Wedding Day

“Weddings are important because they celebrate life and possibility.”

– Anne Hathaway

The next day, we fly to Cebu, the second largest city in the Philippines. We bring with us my baptism certificate and a certificate of divorce from a previous, short-lived marriage. Before we can get married, we must obtain an affidavit in lieu of certificate on our suitability for marriage – records necessary to obtain the affidavit, which must be signed by an official at a U.S. embassy or consulate. The only choices are Manila, which maintains the only U.S. embassy in the Philippines, or Cebu, which maintains a consular office. Cebu is half the distance, and it has beautiful beaches, so we settle on Cebu. It's the oldest city in the Philippines and the most developed – the center of trade, commerce, education and industry in the Visayas (the central island in the Philippines). 

The city fronts the sea and is surrounded by 167 islands, so I'm looking forward to the visit. Unfortunately, I come down with the flu (the first of many colds and flues I experience during the next several months in the Philippines) and we never make it to the beaches.

We arrive in Cebu, step outside the airport, and head toward the taxi stand. A woman accosts us and hustles us over to a limousine. “Same price,” she says. I'm skeptical, but Elsa thinks the woman is telling the truth, so we hop in. The driver twists and turns down side-streets past the same galvanized metal roofs, and hollow block homes and storefronts I've seen throughout Mindanao. We drive on through heavy traffic for about an hour until we reach a wide boulevard lined with trees and glass windowed high rises and Cebu is starting to look a little more American than Davao or Tagum. Finally we reach the Hotel Stella, a new budget hotel just across from a Seven Eleven in downtown Cebu.

Cooking pig entrails - the wedding breakfast.

The hotel has no restaurant, so we buy siomai (pork dumplings) and hot dogs and a large bottle of diet coke for dinner from the Seven Eleven and settle down in our room. The next day, after a breakfast of donuts and coffee from the Seven Eleven, we take a taxi to the U.S. consular office in the Waterfront Hotel. The hotel facade is early twentieth century Beaux-Arts style and it reminds me a little of the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco.

We leave our bags with the security guard at the entrance and go inside. A clerk hands me a marital status form. I fill it out and return it to the clerk. We take a seat and wait for a short while and then the consular officer walks up to us. He motions us to follow him to his office, where he asks me to raise my hand and swear that my written statements are true. I so attest. And that's it. The whole process takes less than a half an hour; it can take over two hours at the embassy in Manila.

“That was easy,” I tell Elsa as we're heading back to the hotel. Too easy and too quick for any type of transaction in the Philippines. So of course, I complicate matters. We just make it through our hotel entrance when I realize we left our bags with the security guard. We spend another 45 minutes returning to the consular office and retrieving our bags before we settle down again in our hotel. The guard said he saw us leaving, but never called out to us that he had our bags.

We visit Cebu for a couple of days more with me spending most of the time in bed recovering from my illness. Then we take a taxi back to the airport (at less than half the price of the limousine we took to the hotel on our first day) and fly back to Davao. Hopefully, we will spend more time in Cebu some day.

With our affidavit in lieu of certificate of suitability for marriage in hand, we can now obtain our marriage license from the municipal offices in Montevista. Some municipalities will not accept an affidavit, but require the certificate, which the U.S. government will not grant. Fortunately, Montevista does recognize the affidavit.

We take a tricycle up to the municipal hall. On the lower ground level lies a cement walled complex with a stage for events, some government offices, a basketball court, tennis courts and a children's playground with slides. A narrow cement road used by joggers and tricycles wanders around and through this complex. Above the complex, stairs lead up past a blue fountain with no water in it, but a larger than life mermaid in the center. The fountain operates during fiestas and other special events. The stairs continue up to a second level.

We avoid the stairs and take the tricycle up a side road to a two story cement office building housing the municipal offices. The office building sits on a hill offering a panoramic view of the mountains rising from the east.

Inside, we ask a couple of clerks where to find Mr. Sanchez, the municipal registrar before one of them sends us up to the the second floor where another clerk finally points us in the right direction. Then we sit outside a small office waiting for Mr. Sanchez to return from lunch. While we're waiting, I head outside to the Comfort Room. There's no toilet paper inside the small cement box of a room, and so I will wait until we return home to use the facilities. When I return, Elsa is speaking to Mr. Sanchez. We fill out some more paperwork and hand him $50, the cost for an American to purchase a marriage license. For a Filipino, the cost is $5.

So all the arrangements have been made and we wait in Tagum City for our wedding day to arrive. A couple of days before the wedding, we take the bus back to Elsa's home in Montevista. The house is filled with relatives staying overnight in preparation for the wedding. At the last minute, Elsa's former in-laws call and tell her they plan to attend – the four sisters and brother of her deceased husband and four of their kids. The full house is now overflowing. Relatives lie sleeping on the sofa, the beds and the floors throughout the house. The grandchildren sleep on the floor in our bedroom with the two youngest sharing the bed with Elsa and me.

The next morning, we awake early. The photographer/ videographer has already arrived as have two makeup artists who spend the morning applying make up and coiffing hair for the grandchildren, Elsa and her parents. Each sits quietly on the front porch awaiting his or her turn. Meanwhile Elsa's in-laws are cooking the pig's entrails in a large pot on an open fire in the backyard. The wedding party will dine on the pig at the reception, but the innards will be breakfast for everyone – except me.

Elsa and I pose with the godparents following the wedding ceremony.

The photographer snaps photos of all the morning's proceedings, including several pictures of our wedding garments and shoes that Elsa has laid out on the bed. Elsa's wears the traditional white gown and veil and I wear my black business suit instead of the traditional white barong.

After breakfast, we head over to church in Mare Vising's red KIA Sportage chauffeured by her driver. Most of the godparents are already there, including the Maestra's who will accompany me to the altar. The grandchildren and their cousins line up to serve as the ring bearer, flower girls, and the little bride and groom (an ancient custom in many cultures designed to fool the evil spirits and keep them away from the actual bride and groom – the little bride and groom are children and thus innocent and not subject to the evil spirits). Lilith, Elsa's sister-in-law, will do the reading from the bible. There are no bridesmaids or best man – just the godparents. 

Elsa and I with the children following the wedding.

The ceremony begins and I head down the aisle with the Maestra's. Next Elsa's parents accompany her down the aisle. Both parish priests stand at the altar and jointly conduct the ceremony. We exchange vows and wedding rings. Then I pour ten one peso coins into Elsa's hand from a bag called an arrhae to symbolize a monetary pledge to Elsa (arrhae means “earnest money”) – another old custom. Then two cousins, serving as the veil sponsors, place a veil over our shoulder and pin it to our chests while we kneel before the altar. They they drape a cord over our shoulders (called a “yuga”) to symbolize our union. The ceremony ends and we both sign the marriage license (it will take another three months to receive the officially recognized certificate).

Then the photographer snaps several pictures at the altar. First, he lines up all the godmothers behinds us and snaps a photo. Then he lines up all the godfathers behind us and snaps again. Then he lines up both the godmothers and godfathers behind us and snap. Then Elsa's daughters and grand kids. Snap. Snap. Then Elsa's brothers and sisters. Snap. Snap. Snap. Then the cousins. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. I'm afraid he's going to photograph us with each member of the audience and that we'll be there all day.

Finally, the photographer finishes, and Vising's chauffeur drives us to St. Bridget's convent for the reception. Just as Sister Carmen said many more show up than were invited. The table's are full and we open another room for relatives to dine. Elsa's brother Ray serves as master of ceremonies and her other brothers Manny and Bert also speak. People start clinking their glasses with spoons and Risa tells me I am expected to kiss Elsa each time they clink. People keep clinking and I keep kissing Elsa. After a while she tells me to stop, that they're joking me. I stop and there's no more clinking. The resort manager sings a few songs. Elsa and I dance briefly and each of us speaks and then it's over and we head back to Tagum. I'm already exhausted, but we have my birthday party to attend that evening. 

Elsa and I greet the godparents during the wedding reception.

Soon they arrive, mostly family, but also choir members from St. Joseph's, other friends of Elsa's and Ray's motorcycle club. We serve food left over from the reception and people sit and talk and sing karaoke until late in the night. In one corner of the sala sit the wedding gifts. Most will remain unopened until morning, but the group asks us to open one box. It contains a pair of underwear for each of us. Mine are, of course, a size too small. The group takes pictures of us holding up the underwear. Then there are more pictures. And more. Snap. Snap. Snap. There's more singing. And drinking. And finally it's over.

I'm exhausted and I've exhausted most of my money, so the honeymoon will have to wait until later. The Cebu trip will have to serve in its stead for now. 

Wedding Preparations

“I was just on the edge of getting married, and I was frenzied at the prospect of this great step in my life after having been a bachelor for so long. And I really wanted to take my mind off of the agony, and so I decided to sit down and write a book”

- Ian Fleming

“Who will come to the Wedding?” I ask Elsa.

“How many do you want to come?”

“I don't know.”

“If we leave it open, most of the barangay will attend, and we will need to kill a cow and six pigs for the reception.”

Not wanting to be responsible for such carnage, I suggest we keep the wedding to around 100 people. And besides, the poblacion barangay (central city ward) consists of over 2,000 people. Here in the Philippines the bridegroom is responsible for all wedding costs and such a feast is more than I can afford. We set the wedding date for October 7^th – the same day as my birthday – birthday celebrants also are responsible for all costs. So we can kill two birds with one stone and save money by serving food from the wedding reception at the birthday party in the evening.

The wedding will be at St. Joseph's the Worker Church in Montevista. I was baptized and confirmed in the Catholic Church so there will be no problems with the arrangements even though I'm non-religious and haven't been inside a Catholic Church in almost 50 years. I agree to the ceremony because Elsa is a lay leader in the church, the President of the PCC and the local GKK lay organizations, and it would be unseemly for her not to be married in the church. Furthermore, she would not be allowed to continue in her offices if she married outside the faith.

St. Joseph's Church where the wedding will take place.

Risa helps prepare 50 wedding invitations and Elsa hand delivers them. The invited guests include 32 people Elsa has asked to serve as our godparents, including the mayor of Montevista and the former provincial governor. Vising says she and Pare Udong want to be our godparents, too, even though they are more than ten years our juniors.

“I will be your mommy,” Mare says. “Udong your papa.”

Elsa wants to have the reception at St. Bridget's convent, a half mile down the road from St. Joseph's in Montevista. The Bridgetine Sisters are a religious order named after St. Bridget of Sweden. I didn't know there were any saints in Sweden, but it seems they are everywhere.

We take a tricycle down the road past the market a couple of kilometers where we come upon the gates of St. Bridget's. We ring a bell and after a short wait, the gate creaks open and Sister Carmen stands before.

“Welcome to our home,” she says as she bows before us. A short, squat woman in her 60s, she speaks excellent English which she picked up from living in the U.S. for several years. She is from the area and many of her relatives live just across the road. We follow her toward the convent, passing a large fountain basin surrounded by yellow trumpet vines, the centerpiece of a landscaped and well groomed grounds and garden.

Inside the convent, Sister Carmen leads us into an antechamber where Saint Bridget and Pope Francis stare down at us from pictures on the wall. Sister Carmen motions us to a cushioned bench where we sit while she takes the adjoining chair. We commence to discuss the arrangements.

“How many will attend?” she asks.

“About 150,” Elsa answers. The numbers keep going up.

“Then you should plan on 175,” says Sister Carmen. “Many more will come to eat.” She looks over at me and explains, “It is the Filipino way.” My savings are almost exhausted and I'm getting concerned. We discuss the food, which must include manok (chicken), lechon (roast pig), macaroni salad, ice cream, and of course the wedding cake. Sister Carmen will do the shopping and butchering and arrange all the decorations. She takes us on a tour of the grounds. In the back of the convent, the nuns work a vegetable garden and also raise livestock for their food, including turkeys.

“Would you like turkey for the reception?” she asks. Sounds good to me, so we put it on the menu. (I haven't yet tasted Philippines turkey – quite a bit more stringy and tasteless than what I'm used to). Sister Carmen shows us the rooms and the space where the reception will be held. Then we see the chapel.

“It would be perfect for the wedding,” says Elsa. “Could we have the ceremony here?”

“We used to have weddings in the chapel, but our new Mother Superior will not allow it,” says Sister Carmen. I detect some discontent in her voice – perhaps resentment at the changes?

“She's the Indian?” asks Elsa. Sister Carmen nods. I'm thinking she's speaking about an indigenous person, a lumad, or native Filipino, but just then a tall nun turns the corner and joins us in the anteroom – it is the Mother Superior and I soon realize that they are talking about a nun recently arrived from India. Elsa cajoles Mother Superior, begging her to let us hold the wedding in the chapel. Mother Superior hesitates, and Elsa continues to cajole. Finally, the nun nods in agreement.

“I'm very surprised,” says Sister Carmen after the Mother Superior leaves. “She hasn't allowed anyone to use the chapel.” Elsa can be persuasive. Then she asks Elsa where we will live after the wedding. Elsa tells her we are staying in Tagum.

“You should stay in Montevista,” Sister Carmen tells me. She can't understand why anyone would live in the city. “Too noisy and no one knows their neighbors. Montevista is much better. Fresher air. You know your neighbors.” Then she suggests we move to the convent. “You stay in one of our spare rooms. Take your morning strolls in the garden. We have a room with an air con.” More pressure to move to Montevista. The morning strolls in the garden sound tempting, but I can't imagine living in a convent. 

 I get a haircut at Three Sister's Salon in Mawab in preparation for the wedding. Hilda (the man drying                 my hair) owns the salon and is one of the three sisters. The other two men are his "sisters."

We return to Tagum the next day. In the morning, Elsa's brother Ray visits. It is his first visit to our home. I offer him some brewed coffee and ask if he has tried it before. He says he has enjoyed brewed coffee at government executive meetings and so is not unfamiliar with it. I give him a cup and he smiles and politely drinks the coffee.

“It's good,” he says, but I don't think he really enjoys it. He sips at it slowly. Then he spots the karaoke machine we have hooked up to our TV and his face lights up.

“Would it be alright if I bring my motorcycle club here for a meeting?” he asks. He assures me the members are all professionals – government officials, engineers, businessmen. “They will cause no problem,” he says.

“Go for it,” I tell him.

About a week later, in the early evening, just outside our gate, we hear rumbling sounds. I open the gate and there's a dozen men with their wives and girlfriends sitting on the back of their motorcycles, revving their engines. I wave them in and they park in the courtyard.

While Ray and his club members have their meeting, I brew coffee and we make some spaghetti. We are expected to provide the refreshments. The wives and girlfriends join us in the sala (living room) while the men meet in the courtyard. The meeting goes on for an hour and then we join the group outside.

One of Ray's friends is manager at a local beach resort. Ray mentions that Elsa and I are getting married. He whispers something to the manager and he offers us a free night at the resort as a wedding present. Of course, the free night never materializes, but it is a nice gesture. Ray goes inside and starts the Karaoke machine. He is a good singer as are most of Elsa's family although none quite so good as Elsa. The resort manager joins in and he is a excellent singer. Perhaps, like Elsa, he could have been a professional. He was invited to sing on the Philippines version of “The Voice.” Ray asks him to sing at our wedding reception and he agrees. Ray will be master of ceremonies at the reception and all of Elsa's brothers will speak. The wedding party will consist of family members and godparents. The arrangements are now complete – except for the marriage license and an affidavit we must obtain attesting to my suitability for marriage. For this we must make a trip to Cebu.

(to be continued)

Chapels and Churches in a Small Town

“I love those connections that make this big old world feel like a little village.”

Gina Bellman, actress

I reluctantly follow Elsa, stumbling down the rocky road toward the purok kapilya (chapel). It is already dark outside – the sun sets at around 6 p.m. year round – and there are no street lights. I'm afraid I might step in a pile of Carabao dung or trip on the rocks or fall in the drainage ditch where I might contract snail fever (schistosomiasis) and destroy my liver. Fortunately, we arrive safely, pass through the front gate and make our way inside the kapilya up the aisle to the front pew.

We sit next to Victor, the chapel guitarist. Together, Elsa and he serve as the choir. Across the aisle sits Rudy Baclaan, the Kaabag or lay leader; the official priest only serves mass once a month, so Rudy serves in his stead. For the liturgy, he wears a simple white Kamasita with a green stole. His wife, Judy, the lector (lay reader), sits next to him, preparing to read the scripture from a wooden lectern set in front of them. 

San Isidro Labrador Chapel in Purok 1B, Montevista

In front of us, sits the altar a simple white draped table. On one side of the cement wall behind the altar hangs a painting of angels pulling a plow in the fields while San Isidro kneels beside them and prays. It's a fitting tribute to the patron saint of farmers and laborers for whom the chapel is named. 

On the other side of the altar hangs a painting of the Christ child looking up at Joseph while he plies his craft carving furniture – also fitting since the main Catholic Church in Montevista is St. Joseph the Worker. (San Jose, Spanish for St. Joseph, was once the name of the town and is still the name of the central city barangay). A crucifix is the only other adornment on the otherwise bare wall along which several lizards scamper. The pews fill slowly – only about 20 people attend the liturgy this evening.

We wait for the liturgy to begin – another Kaabag was supposed to bring the guidelines, but he has not shown up. Some 15 minutes pass, then 30 minutes, then 45 minutes, then an hour. I'm growing impatient and start to grumble. Finally Elsa asks me to go back to our house to get a bible. It will substitute for the liturgy guidelines. I return a few minutes later, bible in hand, and finally the liturgy can start.

The Kaabag heads back to the chapel entrance with his wife and the processional begins. Elsa's strong voice leads the singing of the Ang Tawag (the Call) while Victor strums his guitar, and the Kaabag and a small group march up the aisle. The Kaabag takes his place at the altar and intones, “Sa ngalan sa Amahan ug sa Anak ug sa Espiritu Santo” – “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

It's a traditional service, following the standard order of the liturgy highlighted by the narrative of the last supper and the serving of the holy Eucharist. The Kaabag raises the host and says, “Kini mao ang Kordero sa Dios” – “this is the lamb of God.” Everyone kneels on the cement floor – there are no padded kneelers, not even wooden kneelers, attached to the pews. Communion is served. 

The Kaabag's wife reads a passage from the bible and Elsa makes a few announcements. Finally, two hours after the mass was supposed to have begun, the Kaabag intones, “Tapos na ang liturhiya – “The liturgy is ended.” The parishioners respond, “Salamat sa Dios.” – “thanks be to God.” Yes, indeed. Thanks be to God that the liturgy is over; it's been a long night.

As we turn to leave, a buxom woman in her 40s rushes up to us.

“This is Winnie,” Elsa tells me.

“Pwede ko nimo ipailaila sa amerikano,” says Winnie – “Can you introduce me to an American?” She giggles. I tell her as I've told others I don't know any single men who are looking for brides in the Philippines.

“She is a joker,” says Elsa. “And my best friend.” Winnie does Elsa's pedicures and manicures for the princely sum of 50 pesos (about $1) and often stays overnight at Elsa's home.

Thelma, a gaunt woman in her 60s with sunken cheeks, no chin and a long nose comes up to me. (Filipinos generally have smaller noses and often refer to Americans as “taas ilong” – long nose). Thelma only has a couple of teeth, a deficit common to people in this area as few go to the dentist other than to have extractions. Filings and crowns are too expensive as are dentures although some wear a partial called a pustiso. Most go toothless. 

Thelma is a catechist – a lay religious instructor and a frequent reader during the mass. We've just met, so I'm taken aback when she hands me a card, asking for a donation to pay for her granddaughter's high school graduation souvenir book. Elsa suggests I give her a 20 peso note.

On Sunday, Elsa asks me to attend mass with her at St. Joseph the Worker Church. Two days in a row attending church seems too much to me, but again, I agree begrudgingly.

You can see the church from the highway perched on a hill high above the town, it's long bright blue galvanized roof set in the midst of the surrounding coconut forest; the setting reminds me a little of the medieval cathedral in Chartres, France with it's massive hill top structure dominating the cityscape. St. Joseph's is nowhere near as grand or as old as Chartres. In fact, St. Joseph's is still in construction and has no windows – only a four foot high cement wall with cement block lintels set on cement columns abutting the steel girders that hold up the roof. Still the church does dominate the town of Montevista.

We ride a tricycle past the municipal hall and up the hill, passing a neighborhood of small bamboo homes clinging to the steep sides and peering down deep into the forest at a narrow river stream below. We make our way up the hill and drive through two large steel gates into the church compound. The church stands to one side and to the right are the church offices, a seminar room, and the rectory.

Mare Vising is at the door collecting money for the completion of the church. She is the chair of the Church Construction Committee. We approach and she shakes a box at me filed with coins and bills.

“Palihug hatag,” she cries out. “Please give.”

She hits me up for a 16,000 peso donation to build iron gates on the walls around the church. I feel awkward and don't really want to make the donation – I'd rather give my money directly to the poor of which there are many in the region – but feel pressured to do so, and so nod my head in agreement.

We pass through the entrance, not yet gated, into a large cement structure. The church is cavernous with its galvanized iron roof rising on steel girders some eighty feet above the floor and stretching another 100 yards or so over a bare cement floor. The nave consists of four rows of pews separated by wide columns and running 25 columns deep. A small tiled area covers the floor near the altar. 

For now, the church remains open to an awe-inspiring view of the surrounding mountains and the valley below; I tell myself it's a shame they want to build iron gates on the walls because that will surely obstruct the view. 

Inside the church, nature offers us both the sacred and profane – birds flitter above us singing their psalms in the rafters while a couple of dogs wander through the open entrances defecating in the aisles.

Again, the ornamentation is sparse. There is a small statue of Mary on right side of the altar and another of Joseph on the left side. A vase of flowers sits on the stairs leading up to the altar. Most strikingly, instead of the traditional semicircular apse, the wall behind the altar consists of five triangular shaped recessed niches, the largest about 20 feet tall, with each succeeding bay a little smaller than the last and each lighted with a different color as they lead from the altar to the crucifix.

Elsa is a leading member of the church choir and so we climb up cement stairs to the choir loft in the back of the church and take our seats in plastic chairs, waiting for the mass to begin. The window wall balcony has not yet been completed and a couple of spaces remain open to the level below.

Elsa introduces me to several of the choir members – Rodrigo and Susan Maestra, retired college teachers recently returned from a trip to Australia and soon to become our godparents; their son Rolito, an administrator with PhilHealth; two middle-aged women, Jeaneth Labrador and Rossane Care; and Carlos and Jun Jun, officers in the Montevista Gay Association.

While the Catholic Church still formally denounces homosexuality as a “moral disorder” and “contrary to natural law,” the unofficial attitude seems more tolerant – at least in the Philippines. In fact, the Philippines has recently been ranked as one of the most gay-friendly nations in the world, and the most gay-friendly in Asia. 

And so gays can be open and active in the church although they must marry someone of the opposite sex to take on an official lay position. Elsa is well respected by the gay community since she was woman organizer for the provincial government and headed the gender equality program. Because of their affection for her, Carlos and Jun Jun both urge me to move to Montevista.

“Elsa is a woman of Montevista,” proclaims Carlos. “For her sake, you must move to Montevista.” 

After the mass, we return to Tagum City, but I can see the writing is on the wall. Elsa is a woman of Montevista and Montevista will become our home.

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

Security Philippines Style

Almost half of the population of the world lives in rural regions and mostly in a state of poverty. Such inequalities in human development have been one of the primary reasons for unrest and, in some parts of the world, even violence.

– A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, Indian scientist

“I want to fire a gun,” says Hairy Lynn, Elsa's youngest daughter. I've just asked her why she wants to be a security guard. She takes aim and fires an imaginary gun, blows smoke from the barrel, then twirls and holsters it. My pacifist leanings give me pause for concern. However, I agree to loan her money so she can take the training and get a license. Not a career I would choose for her, but at least, working as a guard brings job security.

You see them at the entrances of all the malls and most other public and private facilities – armed security guards dressed in police uniforms replete with badges, handcuffs, and batons, patting down customers, checking their bags and running people through x-ray machines. The four story department store at Gaisano Mall has entrances on each floor and a couple of security guards stand at each of these entrances. They check your baggage both entering and exiting the stores. Goods purchased at one store cannot be brought into another store, but must be checked in at a baggage counter. 

What's happening here? Too many instances of shoplifting? Over-vigilant attitudes left over from the Marcos martial law period? A concern about terrorism? It is true that the U.S. State Department regularly lists a travel advisory of “extreme caution” when traveling to the island of Mindanao where we live.

“Separatist and terrorist groups across Mindanao continued their violent activities, conducting bombings and kidnappings, attacking civilians and political leaders, and battling Philippine security forces,” according to the advisory. 

 Some say the warnings are an excuse for the U.S. government to keep its foot in the door after the closing of its Philippines military bases. Some 6,000 U.S. troops are deployed in Mindanao, an intervention resented by many.

There are armed battles between the army and Muslim separatists but these occur several hours to the West of us and the numbers involved are very small. The Philippines Army does battle with the rebel National Peoples Army, but these skirmishes occur largely in the surrounding mountains, not in towns or cities. And civilians rarely, if ever, are involved in these actions.

Our everyday life seems untouched by these concerns. Still, there are occasional reminders that the threat of violence lies behind this mask of quietude. 

One evening, Pare Udong has just finished fixing the toilet in our bathroom and is in the courtyard talking to Elsa when there's a rapid fire pop pop pop and a burst of fire in the sky. Udong and Elsa make a dash for the bushes and hide behind them. They're afraid the Army is engaging the New People's Army in a pitched battle. But it's only the fireworks display from the opening ceremonies of the Batang Pinoy Games at the sports complex down the road.

Checkpoint in Lanao, Mindanao. Image: Mindanews, September 15 2011

Another day, we take a bus to the Bureau of Immigration in Davao; we need to update my visa. Just outside the city, we approach a barricade and armed soldiers motion us over. The bus pulls to the side of the road and all the male passengers exit to a waiting shed while a soldier climbs on board and checks the bus. He's looking for bombs. I'm not sure why they don't ask women or children to exit; maybe they don't think they could be terrorists. Every time we travel to Davao, we go through the same routine. Overkill, I think until one day, I read in the paper that ten people were killed and 30 injured in a bus bombing in Bukidnon, a province a couple of hours north of Davao.

Still, this seems to be an isolated instance, and these violent instances seem small compared to the large number of extrajudicial killings that occur in the area. In Davao and Tagum City, there have been over a thousand instances of thugs driving by on motorcycles, pulling out pistols and shooting unarmed civilians. You might compare them to the drive by shootings that occur in gang ridden areas of the U.S.A. The difference? These drive-by's are not so random; they are sanctioned by, and some would say, ordered by local government officials. Locally, the press refers to the hired killers as members of death squads. The victims of these death squads are suspected criminals, often drug dealers with the occasional innocent civilian killed by mistake – or not. Sometimes the victims are political opponents or journalists. The Philippines has the world's third most killing of journalists. Elsa's brother Manny, a Davao radio commentator, regularly receives death threats.

One day, on our way to Elsa's home in Montevista, we stop at the bus terminal in Nabunturan and take a tricycle up the main road to conduct business at a local bank when a car caravan goes by. I think it's a funeral procession, but there are placards hanging from cars and tricycles proclaiming, “Justice for Claudio” and “Who Killed Claudio?”

“Who is Claudio,” I ask Elsa. She tells me Claudio Martin Larrazabal was a Leyte town Vice Mayor assassinated a few days previously. He was a popular local mayor, she says, adding that she suspects political opponents killed him. In a local newspaper, I read that Vice Mayors’ League of the Philippines (VMLP) President Isko Moreno calls the killing election-related. In the article, he reported that 19 vice mayors died because of election-related violence during the May 2013 elections, and that he suspected the killing of Larrazabal could be a preview of more such incidents in the 2016 elections. A month later, four men were arrested and charged with Larrazabal's murder. One of the suspects tells the police that the killing was, indeed, politically motivated. 

Bodies recovered from mass grave following Maguindanao massacre.
Image: file photo, philstar.com, November 22, 2014.

Such incidents are not uncommon. In 2009, 58 members of the Manguadadatu family, lawyers, journalists and other civilians were kidnapped and brutally killed on their way to a political rally in the Maguindanao province of Mindanao where Esmael Mangudadatu, the Vice Mayor of Bulan, planned to announce his candidacy for governor. At least five of the women victims were raped and most of the women had been shot in their genitals and beheaded. The perpetrators attempted to bury the victims in a mass grave but a military helicopter flying overhead discovered them in the act. They escaped, but the evidence pointed toward the involvement of the governor's son, Andal Ampatuan Jr. He was arrested and charged with the murders although never tried. Trials are rare in such cases. At least 34 journalists were killed in the Maguinanao Massacre and the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) has called this affair the single deadliest event for journalists in history.

Despite these horrific incidents, the level of violence in the Philippines is sometimes overstated. The homicide rate here is only slightly higher than the U.S.A. – six per 100,000 versus five per 100,000 in the U.S.A. – much lower than that in many Latin American countries, including Ecuador, the new retirement haven for Americans, which has three times the homicide rate of the Philippines. However, in Southeast Asia, only Indonesia has a higher homicide rate. Japan and Singapore have homicide rates of 0.3 per 100,000; China, Vietnam, and Malaysia all have homicide rates of two per 100,000 or less. And with international drug syndicates increasingly using the Philippines as a transit hub for the illegal drug trade, there is some concern that the level of violence will increase here.

So with some uneasiness, I'm advancing the money to Hairy Lynn, hoping that she was just joking about wanting to fire a gun and that her enthusiasm for her new career doesn't reflect some sort of gunslinger mentality. Maybe she's just been watching too many American westerns. The classic “Frontier Justice” anthology comes to mind.  

Meeting New People

"If a man does not make new acquaintance as he advances through life, he will soon find himself left alone.”

– Samuel Johnson

Elsa and I soon establish a routine. We rise every morning around 5 a.m. and take a walk up to Capitol Road and down the street to the Davao Del Norte Sports Complex across from the provincial government buildings.

“Maayong Buntag,” we greet the guard at the gate. He nods and we head over to a synthetic rubberized track that we circle for a half hour or so while listening to popular music blaring from huge loudspeakers set up in the stands. We're usually joined on the track by another 100 or so other walkers and joggers. After a few laps around the track, we watch the sun rise over the mountains to the south of the city. The track heats up and we quickly finish our jaunt and return home for a big breakfast served by Elsa's nephew Vladimir, who has agreed to cook and keep house for us.

After breakfast we shop at the public market for fresh fish, fruits and vegetables or go to Gaisano Mall. Later friends visit or we visit friends. I write or call friends back in the U.S. or we sing along to the karaoke machine. On weekends, we take the bus to Montevista and spend Saturday and Sunday with Elsa's daughters and grandchildren.

****

On our walks around the track, we often meet friends and former associates of Elsa's. One day, we run into Dr. Bagani, a physician now retired.

“Ay, you are out jogging?” he asks. I consider our walk a leisurely stroll, but Filipinos call this jogging. Three or four times a week, I break up our walk with 15 or 20 minutes of race walking.

“Pas pas lakaw,” Elsa says. “Fast walk.”

Dr. Bagani now runs a bar and he invites us to visit. Elsa and I agree, but neither of us drink, so the visit never happens. Another day, we run in to Father Arnauld Tiplaca, the rector of the local college seminary.

“You are out jogging?” he also asks. Father Tiplaca has visited the U.S. and speaks English well. “How do you like the Philippines?” Another question I am asked frequently. Elsa talks to him in Cebuano. He nods and then heads out the gate. I ask Elsa what they talked about. She tells me she asked him about the prospects of me teaching English at the seminary. Father Tiplaca sees the value of having a native English speaker teaching the seminarians (most English teachers in the area speak Cebuano with English, at best, a poor second, and usually a third or fourth language). He says he will discuss it with his staff. I'm not sure that I want to teach any longer, but about a year later, the discussion comes up again and I finally take a job teaching English one day a week at the seminary.

After our walk, we return home for breakfast. Vladimir, thin, and taller than most of he family, is about 40 and teaches primary school. He's taking a continuing education program on food service management and wants to master American as well as Filipino cuisine. He agrees to cook for us, provided I promise to teach him how to cook some American dishes. I agree. The first dish I teach him is that grand old American standby Bombay Shrimp Curry (at least it's an old standby for me – the first dish I learned to cook for guests). He does an admirable job preparing it and decides to cook this dish for his course final. Vladimir also cleans the house and washes our clothes all for the princely sum of $10 a week, plus room and board. He sleeps on the floor in Vising's third house on the property.

Lorna with Elsa

Every morning, following our walk, we return home to the large meals he prepares for breakfast, which usually include potatoes, rice, fresh vegetables, dried fish or salted fish, salted eggs, toast, and desert such as pineapple in sugar sauce on toast. After breakfast, he heads out to school and returns in the evenings to cook dinner. He often returns to his room to study, but sometimes enjoys sitting in the sala (living room) to watch and discuss American movies and culture with me. One day he serves red snapper (known as maya maya in Cebuano) for breakfast.

“Would you like the head and eyes?” he asks me. I shake my head and Elsa scoops them up on her plate and takes a bite.

“Delicious,” she says. I cringe, but Filipinos don't waste any food and consider the head and eyes of fish, pigs, and chicken as well as pig's intestine and chicken blood to be delicacies. I ask Vladimir if he knows any chicken dishes.

“Bring a live one home from the market and I will butcher it,” he says.

“No thanks,” I tell him again cringing at the thought of a live chicken butchered in our home. But Elsa finds a dressed chicken at the market and brings it home for Vladimir to cook.

Visitors often drop by the house. A frequent visitor is Lorna who lives nearby in the capitol. Like Elsa, Lorna is a widow. An educated woman, she was trained as a chemical engineer but since her husband's death,, lives on the income from her sari sari store and the commissions she earns from brokering deals – sales of cars, furnishings, houses and other items. Lorna, offers to help us with major purchases like these although I am not really in the market for any of these.

“Elsa is my best friend,” she tells me when we first meet. Many of Elsa's friends I meet over the next few months tell me the same thing. “Elsa is my best friend.” She has many best friends. Elsa met Lorna through her Women's Council activities. Lorna was the president of a barangay Women's Council and Elsa was the women's organizer for the Compostela Valley provincial government. Lorna is a little heavy like many of the more educated middle class, middle-aged women I am soon to meet in the Philippines.

“I would like to be fat,” says Elsa. She weighs a scant 100 pounds and mentions this to me several times. Being heavier is a sign of health or being better off than those who are skinny. Filipinas seem to be less obsessed with weight than Americans, maybe because women here rarely, if ever, read the women's beauty magazines so prevalent in the U.S. Still, it's rare that I see any truly obese people here apart from American expats. Instead, the beauty obsession seems to be around white skin. All the skin care products boast that they contain whitening agents and all the ads for them on TV emphasize this feature.

“Do you know any American men who would like to meet Lorna,” Elsa asks me – a question that comes up whenever she introduces me to one of the several widows I meet over the coming days. I tell all of them most of my friends are married or not looking to move overseas.

One day, a middle-aged woman comes to the door selling soaps. I don't want to buy anything, but Elsa tells me the woman is a friend of Lorna's and so it's an insult not to offer her snacks and purchase some product. I reluctantly agree to purchase a bar of papaya soap. I'm annoyed because uninvited guests and particularly salespeople are never welcomed in the U.S. Here it is different. Hospitality is expected and to not be hospitable brings shame.

Shame or 'Hiya' is a core value here in the Philippines and Elsa frequently refers to it to explain situations such as relatives not speaking to me – because it would bring shame for them not to speak English correctly or daughters not telling me about an upcoming event because they feel ashamed to ask me to attend or take them to the affair.

We have no living room furniture, and Lorna tells us she has a friend who is selling hers.

I'm a little wary, but agree when Lorna offers to accompany us to her friend's house to inspect the furniture. A friend of hers drives the three of us in an Isuzu Elf truck up the road to a small house on a side street in the next major town, Panabo. The owner tells us she is moving back to Manila and wants to sell her furniture before leaving. The furniture includes a sofa and two arm chairs made of a beautiful polished high gloss nara wood also known as New Guinea Rosewood or red sandalwood. It's the national tree and can no longer be logged – at least not legally although there is much illegal logging happening in Mindanao. There is also an apparador (clothes closet), dining room table and accompanying chairs, and two nara wood side tables and a nara coffee table all for a total cost about $1,000. It seems a reasonable price and so I make the purchase – one of many unanticipated expenses over the next few months.

Lorna also offers to take us to various properties to see about buying a house. We visit one home that I like in a new gated community, Camellia Homes. It's a two story with modern western appliances and relatively inexpensive compared to American homes. Still, it would require financing on my part. I consider it, but then Elsa finds out that financing is not available for anyone over 60 and so we decide against it.

Lorna offers to help us buy a car, too. I'm a little concerned about exhausting my savings and don't want to buy a car right now. Nevertheless, Lorna drops by on a couple of occasions with men who bring their cars to show to me. They rev up their engines and offer to take me for a spin. I politely look under the hood, give a few nods of appreciation, but really am not interested. Elsa is interested in us buying a car. During the recent Typhoon Pablo which caused so much devastation in Compostela Valley, people were unable to evacuate and Elsa wants to avoid this in the future.

“If we buy a car, will you help drive it?” I ask her.

“I've never driven a car,” she says. She doesn't even have a license. Her daughter Risa later tells me that her father tried to teach Elsa to drive a motorcycle, but gave up after six months of repeated failures.

“She's too nervous,” says Risa.

Mare Vising visits while Lorna is there and, when she finds out Lorna had brought around two cars owners seeking to make a sale, asks me if I want to take over the payments on her six month old car – only 28,000 pesos a month or a little over $600 a month.

“No thank you,” I tell her.

Lorna and Mare Vising also ask me if I want to invest in a gold mine. Lorna owns some property and she's sure there's gold on it.

“No thank you,” I tell her. Vising also suggests I invest in a gas station or a pawn shop. “No, thank you,” I tell her again. “It's too early for me to make an investment.” It's clear they perceive me to be a rich American even though I'm living on a pension. Still, even someone living on a meager American pension seems prosperous to many Filipinos. I'm finding that prosperity, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.