.
• The Philippines is a very, very Catholic country. I’ve seen many people cross themselves after hopping on a Jeepney or a boat and watched as devout ladies finger rosary beads, silently praying on a train. Twice I waited for a long time in a bus while a large procession made their way down the street in honor of some Catholic holy day. Priests sprinkled incense as they walked and other men carried what looked like the Ark of the Covenant down a city street. Throngs followed them. I’ve seen pictures and heard stories of what it is like here during Easter, and I’m very thankful I don’t have to witness the rituals so many believe they have to do in order to pay for their sins. 
• There are also cults here. One in particular is a large sect that meets in churches throughout Manila … their church name is “Iglesia Ni Cristo”, which in Spanish literally means “Church Without Christ.” Hmmm … wonder who they worship? Their churches are very gaudy, and the outside has gorgeous architecture, shaped like a rocket because they literally believe the Scripture that talks of the church of God rising up in the last day. All the members live close by the church, so that when Jesus does return, they can run to the church and descend into heaven. I’ve seen scores of young people walking in and out of the “Iglesia Ni Cristo” buildings and prayed that the Truth would set them free.
• And finally, if I end up a spinster, it will be because I chose it, not because I had no other options. I’ve been informed that a Muslim man here is in the market for an American wife to add to his harem.

Transitions in a Yielded Life

“When the oceans rise and thunders roar … I will be still and know You are God.”

As I belted out those words alongside about 60 sweating teenagers, a storm crashed outside. There is no door on the church where we stood worshipping and I could hear the rain dropping from the sky in nearly-solid sheets of water. But the sound of that many voices raised in praise to God nearly drowned out every other sound.

We were all worshipping the same Jesus. Here I was, so far from my usual place of worship, and I knew He was here too, in Manila, in the midst of these Christians. These past three weeks have been wobbly for me at times, but even now as I finally feel better adjusted to the heat, food and culture, I know that the greatest lesson I have learned is that I can trust the unchangeable God.

I am now working at a children’s home. I have moved into the ministry facility of Kids International Ministries and share a room with two other girls doing the same thing as me. My schedule is as follows: Monday – Friday, 12 – 8 p.m. working in the children’s home with 35 kids, including six babies. Saturday mornings I attend a children’s outreach at another church and then work in the children’s home in the afternoon. Sundays are my day off. This is my first full week with this schedule.

I spent a night in the babies’ room. Sadly, all six of them were sick and on various doctor-prescribed remedies. The 10-month-old twins, Jacob and Daniel, are the fussiest. Born prematurely after their mother drank poison to try and abort them, they now suffer from asthma and it pains me to hold them and hear the wheezing chests and fluid in their cries. These guys love to be held and cry when you put them down which you have to do, of course, to take care of the other four. There are always at least two of us in the babies’ room together, but even then, I wish I had four arms and four hips to keep them all contented. But I am not usually with the babies. They typically have their own caregivers who know their schedules and medications.

In about two months, I will be a specialist in the age group of three to ten-year-olds. I’m already in love with these kids who call me “Tita” (TEE-tah), meaning “Auntie”. They draw on my clothes, hide my flip-flops, pull the hair on my arms (that never ceases to fascinate them), and surely try my patience beyond repair … until I hear the sound of bare feet behind me and a “Tita, look” and they are in my lap and nuzzled against my neck and they show me some bug or book or bloody cut. The black hair is plastered against the forehead with sweat and I pull the barefeet into my lap … and yes, for the first time since landing in the Philippines three weeks ago, I know this is the reason I am here. Because someone, somewhere decided they did not want this doll curled across me. Because perhaps, just perhaps, God knew all along that I was meant to love this summer … not a summer fling, but a summer of unconditional love for the least of these. And because God knew how much I need these kids.

With so many children under one roof, I feel like my primary job is the “Settler of Disputes.” Yesterday, I sat at the kitchen table coloring a page from “Lady and the Tramp” when nine-year-old Jomel came sidling up next to me (did he know he melted my heart from Day One with his smile and laugh and could ask virtually anything from me?). By the looks of things, he had been playing hard outside. “Tita, need you – outside – come.” It took less than a minute for me to understand – I was needed outside to mediate the playtime. About eight of the boys had discovered a pile of mattresses on the floor in one of the gazebos. When I arrived on the scene, Supermans and Spidermans were jumping from the gazebo beams onto the mattresses, and others were practicing gymnastics. It was a small space and it did not take long for someone to get hurt. I walked into the middle of the thickest wrestling match I’d ever seen and pried off a few bodies til I discovered little Michael, trapped beneath the flying legs, sobbing. I tried to sort out what had happened - who the culprit was - but it was impossible and everyone pointed his finger at someone else and not even Michael knew whose foot had kicked him. This pattern was repeated for the next two hours. They were having so much fun I didn’t want to abolish the game all together. So I sat in the gazebo with them – intermittently laughing and playing with them, scolding perpetrators and counting down the minutes of their time-outs, comforting nearly each one at some point after a knee collided with a head or someone said something cross. I understand next to nothing of the children’s conversations with each other in Tagalog, but it is amazing how you can tell at once who’s guilty, who’s frustrated, who’s having fun, and who’s lying. When they were all so tired they began crashing on the mattresses, someone from behind handed me a book, and climbed into my lap with a “Tita, please read.” We were soon in the land of Agrabah following the adventures of Aladdin and at least ten bodies clung to me or poked their heads over each other to look at the pictures. “Tita, why he’s so bad?” “Tita, Jasmine’s gonna kiss him.” “Tita, how come he said that?” “Tita, where does it say the word ‘Jafar’?” I had never had such a rapt audience in my storytelling. We all missed the dinner bell.

The duty of getting all the little girls ready for bed seems to have fallen to me. I’d play with the boys any day over the difficulty of getting all nine of the girls in the shower - one by one, except when they decide to have a “soap party” - pajamas on, hair combed, clothes put away and then downstairs to devotions on time. They swing from the bunkbeds, steal each other’s dolls, fight over the pink lipstick, and run around naked like an oiled pig at the fair, with me in hot pursuit. Sometimes they are so wet with sweat I have to smell them to know if they’ve just gotten out of the shower or if they’ve just been running.

I am just one of many volunteers to pass through the doors of New Faith Family Children’s Home, a part of Kids International Ministries (www.kidsinternationalministries.org). There are several staff members who permanently reside at the home and provide much-needed consistency in the children’s lives. I eat, sleep and spend my off-hours just down the road from the children’s home, at a large ministry center where many people live and work. All summer long, teams of people from the U.S. and abroad come to this facility to help with construction, work in the children’s home, or engage in outreach activities to the community. There is never a dull moment unless I make one, which I do in the mornings and at night. I have two roommates right now – dear, sweet girls from the States doing the same thing as me – and soon, we will be joined by five others coming up to Manila from the southern Philippines.

It is very difficult to think that just one person can make a difference in such a relatively-short period of time in a place that is so desperate for hope and life. I struggle every day with the challenges of keeping a positive attitude and overwhelming feelings of ineffectiveness. So I have stopped trying to love and serve on my own, which is primarily how I lived the first three weeks here in Manila. My love turns to mush and my best efforts and intentions turn to dust in my hands. I can only kneel in the shadow of the Cross and say, “Take my love, my God I pour, at Thy feet its treasure store.” I am thankful for the power of that Wonderful Cross and the Love that shows me how to love in spite of myself. Confronted with such perfect Love, I have no choice but to imitate His example … the example of the One who said, “Let the little children come unto Me, and do not forbid them, for of such is the Kingdom of heaven.”

Some Call it Paradise

green mangoes as my farewell gift

the boat that ferried us to the island

looking for dolphins…

our deck hands

walking onto the beach

angie

angie and angie

alona

making bracelets for threads of hope

bracelets

snorkelers

fresh from the ocean, covered in sea salt

fresh tuna

alona and i

alona and two of her sisters

banana boats and bathing beauties

cito and i

tourist shopping

i may sell this as a postcard

crowding the doorway at pastor al’s house, peeking in at the foreigner

it was a jungle out there

gabriella

i swear there were monkeys in these trees … look closely

a couple dolls

the community

sunset over the ocean

me (with espresso) and alona

dinner at an italian restaurant, right on the sand

cito teaching tagalog after church service

pastor al, at church

I am not used to swimming in the Pacific Ocean without being completely numb first. But on the white beaches of Puerto Galera, the water is perfect, and apparently, many agree with me. The small island was packed full of tourists – mostly Filipinos from Manila escaping the pollution and noise to breathe deeply and soak their skin in salt water. But there were many white folks too - Americans, Europeans, Australians – and mostly men. I saw mostly older white men, accompanied by Filipinas, and one of them made me nauseated.

It looked like he had just washed up the beach. He was a crisp red from the sun and strolled up to a cluster of Filipino women making bracelets under the shade of palm trees. I was standing there, buying some of their bracelets when he approached the women, rubbing his bare stomach and looking us all over. Grinning from ear to ear, he asked which of the ladies was the best at giving a massage. One or two turned his direction and told him he’d have to wait a minute, they were helping me. He grabbed the nearest lady within arms reach, squeezed her shoulders and mockingly said that he didn’t have a minute to wait. I just stared at him; then looked down at the hundreds of bracelets the ladies were displaying within inches of my face, and then I looked at my own white skin and wanted to distance myself from this other brash American.

As I walked away, I thought about which one of the ladies would be the one to have the unpleasant job of massaging his sun-burnt skin. And I prayed that he wouldn’t ask her for sex, tempting her with the prospect of earning much-needed cash in such a deplorable arrangement. Prostitution is common on the tourist islands of the Philippines where businessmen from other parts of Asia and abroad come for a good time.

That is one reason for Threads of Hope, a ministry started by an American missionary to provide families in Puerto Galera with the means to earn an income by making and selling gorgeous bracelets. I spent the weekend at Puerto Galera, where I met Alona. She is 26, just my age, and pretty much runs the bracelet-making operation. She also rises at 4 a.m. to prepare food for her parents and siblings and till the family’s garden. She has just completed elementary school and is hoping to start high school in the fall. Alona wasn’t able to be educated at a normal rate because of her commitment to her family and helping to earn money at a young age. We swam and swam together in the ocean and took long walks in the sand. She spoke only a little English, but we got along so well despite the language barrier. She took me through the tourist shops and helped me get good bargains on jewelry and other souvenirs.

One of our stops was under the palm trees where the ladies sat making the bracelets. The ladies swarmed around me, holding up their wares and Alona explained to me that they are all licensed masseuses as well. One of them spoke surprisingly good English - revealing her frequent dealings with foreigners. We conversed casually about her business, and then I said that this island was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever been … like paradise, I said, heaven on earth.

And she looked at me and said, to you this is paradise. And I said, but you must love this place, you sit in the shade of a palm tree and listen to the ocean all day … and then I stopped myself because I realized this island represented long days to her - hard, hard work, waiting for foreigners to come her way, hoping they’ll open their wallets, dreading what they may ask her to do in exchange. In a quiet, respectful way, she made it clear Puerto Galera was not her idea of paradise, and I regretted my insensitivity.

What a clash of cultures here on the island! To those who live at Puerto Galera, life means struggling everyday to earn money, hawking their wares til they are hoarse and their brown skin turns even darker under the long hours in the sun. Alona rubbed my arms at least five times during the day as we shopped together – she would hold up dresses and swimming suits and tell me they would look so beautiful with my skin color. She said her skin was too dark, that no Filipino wants such dark skin. I tried to tell her how beautiful it was, because I truly meant that. And because I knew it meant she is not afraid of hard work, willing to sacrifice hours in her family’s garden instead of going to school and building her own career. I have much to learn from her. 

Smokey Mountain

on our way up to smokey mountain

in the motorized tricycle

first look at smokey mountain

rotting water buffalo horns, freshly killed

beth and cito

I first heard the voice after I passed the pile of rotting water buffalo horns. Flies swarmed in droves to the blood-stained bones bleaching in the sun. It was useless to swat at the flies gathering about my exposed ankles. They were, after all, part of the circle of life - and in that moment, when death clung to the air and the stench stayed in my nostrils, the flies were a welcome sign of life.

But now to the voice. A woman was singing, so clear and strong I first thought the music must be coming from a radio. But then I remembered I was on top of Smokey Mountain, where electricity and communication to the modern world was radically cut off. I never saw the woman, but as I gingerly picked my way over the mountain of garbage, I imagined her … sitting in a doorway of a shanty, oblivious to the world of filth where she lived. Her voice was almost enough to make me forget where I was … until I saw the boy, of course.

His agile back stooped low over the little pile of dirt he was madly digging through. Clumps of dirt flew around him, beads of sweat made his clothes cling to his tiny frame, and the back of that little orange bandana stood up like a flag when he bent over. He paused his work as my camera flash caught up with him. His black rubber boots reached nearly to his knees and I stood there watching him and silently prayed that he would discover a treasure. Over my shoulder someone told me he was searching for coins, using a metal rod to turn up the brown dirt, his brown eyes peeled for silver, gold. The bag around my shoulder suddenly felt heavy with my own pesos, and I jostled it a little and heard the coins rattle together. And I felt sick inside and knew it wasn’t from the stench or the decaying water buffalo just a few feet away. My coins felt heavy.

As far as the eye could see, backs were bent on Smokey Mountain. Human spines, curled over, searching for treasure on one of Manila’s garbage dump sites. I was told that children aren’t supposed to be here, that working on the dump site is an extremely dangerous place. There are toxic fumes from the garbage and also from the small fires that men create to burn the waste from the salvageable. Nothing up here seemed salvageable except for these lives around me, bent over piles of waste, trained eyes scanning for anything worth selling. And that little orange bandana reflected the sunlight in my direction and I wanted to run and throw a pile of coins in his dirt and bathe him and give him a better life and kiss those cheeks that could be chubby if he were only given enough to eat.

But this is all they know. Surrounding the entire mountain, shanties were propped up, with people spilling out from inside, taking a break from the burning sun. Thousands call Smokey Mountain home … and wake in the morning to dump trucks bringing in new loads of garbage and walk a few feet out of their homes to begin digging for treasure that you and I call trash.

I thought about that woman’s voice. When garbage has been stepped over by so many pairs of feet and dug through, everything turns an ugly shade of grey … no color save some scattered food labels or discarded Christmas tree ornaments. And bright bandanas that reminded me there is life. Yes, the woman’s voice sounded as if it belonged in an opera house, as if she belonged in a palace.

There were other women that I did see. One mother sat in the dirt outside her shanty, bare breasts exposed as her child sucked milk from her frail body. Our eyes met for a second and then I did not know where to look, afraid I would see more suffering than I could handle. I imagined her husband out there, hunched alongside other men, struggling to provide for his starving family, praying today would be the day he’d return home with a sack full of goods.

It was sloppy going at times on the mountain. A local pastor and a college student served as our tour guides, steering us over the dump, and explaining things along the way. As we started off, the young man informed me that my white shoelace was barely dragging in the mud. I glanced down at my Converse and said that it was fine, they were old shoes. But he was genuinely concerned and so I tucked in my laces. Perhaps he knows things about the mud on Smokey Mountain that I will never know because I am merely an observer - and will never get truly dirty in the mud on Smokey Mountain.

Our climb down involved crossing again through a row of shanties where I saw more ribs poking out of browned bodies and pairs of eyes following our little group. A muddy stream flowed across our path and to avoid getting soaked, we had to straddle the water, sometimes practically forcing us to step into their homes to find a foothold. At one point, I stepped down off a rock onto what I assumed was just more garbage. But as my foot came down, the ground beneath me began to sink. I was so surprised I almost fell and quickly pulled down my other foot to regain balance. But that caused the ground to shift even more. It felt like I was walking across quicksand. 

The young man said there are many deaths at the dump site every year. Children – far from kindergarten and the days of their childhood – bent over their piles of garbage and dirt, don’t always see or hear the trucks coming behind them. And the drivers don’t see the children. Old folks, too old for this labor, whose heart and lungs give out and yield to the sting of death. I could barely hear the stories and regretted at once asking him why the death rate was so high.

I have left Smokey Mountain. And I have a hope, not an answer. I cannot look at those faces and ask God: Where is the justice? I hear no answers from the Throne of Heaven; but I still hear that woman’s voice in my head. If you could have heard it, you would have heard hope. It was not a song of mourning, it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I believe there are angels on Smokey Mountain, ministering angels, comforting angels, bringing a message of Hope. For some, it is hope that there will be another bowl of rice for their family tomorrow. I pray that all of the workers on Smokey Mountain may find eternal hope in Jesus, knowing that then there will come a day when they will be given new bodies, perfect bodies, and they won’t ever shed a tear again. And they’ll never have to see their chidren suffer or beg for bread.

Yes, out of the charcoal ashes of Smokey Mountain comes a cry of life. The God I serve has heard their cry and will stretch out His hand of mercy.

Impressions

I’m sitting in an Internet cafe in the middle of the biggest, busiest mall I’ve ever seen. R & B music is blaring through the speakers so loudly the entire mall seems to jump and jive to the beat. But it is quiet in Netopia where I am writing.

The monsoon season has started here. Locals say the rains have come early as a result of Cyclone Nargis – the devastating whirlwind that hit Myanmar. Two nights ago, the wind blew into Manila so hard and so fast, I kind of understood what it meant to be at the mercy of such a storm. I met a missionary from Alberta, Canada the other day who told me I am in for quite a shock. He said in about a month, flash floods will soak the city; in an instant, flooding streets, homes, everything. I said, no worries, I am from Portland. He asked me if the streets are flooded knee-deep in sewage water in Portland; if you can’t hardly breathe for the stench; if you have to wait two hours for the water to drain before leaving your house. Ok, I said, you win.

I am wondering how the squatters deal with the monsoons. Right where I am staying, there are about 16 squatter communities, with hundreds of families in each community. I force myself to think and pray for them when I don’t want to because I am overwhelmed. I have never seen anything like it before. They live off to the sides of the main streets, off to the sides of society. And you can spot squatter people nearly everywhere you go - there teeth and feet are especially dirty. Children with no clothes or tattered imitations. Dogs, dogs, and their litters. Men and women who just stare at me. I take mental pictures of them, all filed away in my head, because I cannot bring myself to push the shutter on my camera … because then there’s a flash, and more stares and I am just a rich American, what can I do for them?

All their clothes and possessions hang outside their homes on trees, wires, roofs, drying out. And then the rains come and their roofs leak and the sewage and mud seep everywhere, and they think about their children, finding higher ground. Sometimes, out of desperation, they’ll send their kids away, to live with a distant relative who lives higher, perhaps in a sky-rise apartment.

Water is a huge problem. The squatters reside by rivers or streams that flow through the various subdivisions of Manila. But this water is filthy. I have been thinking a lot lately about the water crisis here, and reading about it. There is so much I don’t understand yet, of course. I am slow to make judgments; I just want to talk to as many people as I can, learn all I can, then form opinions.

Other impressions: The Philippines is an island culture, heavily influenced by America. Huge billboards feature American models, advertising hair products or clothing on blonde hair and fair skin. Such respected American icons as Britney Spears, the Playboy bunny, Justin Timberlake, and Disney characters are plastered on Jeepneys (the primary method of transportation) and outside of stores hoping to lure in customers. It’s almost enough to make me feel at home.

Well, my slotted Internet usage is up, and I must go meet the Mulloys for lunch. I am working on getting pictures uploaded to this site.

 

Oh taste and see.

So the adventure begins. It’s raining softly out my window, cooling things off a bit, though by the way my hair is drying, it seems the humidity hasn’t gone anywhere. I tried to dry my hair with a diffuser I brought along, but that did not work. As I plugged it into an outlet, there was a small “pop” and a not-so-small spark and my left hand is now a charcoal color from the explosion and kind of smells like burnt rubber (no actual burns though, PTL). I forgot to use an adapter which I later saw just inches from the outlet, put there for my use. But I am now just plain terrified to try it again, adapter or not. Ah well, so the frizz is here to stay.

This is my second day here in Manila and already I have a short story to tell. Not about my hair or the humidity or my stomach aches, but about a Filipino family. They were some of the first Filipinos I met … little voices at our gate, calling “Auntie Mary!” (the missionary lady I live with). Bob, Mary’s husband, ushered me outside where I was greeted by five siblings, all crowding around me and smiling. I spent the next hour talking to the oldest girl, Lean, the only one who knew any English, and laughing with the others. My first job is to help these kids get ready to start school. Easy enough, I thought.

I just got back from visiting their home. The only reason I can even call it a “home” is because I believe that term is used for the place where a family lives, where there is community. This family has that, and only that. In American terms, it was less than a shack; in fact, I wouldn’t even know how to describe it any terms we know. I knew they were extremely poor by their clothes and filthy bodies when they showed up at our house yesterday, and as I bounced along the road in a motorized tricycle, I tried to prepare myself for the kind of poverty I would see. I’m not sure it worked. They live in the middle of a grassy field surrounded by garbage. I was with Beth, a precious Filipina who works as Bob’s secretary, and we gingerly picked our way through the grass, trying to avoid sliding in the mud. The kids ran out to greet us, followed by the mother, surprised by our visit. I cannot get the image of her out of my head. I don’t think I ever will. She was so tiny, and wearing just a ragged, long t-shirt — it was a “Pooh” shirt, with English words, so American, yet here she was standing barefoot in the mud. I cannot describe the rest of her, I don’t know how to put it in words. One of the little girls, not older than four, pulled a naked baby out the door and the mother cradled him. He was sick, I was told, and the mother had no money for medicine. For the next twenty minutes or so, Beth conversed with the mother and translated questions I had. Our reason for going was to get the parents’ permission to enroll the kids in the local public school. It sounded so basic to me, so simple, but there are so many things to consider. Bob and Mary have offered to pay for their uniforms, books, and supplies, required for them to start. We needed the mother’s agreement to try and get them to school every morning. Yes, she said they could take them there and back in the family’s tricycle. Then, as we were about to leave, the mother asked what the kids would do during lunchtime at school as she had no food to send with them. Beth looked at me, and I said that somehow we could get them lunch money, or food to take with them. 

When she heard us discussing school, Mary Rose, probably about five years old, ran inside and brought out a very small backpack. I thought perhaps she had some school supplies inside, but the mother said that she wanted to show us her clothes … all of her clothes. I looked at Beth to make sure I heard right, and Beth nodded at me. The mother looked at the ground and I didn’t say anything. But Mary Rose was looking up at me with her huge dark eyes, and she was smiling so big, waiting for me to return the smile. [pictures to follow soon...]

The family has not chosen the lifestyle of a “squatter”, and they have no way of digging themselves out. These people are called squatters because they move from place to place, setting up their shacks, and then watching as a builder bull-dozes it to the ground because someone has bought the land right out from under their feet. Of course they never owned the land, so they have no legal right to it. The mother of these nine kids told us that she heard someone had already bought the new land they has just settled on and that they’d likely need to be out by August.

I have seen poverty in other places before, but I’ll never get used to it. I have decided to move the emotional experience I feel when I see it into action, rather than just constantly feeling so helpless in the face of such an extreme situation. I don’t know how it will all play out, my role in Manila that is. I am trusting God to use me in the most effective ways. One thing is certain, even if I left today, I feel forever changed.

I must go. Bob and Mary have invited several guests to their house for dinner tonight for me to meet. I am spoiled here.

Less than a fortnight…

… left in the U.S. before I fly to Manila. My left arm is sore from a recent tetanus shot, and I am thinking about flip-flops and finding my camera. I am very excited for the unknown — there is something sweet in not knowing, just trusting the One who holds the future.

This is my first post, obviously. More to come after I arrive on the island … check back often.