Visiting Montevista

“When you truly accept that those children in some far off place in the global village have the same value as you in God's eyes or even in just your eyes, then your life is forever changed; you see something that you can't un-see.”

– Bono

Hairy Lynn begins her security guard course in Tagum. The trip from her mother's home in Montevista to Tagum takes almost two hours, and so she starts staying over at our home in Margarita Village. Before and after the class, she does the laundry and other household chores – tasks already assigned to Vladimir. Elsa says that Hairy Lynn does a better job than Vladimir and suggests we only pay him to do the cooking. I don't think he is happy with the decision as we see less and less of him. Soon, he appears only at meal times. Too bad. I miss my conversations with him.

Elsa's other daughters and her grandchildren sometimes visit us in Tagum, but mostly we visit them on the weekends. The distance from Tagum to Montevista is only 44 kilometers or less than 30 miles, but the bus trip takes almost two hours because the bus stops in Mawab and Nabunturan where we must wait for it to empty and for it to fill with new passengers. The bus also stops anywhere else a passenger wishes to depart along the side of the road. Tricycles and trucks driving ten miles an hour clog the highway further slowing our journey.

The trip always begins at the Tagum Overland Transport Terminal or bus station next to the public market and like the public market, the bus station is a beehive of activity. We take a tricycle to the terminal and as soon as we hop off, men rush up to us.

“Asa moadto?” they shout. Where are you going?

“Montevista,” we say and they rush us over to the bus going to Compostela Valley. We climb aboard. Vendors surround the buses. “Palit, mani mais,” they shout. “You buy peanuts and corn.” Other vendors selling bottled water and fruit drinks, watches, and eggs stick their wares through the window. Some climb on board and work their way up and down the aisle selling their goods.

Tagum City bus terminal

Occasionally we ride a relatively new, air conditioned bus, but these Air Cons charge more – 60 pesos per person instead of the 50 pesos fare on the older buses. And so today, we board an older bus, its windows broken and held together by masking tape, its seats sun-faded and without springs, its side door burned black from a fire and never repainted. Peeling paint hangs from the ceiling and sides, uncovering bare plywood panels. Smashed in plywood flooring over the right front wheel well exposes the frame and its cross members. Torn covers on the headrests reveal the foam inside. A moth-eaten red curtain, gold fringed and riddled with holes divides us from the driver. Like many public and private vehicles, a plastic rosary hangs from the center post in the front window – perhaps an important safeguard given the dilapidated condition of the bus. Despite its deficiencies, the bus is packed.

We are ready to depart, and a dispatcher pounds on the back of the bus a couple of time and yells, “move,” which tells the driver to back out and proceed. After the bus has backed far enough from the bay, the dispatcher moves to the side, gives several fast raps and yells, “oh,” meaning “stop.” The bus driver steers right, and drives up to the main street, turns the corner and heads up the road, passing the market on the way to the National Highway.

We stop for some passengers at the side of the road. “Comval!” the conductor yells out signifying the destination – Compostela Valley. We drive on, spying from one side of the road, the market's brightly colored tarpaulin banners as they stream by us advertising, Tanduay rum, Milo chocolate malt power, face whiteners, teeth whiteners, and mobile phone recharge loads. There are always banners announcing the latest 70% off sale at Gaisano Mall (which seem to occur every weekend). On the other side, bakeries, restaurants, drug stores, grocery stores, and animal feed stores pass us by. A Minute Burger carry out restaurant bids us to “buy one take one.” Men carrying baskets of fish and women carrying 50 kilogram bags of rice on their heads rush by.

Soon we are heading down the national highway. A ten kilometer long lane of palm trees lines the highway. Soon we leave them behind and climb up a hill, rising high above a coconut filled valley until we reach a billboard welcoming us to Compostela Valley.

The conductor ambles down the aisle, and stops at each seat, asking the passengers in each seat where they are going. “Montevista,” Elsa says. The conductor tears what looks like a transfer ticket from a book. There are no actual transfers here. You ride the bus to your destination or to the next terminal where you must pay a separate fare for a tricycle or motorcycle or jeepney to your final destination. In fact, “transfer” here means “change seats” as in transfer to the front. Sometimes it means, “walk cross the road.” But it does not mean “transfer from one bus to the other.”

The ticket lists the fares for different destinations. “Senior citizen discount?” says Elsa. That's a 20 percent discount. The conductor nods and punches the ticket with a nipper and hands it back before continuing on down the aisle. He returns several minutes later and collects the money. All along the road, people yell out destinations. The conductor yells the place to stop back to the driver and he pulls over to let the passenger out.

There are many buses on the road, and many of them belch black smoke out the exhaust. To demonstrate its commitment to saving the environment, the national government has offered a 10,000 peso reward to those who report drivers of such vehicles. However, to receive the reward you must perform a citizen's arrest, physically apprehend the violator and take him or her to the police station. Not surprisingly, few, if any such rewards are collected.

After many stops, we finally arrive in Montevista. “Basketball court,” yells Elsa and the bus screeches to a halt in front of the basketball court 100 feet from her house. Once again, Shan Shan and Fem Fem come running and screaming up the road as we walk toward the house. They run into our open arms and accompany us to the door.

After settling in, we have a family dinner – usually rice and fish (fried or boiled in a soup). I miss Vladimir's cooking. Hairy Lynn and Risa do most of the cooking. Sometimes Krisna. They cook fine, but all of them have a limited repertoire, consisting mostly of fish and rice with the occasional spaghetti dinner.

After dinner, the two oldest grandchildren, Crem Crem and Ced Ced, leave to stay at their father's house for the weekend. He lives in another purok (neighborhood) just up the road. The family watches a movie on TV together. Often, they have seen the movie many times. They've watched, “Frozen” and “Twilight,” about six times each.

In the mornings, Elsa and I take a walk, strolling up the National Highway a half mile to the Municipal Plaza. A narrow road circles the plaza's lower level. We walk around it, passing a tennis court, basketball court, playground, the Freedom Stage, and some offices. From the upper level, the municipal buildings peer down on us. After circling three or four times, we head back home. The family is already sitting in the kusina (kitchen) enjoying a breakfast of scrambled eggs, hot dogs and rice (and occasionally hotcakes). I usually forego these pleasures and just have toast or oatmeal and a boiled egg.

Saturday is market day when local farmers bring fresh produce to the palengke (market) and the prices are cheaper than during the week. We stroll by the stalls and pick out some fresh fruits – mangoes, pineapple, guava and lanzones. Elsa would like some durian, but thankfully, they are out of season. We also stop at the vegetable stalls and scrutinize the ampalaya (bitter melon), batang (long string beans), gabi (taro), kamote (sweet potato), kangkong (spinach), labang (bamboo shoots), patola (zucchini), pechay (chinese cabbage), and talong (eggplant).

Elsa picks up some pechay. “Pila?” she asks. “How much?”

“Diyes pisos,” says the vendor. “Ten pesos.”

“Singko pisos?” says Elsa. “Can you give it to me for five pesos?”

They come to terms and we finish shopping at the stalls. We head over to the Happy Bee grocery store for fresh milk and eggs and then over to Arbee's Bakery for pandesal – delicious bread rolls.

Saturday evenings, Elsa attends mass at the Purok (neighborhood) chapel, a simple, community built chapel with half walls topped with turquoise painted iron grills. Half walls topped with cyclone wire fencing surround the chapel. I haven't been inside a Catholic church in 50 years, but Elsa is a church leader – president of the Parish Coordinating Council (PCC) and of the Gagmayng Kristohanong Katilingban (GKK or Basic Christian Community) and also active in many other Catholic organizations, so I grudgingly agree to go.

TO BE CONTINUED