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.

Setting Up House

Where thou art, that is home.

– Emily Dickinson

We move in to the Sanat's house in Margarita Village in Tagum City. About four kilometers from downtown, the village has a suburban feel with houses a little further apart and a little larger than many of those in the surrounding neighborhoods though still relatively modest by American standards. Some homes have lawns and sidewalks and brick style facades. Just down the road are some recently constructed larger, more upscale homes. The rocky road in front of the house has a new cement lane with cement forms set on the the other side.

“When will the road be completed?” I ask Mare Vising.

“The government is constructing it,” she says. “So probably in about a year.”

Once a banana plantation, there are still many banana and coconut trees clearly visible from our roof balcony with cows milling in the fields. We live near the crossroads between Capitol Road and the National Highway and about a 15 minute tricycle ride from the public market and malls. 

Elsa with daughters Hairy Lynn and Risa

Tagum is the provincial capital of Davao Del Nortre and the provincial government buildings lie just a couple of blocks away including the legislative building, a two story, 1950s modern style building with curved colonnades and an extended portico and wide recessed columns. Behind the building, rows of palm trees fill a large grounds area. Across the road from them, a new sports complex sprawls, housing a modern track, swimming pool and basketball court (no gym though). Elsa and I arise at 5 a.m. each morning to take a walk around the track before the sun rises above the mountains and waves of heat beat down on us.

The household is bare and we need to make a home. First things first. We need a bed. A wooden bed frame lies in a corner of the smaller bedroom on the second floor, but we can't get it out of the room and into our bedroom. It's too heavy and bulky and Elsa and I can't shimmy it through the doorway by ourselves. In the street outside the front gate, we see four teenagers throwing a basketball through the hoop on a makeshift, plywood backboard attached to a telephone pole. Elsa asks them for their help. They agree and follow us up to the second floor. Two take one side and two the other and they try to jam the bed through the doorway. No dice. They decide to disassemble it; it's held together with nails (like most wooden furniture here in the Philippines), instead of screws. So one of the boys grabs a hammer and bangs on the frame until the nails give and the bed falls into pieces. The boys carry the pieces into the larger bedroom and hammer it back together. We pay them 100 pesos each (about $2.25 each) and thank them. Now we need a mattress. So the next day, we go shopping. Elsa and I walk down the road in front of our house to a side street to catch a tricycle; it will be my first of many tricycle rides. We pass a small open air pool hall.

“Hey Joe,” comes the call from a couple of young men, playing pool. Elsa says ignore them and walk on. I think she is telling me that this is a sign of disrespect – many Americans take it as such and so did I at first – but later Elsa assures me that the comments weren't intended as such. Those who use the appellation simply don't know how else to call to us or attract our attention. The term isn't used because Filipinos view us negatively – in fact, most Filipinos have a favorable impression of Americans. The latest polls show 92% view Americans favorably; Filipinos hold us in higher esteem than do the citizens of any other country (even Americans view other Americans less favorably than Filipinos).

First house in Margarita Village, Tagum City.

A tricycle passes and Elsa flags it down. She and I sit in the front seat of the green monster (every municipality has it's own color of tricycle – Tagum City's are green). We occupy two narrow padded seats next to the motorcycle driver and I feel squished. Four people sit in the back on two facing benches. The tricycle pulls away from the side of the road and we head down Pioneer Highway toward NCCC and Gaisano Mall, the largest local shopping centers in Tagum. The tricycle putts along at less than 10 mile per hour and stops frequently. We arrive at the malls in about 15 minutes.

At NCCC mall, we take the escalator to the third floor and head to an appliance store. We buy a new fridge, a microwave, a coffee maker, a toaster, a television with accompanying DVD player and karaoke machine and speakers. Then we go to Gaisano Mall and buy dishes and a foam mattress for the bed. I'm a little concerned about exhausting my savings, but we are starting all over again. NCCC delivers the appliances and goods from Gaisano while we head on down to the supermarket in the basement.

On the way, I need to relieve myself and find a comfort room (toilet) on the first floor. Unfortunately, there is no toilet paper in the stalls and no soap to wash my hands. I do with what I have and then we head down to the supermarket. We fill our shopping cart and I look for some ground coffee. Most of the coffee is instant, but I do find some coffee beans next to a coffee grinder. We're not allowed to grind the coffee ourselves though. Instead, a store clerk must grind it for us. But before he can make the grind, we must stand in the grocery line and pay for the coffee. We come back and show our receipt. The clerk nods and grinds the coffee. He grinds, and he grinds and he grinds until the coffee beans become a fine dust.

Next I want to buy some razor blade cartridges. I see some Gillette cartridges behind a glass case in front of the aisles displayed like they were museum artifacts. I point to the clerk, but she tells me, once again, I must first stand in the grocery line and pay and bring back the receipt before receiving the cartridges.

Finally, we complete our grocery shopping and wheel our cart over to the grocery line. An American stands in front of us. Another man with a carton of ice cream pushes ahead of him and the American complains bitterly that the man has cut in line. The man points out that's the custom in the Philippines -- those with ice cream go first so that it doesn't melt. The American refuses to accept his explanation and continues to complain. He grumbles on about the poor service in the Philippines. He's an older man who looks to be in his 70s. He tells us that he has left his 20 year-old wife at home since he can do the shopping quicker.

We finally get to the head of the line. The clerk rings us out and another clerk boxes the groceries and seals the box with plastic twine. Outside, twenty or so tricycles wait in line. Elsa haggles with the drivers and one agrees to drive us home at a premium cost for transporting our groceries – 30 pesos rather than the standard 20. The driver grabs our groceries and tosses them on the floor of his tricycle and I rest my feet on them, holding my knees to my chest.

Once we get home, I turn on the fan and plug in the refrigerator and microwave and the coffee pot. Udong helps me set up the TV and speakers. Almost immediately there is a brown out. There is a brown out every day for an hour or two, sometime longer, for the next two weeks.

After a couple of hours, the electricity comes back on. I brew my first pot of coffee. It tastes stale and flavorless. Definitely ground too fine and the coffee is old. Brewed coffee is still a luxury here. Elsa's daughter Risa visits and I offer her a cup. She declines, saying she has never tasted brewed coffee and doesn't want to start now. Most people drink five in one or seven in one – instant coffee mixed with nondairy creamer (mostly made of highly saturated palm oil) and some herbs.

I soon find out the risks of buying cheap goods in the Philippines and what it is like to live without American conveniences. The washing machine was advertised with a dryer, but it turns out the dryer is just a small spin chamber that really is not functional and there is no spin cycle on the washer, so we still have to wring out clothes by hand and hang them outside on a line to dry. Elsa's daughter Hairy Lynn does the washing, but I try wringing the clothes a couple of times and it's hard physical work. The coffee pot stops working after one week as does an electric water boiler bought at Gaisano. Other things break just as quickly. We lose the umbrella I brought with me and Elsa buys another for 50 pesos, but it breaks in a week. We go through a dozen umbrellas over the next few months. Few last more than a couple of weeks.

We set up our television, but we have no cable. In the U.S., I could just call or make an appointment on the internet, but it doesn't work like that in the Philippines. If you want to see a doctor, you visit his or her office or you visit the hospital; you don't call. And if you want cable service, you go to the cable company's office; you don't call. Same for paying your bills. It's not done online or by phone. You don't call or ask for service for anything. You must go to the office.*

So we visit a local cable company office. The woman at the front desk says that they don't have service in our area and she sends us to another company's office. We go there and again they tell us they don't have service in our area. We're too far out from city they tell us even though we're less than a 15 minute tricycle ride away. So finally, we ask our neighbor about his cable service. We talk to the company that he recommends and they promise to install the following Monday. Three weeks later, there is still no installation. Marie Vising tells us about her service, a company that installs a satellite dish. The service is more expensive, but in frustration, we go ahead and make an appointment. Finally we have service, but no HBO or major English language channels.

We sign up for internet service through Smart Communications. They make Elsa sign a a two year contract with no opt out for bad service, promising a speed “up to” 3 mbps – still slow compared to the 20 mbps speed typically available in the U.S., but adequate for our needs (if the promise were true). In reality, the speed rarely reaches one tenth of that; the internet service is extremely slow and video viewing is next to impossible. Furthermore, the contract has a “fair use” clause in which Smart ratchets the speed down even further when it deems you have used the internet too much.

We have no air conditioning; usually a fan is sufficient, but I sometimes have difficulty sleeping in the hot and stuffy upstairs bedrooms and Elsa doesn't want a fan on her. She believes they cause illness. And, of course there are the brown outs. There is a shower in the downstairs comfort room (bathroom), something few Filipino households enjoy; however, the water is unheated and ice cold. Still, there is a flush toilet, toilet paper, and soap to wash my hands – conveniences that I don't find in many public facilities in the city. And then there are the insects and rats. I'm startled one day to see lizards crawling around our walls.

“It's okay,” Elsa tells me. “They eat the mosquitoes.” They don't seem to be doing their job since I'm covered in mosquito bites. Cockroaches the size of my thumb scurry about. And there are ants all over the kitchen. We find a dead rat under our bed.

This first month in the Philippines is proving challenging for me. I am finding that I took my comfortable American lifestyle too much for granted and need to make more of an adjustment than I expected. Maybe I'm more like that 70 year-old American in the grocery store than I would care to admit.

*Actually, online payment is available, but it is still relatively new and few Filipinos use these services as yet. Only about one quarter of Filipinos have an account at a formal financial institution and only about 3% have a credit card. 

Creating Space

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home 

wherever I find myself.”

– Maya Angelou

After meeting Elsa's parents and celebrating at the San Roque fiesta, we drive on to Montevista where Elsa's daughters and grand-kids are waiting to meet me. It's less than a half hour drive from Mawab down the National Highway. Ten minutes out, we pass Nabunturan, the provincial capital where the mountains seem to disappear – ironic, since the name Nabunturan means “surrounded by mountains.” (In truth, they're just receded into the background.) Elsa worked in Nabunturan for nine years, serving as women's organizer for the provincial government, educating women on domestic violence, gender equality, and health care issues. We drive on and pass Golden Valley Cemetery, where Elsa's first husband is buried. A sign announces that Golden Valley is “a garden for the living and the dead.” A few minutes later, we see another billboard with the smiling face of Ramil Gentugaya welcoming us to Montevista. We pass it and immediately turn right down a rocky, dirt road.

Elsa's house lies about 100 feet off the main highway. As we drive down the road, two children come running toward us – Chan Chan, the four-year-old daughter of Bernadine (Elsa's daughter working in Dubai), and Fem Fem, the seven-year-old daughter of Risa. They're both yelling and screaming with delight. Chan Chan beams at us with the most beautiful smile I've ever seen and melts my heart instantly. We stop in front of the house and get out of the car. The two of them run up to us and grab hold of Elsa and Risa. I've never seen such pure joy in children's faces. 

Rich and Elsa with daughters and grandchildren in Montevista

Croton shrubs hide the three foot high cyclone fence that surrounds the house – a cement hollow block home with no finishing and no paint. The faded metal roof looks in need of some repair. Elsa takes me through a front gate built of cyclone fencing and coconut wood. The gate post is a slab from a tree stump tied to strips of bamboo with a piece of wood nailed to the contraption to hold the gate closed. To the left there's a larger tree stump sitting on a small mound of sand and gravel, the remains of a coconut tree damaged by Typhoon Pablo. Next to the mound sits a bamboo bench with a hammock tied between two trees alongside it. There are tropical trees and flowers and shrubs everywhere, many of them medicinal, and almost all planted by Elsa – durian, papaya, avocado, lanzones, rambutan, cacao, guyabano, gumamela (hibiscus), many bamboos, and bunga (betelnut palm tree). Elsa is an amazing gardener. In the front yard, clothes hang on three wire lines tied to trees and bamboo poles – no one in the neighborhood has a dryer, few even have a washer and most people hand wash and wring their clothes, a laborious job for anyone who has ever tried it.

We walk up to the front porch, a cement veranda with an attractively designed cement and tile balustrade entrance supported by two cement balusters at each side. We walk through a handsome, although faded and damaged, nara wood door into a house filled with women and children. Elsa introduces us – there's Hairy Lynn, the unmarried youngest daughter, so named because she was born with thick, coarse hair; Krisna, the middle child, and mother of one-year-old Chrivyan, and of course Risa. All three daughters are about the same size as their mother except Risa who has put on much weight in the last year. Hairy Lynn and Krisna get up to greet me. The grandchildren remain seated on a faded, flower print sofa with the stuffing come out of it, all six of them – four-year-old Chan Chan, seven-year-old Fem Fem, nine-year-old Cedric, eleven-year-old Crem Crem, and the one-year-olds Chrivyan and Zion.

One other daughter, Bernadine, mother of Chan Chan, is working overseas in Dubai and the oldest, Jaret, mother of Crem Crem and Cedric, is living two hours away in Pantukan with her boyfriend and six-month-year-old daughter Serenity. The boyfriend does not want Jaret to spend time with the family. Unfortunately daughters who separate from their husband often find that a new boyfriend* will not accept their children. Welfare doesn't exist here, so single mothers become financially dependent on their domestic partners and find it difficult to question their demands. Too often this dynamic, as well as the need to work overseas to support the family, means separation from their children. Fortunately, these children have many aunts as well as their grandmother to look after them.

There is one more daughter – Pag-Ibig, which means “love.” She is hiding in her mother's room. We push aside the drape and go inside. Ibig is lying on the bed. She is the smallest in the family, about 4'8” and weighing only about 80 pounds, but also considered by the others as the strongest. Elsa introduces us, but Ibig says nothing and does not get up to greet me. Elsa says she is shy. That may be. She also speaks much less English than Elsa's other daughters and probably is uncomfortable attempting to communicate with me. But most importantly, she is not happy about her mother remarrying. None of the children wanted Elsa to remarry after her former husband's death, but it has now been four years, and the others have accepted Elsa's need to move on with her life. But Ibig is having a harder time accepting this. Also she is largely responsible for managing the household and Ibig fears her mother will leave her solely responsible for the household tasks and expenses.

The entire family depends largely on the 3,000 peso a month pension Elsa received upon her husband's death (a pension she will lose if she remarries) and an 8,000 pesos a month stipend sent by an American priest from New York who Elsa worked closely with in Mawab before he returned to America. The grand total from these two sources comes to about $250 a month. Risa lives with her boyfriend in Andalade near Mawab and Krisna lives on a farm with Marvin, but both often stay at their mother's house while providing little to no financial support. Bernadine sends some money home to support her daughter, but that stops soon after I arrive.

We sit in the sala and talk, and I survey the room. The floor is tiled, but the hollow block walls remain unfinished. There's a narrow hallway, only about a yard long leading to the three small bedrooms. A linoleum-floored kitchen lies behind us. Elsa gets up to show me the house. The kitchen has small clerestory style windows – or rather wooden frames – the windows were never purchased. The ceiling throughout the house is made of two foot by three foot plywood panels. Some need repairing. The ceiling in the kitchen was totally destroyed by Typhoon Pablo and is damp and falling apart. Elsa's bedroom in the back of the sala has no door, only a cotton drape separating her room from the others. Elsa sleeps in her bedroom and Fem Fem often joins her. The others sleep in the two small adjoining rooms, many sleeping on the floor. The kitchen and bedrooms have old linoleum floors that are peeling away. There's a wet kitchen off to the side of the main kitchen, a lean-to with a cement floor and a hollow block wall capped by slanting sheets of galvanized steel.

The comfort room (bathroom), a three by five foot room with ten foot tall walls that need painting, stands in one corner of the wet kitchen. The toilet is flushed with water from a big garbage can and smaller pail,sitting next to it. The shower consists of a dipper and a pail of water. It's dark inside, the light bulb needs changing and I'm afraid I will pee on the floor.

Back in the sala, I hear some grunts and squeals across the road. The smell of ammonia and rotten eggs wafts through the windows. There's a pig farm just 30 feet away.

“Doesn't the smell ever bother you?” I ask.

“Oh, we just close the windows,” says Elsa.

After the tour and the introductions, she asks me if I would like to live here or in Tagum City. We had discussed this previously and she had told me it is all right for a parent to live separately from her children if she remarries. At this time, there's no question in my mind.

“Let's rent in Tagum,” I say. Elsa sighs and looks down at her feet.

* Divorce is not recognized in the Philippines, and so no one can remarry unless widowed.