A slow, steady rain drummed upon the corrugated tin roof
over Rosalia Sasfy’s head. She stood alone in a cramped office, one hand on
each hip. Raindrops sounded out singularly, with heavy, plodding plops. As
Rosalia stared at the map on the opposite wall, her eyes traveled back and
forth along the long and winding roads leading from the map’s center.
Water stains set out a grid where the map had been folded,
unfolded, and refolded a hundred times. Moving the map from one place to
another had become commonplace; just another necessary ritual to avoid the
recurrent floods that occupied the Filipino rainy season.
Tiny multi-colored pushpins accented the dull yellow map
with red, yellow, white and blue dots. A tiny number affixed to the top of each
pin correlated to the alphabetical list of last names along the map’s
right-hand side. Each name represented a family. The colors represented each
family’s level of need.
Rosie stepped forward and placed a finger right in the
center of the map. The map flexed as she ran her fingernail along one of the
tributaries running alongside her village.
‘Her village,’ she thought.
Baluntay.
Until eight months ago, she had never even heard of
Baluntay. Few native Filipinos would be hard-pressed to find it on a map. In
fact, Rosie Sasfy (who called herself a Filipino, but was truly a
Filipino-American) had no idea how to pronounce it correctly when she arrived
at the airport.
[Bah-LOON-tie]
Baluntay was a small barrio nestled within a collection of
small barrios in the center of Sarangani province. Baluntay sat at the very
southern tip of the Philippines, less than a kilometer from Sarangani Bay.
Baluntay, however, was not a beachside community.
Baluntay, by all accounts, is one of the poorest parts of
Sarangani. Most of the locals live in extended families of anywhere from six to
twelve people. Three generations, including grandparents, aunts, uncles, and
cousins gather under one corrugated tin roof. The four wood-plank walls that
define each household are marked by long, narrow grooves that run from ceiling
to floor. The planks are the only distinction between families, cohabitating as
one extended group squashed together.
Conversations mix and mingle while odors drift lazily from
home-to-home. Sometimes, it’s pork Adobo baking on the fire, but more often
than not, it’s the smell of shit, urine, and mud.
On rare occasions, black snakes or wood rats find a spot to
rest under the children’s beds. The children don’t fear these vermin. After
all, “if you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.”
Just after nightfall, someone in the family makes the
rounds, draping the children’s beds in mosquito netting. The snakes won’t kill
you, but the mosquitoes will.
The village, like the houses within it, could at best be
called ramshackle. Tiny huts sit in a messy pile. Narrow dirt paths join one
end of the village to the other, for communal use. Dogs bark and roosters crow
at all hours of the night. Mopeds and motorcycle growl and belch gasoline fumes
into the air like dirty old hobos. It makes for a very close-knit quilt of
cousins, friends, and neighbors. .
Most men work at the plantations, harvesting pineapples,
bananas, or dates. By far, The Dole Corporation is the largest local employer.
If families choose to rely on themselves instead of Dole, the males spend their
days casting nets into the bay, fishing for whatever they could catch. It’s
either feast or famine, as they peddle their daily catch to the fishmongers working
along the pier.
The women may stay home to raise their babies or take turns
babysitting while one or more of their friends runs a roadside fruit stand.
Those who choose that life walk to the stall before sunrise and often return
home long after dark.
Anyone old enough to farm works on the nearby rice terraces.
That often includes some of the children. Few, if any, are literate enough to
read the label on a can of beans. To imagine any of them could read or use a
map would be imagining something quite fantastic.
The little office Rosie inhabited, part of a converted two
bedroom, two-story house, was smaller than the apartment she was accustomed to
back home in Norman, Oklahoma. Even so, it was still larger than she felt she
needed.
It was Mr. Jonny Gutierrez’s house.
‘Mr. G’, as the students called him, was once the headmaster
of a large parochial school in the bustling urban area of Davao City.
When Mr. G. retired, he returned home to Alabel, in the
northwestern part of the Sarangani province. Soon afterwards, he bought the
abandoned “Our Lady Lupita” school in the Baluntay barrio and turned it into an
academy for under-privileged children.
She first arrived at Davao airport on December 19th
of the previous year. That was eight long months ago. The plane traveled from
Oklahoma City to Los Angeles to Taiwan to Manila. It was a 36-hour trip,
covering 10,000 miles and 14 time zones. She was literally half the world away
from her hometown. She arrived in Davao just after midnight while it was noon
back in Oklahoma City.
The missionary who
met her at the Davao airport was American, too. That was a relief. She was lost
at Chiang Kai Shek Airport in Taiwan. All the Asians were “true Asians”. They
were Chinese, too, just like the signboards throughout the terminal. There was
a pack of Filipinos that led the way through the airport. Rosie just followed
them. She was most comfortable sitting with the true Pinoy as they waited
together for the departing plane at the end of the concourse. She recognized
some of the people who had been on her plane since she left LAX.
“Where are you going?” asked an old man.
“I’m headed to Alabel.”
“Ah, are you from there?”
“No, I’m an American.”
“Me, too. I grew up in General Santos City, but my family
moved to New York when I was just a kid. I spent most of my life in
Schenectady.”
“Oh. You’re from New York?”
The old man nodded, “I’m a Yahn-key.”
“I’m from Oklahoma City.”
“That’s the Sooner state, right?”
“Yep, I’m actually an Oklahoma graduate.”
“You’re Pilipino,” he said, “What brings you to the
Philippines?”
“I’m traveling to Mindanao for missionary work. What brings
you?”
“I’m going to visit one of my sisters who still lives in
General Santos.”
Rosie simply nodded as the conversation trailed off.
Passengers began boarding the plane and that included the old man, who was in
business class. She nodded to him as she passed his seat near the front in
business class. Rosie’s seat was al the way in the back of the palatial 747.
After she passed him on the way to her seat, she never saw him again.
Manila was just as busy as Taiwan and Rosie was on her own
since most Filipinos were at their final destination. Rosie hurried through the
concourse to make her connecting flight. She switched from the roomy jet liner
to a cozy 22-seat Embraer.
Unlike the rest of Aquino Airport, this end of the terminal
was located on ground level. When her flight was called, glass double doors
opened to the tarmac. A ticket agent escorted the passengers out onto the
runway and ushered them up the stairs. The winds and rains whipped at Rosie’s
face as she climbed toward the plane door. She was glad, however, once she got
inside and found her seat.
The Embraer was just like one of those planes she took from
Oklahoma City to St. Louis when she was a kid. Her dad called them ‘puddle
jumpers’. As it flew over the Philippine Sea, turbulence pinballed the tiny jet
back and forth through the thick, black cumulus clouds.
“Hold on tight folks,” said the pilot, ”and please notice
that the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign is illuminated. We would greatly appreciate
it if you could please buckle up because we are expecting a bumpy ride.”
He repeated the message again, but this time in his native
tongue of Tagalog for the Filipino passengers. Meanwhile, Rosie tugged on her
lap belt, making sure it was as tight as humanly possible. Flight attendants
balanced themselves between the rows, using alternating hands to brace
themselves against seat backs while they walked the aisles.
“Tanghali po, ma’am,” said the steward, “how are you holding
up?”
Rosie looked up at the gentleman. It startled her a bit,
since she had been left alone for the greater part of her flights.
“I’m okay, I guess, just a little nervous.”
“Turbulence is a regular thing on these frog-hops.”
The steward tilted his head as Rosie chuckled.
“You like my turn of phrase?”
Rosie smiled, “it reminded me of something my father always
says. He calls these planes puddle jumpers.”
“Hmmm, that is okay, but I think they’re more like frog
hoppers.”
The steward fluffed a pillow and tucked it behind Rosie’s
head. She smiled as he continued down the aisle. His thick Filipino accent
truly comforted her. She tugged on her lap belt one more time and pressed her
body against her seat. She tightened her grip as her fingers curled around the
end of the armrest. As soon as the ‘fasten seat belts’ light went out, she
pressed gently on the button beneath her armrest and pushed against her seat
until she was fully reclined. She retained her clenching grip as she leaned her
head back and closed her eyes.
The plane flew by Davao and entered from the south, coasting
over the Gulf. Tiny lights succinctly marked the coastline, while tiny fishing
vessels dotted the cold, black sea. Gas stations shone in fluorescent pools of
light. Avenues, busy with traffic, traveled parallel to the jet’s path as it
floated towards the tarmac.
She peered out the window while the plane made its descent.
Cars stood still against the cruising jet liner. Each little vehicle carried
someone somewhere - important little dots on a map.
When she finally arrived in Davao International Airport, it
was still crowded and busy, but on a much smaller scale than either Manila or
Taiwan. Most certainly it was less hectic than LAX.
A tall, rangy boy stood out in the crowd. Not just because
he was two feet taller than anyone around him, but because he was white and
pasty. He held a sign above his head. “SASFY.” It stood out like a terminal
tower, signaling everyone for miles around him.
“Rosalia Sasfy, that’s me.”
“Hey Rosalia, I’m Brian Rudie. Welcome to Davao.”
“Thanks, it’s good to be here.”
“Long trip, eh?”
Rosie nodded.
“Like I always say, ‘the easy part’s over’.”
They headed down to the luggage are and waited at the
carousel.
“Do you have a rain jacket?”
“It’s somewhere in my stuff.”
“You’d better get it out. You’re definitely going to need
it.”
Brian retrieved Rosie’s luggage as it circulated around the
carousel. He waited while she fished out her rain jacket. He carried most of
Rosie’s luggage as they headed down the ramp to the taxi stand. Outside, the
rain poured. They got into the taxi and rode to the remote parking lot.
“You’re right. It’s raining like crazy.”
“Oh, this is December, the beginning of the dry season. Wait
until summer.”
The rain drenched them in the ten short feet from the taxi
to Brian’s minivan in the parking lot. The airport was crowded with arriving
passengers, but once they left the airport, they didn’t see a single
streetlight the whole way to Mr. G’s house.
It is a bumpy five-hour ride from the airport in Davao to
the outskirts of Baluntay, although the two cities sit a mere 200 kilometers
apart. Brian’s minivan buzzed through traffic on the dilapidated national road,
each set of headlights zipping by in the blink of an eye.
As they passed through villages along the way, houses were
dimly lit. Brian careened through the traffic as he passed the slower Jeepneys
– Filipino taxis – stopped at the side of the road to load and unload
passengers.
They arrived at Mr. Gutierrez’s house in the dead of night.
Brian knocked and knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. Finally, he
made a call on his cell and Mr. Gutierrez answered the door.
“Hallo, Brian! Hallo, Miss Saspy!” he greeted them. His
accent, like every other Filipino, was thick and raspy. His Fs sounded like Ps.
His words were filled with long E and long I sounds. Rosalia, found it both
loveable and puppet-like.
That, however, was eight long months ago. Now, typhoon
season was upon them and a massive tidal surge was expected to come their way
in the next few days. For all these little red dots, the only outlet was up in
the highlands, which was solely owned by a land developer and his wife.
“Rosie,” said Mr. Gutierrez, “we cannot rely on Mr. Lee’s
estate as a safe house.”
“But it’s perfect. It’s up in the highlands and it can
easily hold ten or twelve families.”
“Mr. Lee isn’t in the business of taking in strays.”
“It’s not business. It’s common sense.”
“Maybe it’s common sense to me and you, but not to Mr. Lee
and certainly not to his wife Eiselle. She’s another breed of person
altogether.”
Rosie sighed as she withdrew her finger from the map.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll figure something out.”
She retreated to the small couch along the opposite wall.
She pulled her long black hair into a ponytail as she thought about all the
possible solutions. Surely, there must be some way to convince Mr. Lee.
A small rotary fan blew a hot, wet wind across Rosie’s back.
Her lightweight nylon shirt didn’t even ruffle in the breeze. It just hung
there, limp and dead, clinging to her body. It was the usual constant sticky
feeling of clothes on a body in the Philippines, even inside a building with
aircon (Air Conditioning) like Mr. Gutierrez’s house. Without the fan, the wall
unit wasn’t even strong enough to cool the small room.
“Maybe I should go talk to Mr. Lee.”
“For what?”
“To see how many families he can keep at his house after the
flood.”
“First off, we don’t even know if there’s gong to be a
flood.”
“The lady on MindaWeather says we should expect heavy
rainstorms by the end of the week.”
“Even if it does flood, you haven’t met his wife Eiselle.
I’m telling you now; it’s not a good idea.”
“But he has this big banana plantation in the highlands.”
Rosie fished the remote control from between the dirty brown
couch cushions and flipped through channels. She finally stopped at Weather
Filipino.
“Today, we’re watching the earthquakes in middle Malaysia,”
said the male host, “We turn to Jeannie Abordo at our MindaWeather Davao desk
with an up-to-date report.”
“Thank you, Francis. Luckily, seismologists have pinpointed
the earthquake’s central focus along the Java Trench in the Indo-Australian
plate. That puts the Malaysian and Indonesian island chains between Mindanao
and the tidal surge.
Unfortunately, there may be some aftershocks when the
opposing plates settle. The Celebes Sea is still likely to deliver 5 to 10
meter waves by the end of August.”
Rosie returned to the map. She traced her finger along the
roadways, memorizing each twist and turn on her trip out into the village. She
had been there several times. Often, she found herself lost in the maze of huts
and thickets.
“Jonny, I’m going out to see some of the families.”
“Okay, but be back by dark.”
“I will.”
She pulled on the pair of duck boots and bright
orange-yellow high-tech rain jacket included in the care package her father had
sent her just after she arrived in Sarangani last December.
A steady rain beat down on the small world around Mr. G’s
house. Although it wasn’t an overwhelming downpour (especially for the rainy
season), it was more than enough for Rosie. The thick fat raindrops were
nothing like the thin, light sprinkles of rain she encountered back in
Oklahoma. Rosie cinched her hood and stared down at her feet. She went headlong
up the hill as she hiked through the thick, brown mud.
“Tanghali po, Ma’am!” shouted a group of children as they
ran past Rosie and up the hill towards the Academy. Their simple flip-flops
were glopped with mud, but the children joyously ran the whole way to the
school. They were drenched from head to toe. Rosie followed the whole group,
except one girl, the whole way uphill. The last girl slowed her pace until she
was side-by-side with Rosie.
Rosie raised her jacketed arm over the little girl as they
walked the rest of the way to school, side-by-side. The little girl was one of
Rosie’s personal favorites
When they reached the Academy, it was filled with children.
One group of children played pick-up sticks at the picnic table while a crowd
of boys played basketball. The rest simply stood around, shouting, trying to be
heard over the loud chatter of the group.
Rosie placed two fingers into her mouth and gave a sharp
whistle. The entire crowd stopped what they were doing. The only sound was the
rain on the metal roof and the basketball bouncing on the concrete as it came
to a rest in the corner.
“Alright, kids, let’s get inside so I can take attendance.”
“But it’s Sunday,” said Jose, one of her students.
“I just want to know who’s here and who isn’t. You know
there are earthquakes and I want to make sure everybody’s all right.”
“The quakes aren’t even close,” he replied.
Rosie thought about it for a moment. Even though she felt
like she’d been there a long time, she still had no bearing on the way of
things here in the Philippines. This was her first rainy season. This was also
her first earthquake ever.
Water surrounded the tiny concrete patio where the children
gathered. The puddles were five inches deep in places.
“Jose, where are your parents?”
“They’re at home, Miss Saspy.”
“Isn’t that near the shore?”
Jose nodded.
“What are you going to do when the tidal waves come?”
“We will do the same as always, ma’am.”
“Which is?’
“We will do nothing. If the water gets too high, we find
cousins in the highlands for a day or two. Dad doesn’t like to leave the house
because there are too many electronics and valuables there. As he always says,
‘If the rains don’t get them, the thieves will.’”
Rosie looked after the children for most of the day. Jose
stayed with her until the last one left. Rosie walked hand-in-hand with Jose as
she took him home. Afterwards, she flagged down a taxi-trike and paid the
driver a few pesos to take her back to Mr. Gutierrez’s house.
She scanned the pushpins on the map. Jose’s parents, the
Jaramillos, lived right near the bay. Their house was marked by a tiny red
pushpin along with the number 7. The 7 only meant his last name was seventh in
alphabetical order on the legend. The red pin, however, meant that the family
was ‘at extreme risk’. They had little or no way of supporting themselves.
Jose’s father had worked most of his life as a coconut
shucker at the local Dole plant. He’d pluck coconuts from a large pile and hack
into the shells with a machete. He drained the coconut milk into a sifting
basin below his work station before tossing the two halves into a chute. The
halves rolled down the conveyor to the meat pullers. The meat pullers scooped
the coconut meat from inside the husks and tossed the scraps into a bin to
process into coconut kindling.
However, as automation progressed, his job became more and
more streamlined.
First, a machine rolled the coconuts in a large bin until
their outer husks were smooth. A second machine pierced and milked the
coconuts. A third machine simply caught the shells and pinched them in half. At
that point, the only thing left for Mr. Jaramillo to do was chipping the
coconut meat out of the shell. When a machine was invented to replace that
task, Mr. Jaramillo was out of a job. He was too old, too illiterate, and too
frail. Simply put, there were no jobs available he could do day in and day out.
The Jaramillos lived in the shantytown on the outskirts of
Alabel. It was located just on the other side of a tall concrete wall that
separated the locals from the tourists. Thirty, maybe forty houses were clumped
together in a huddled mass. Some houses shared walls and roofs. Some of those
were built on ruins caused by typhoons and earthquakes. All were constructed of
discarded scraps of plywood, corrugated metal, thatch, and banana leaves.
Rosie traced her fingers between pushpins. She then moved
her finger north on the map to the Lee Estate. Topographic altitude lines put
it almost 50 meters higher than the Jaramillo house, well out of harm’s way.
She yawned briefly before checking her watch. It was just
beyond midnight and tomorrow would come quickly, especially with it being a
full Sunday – what with church in the morning and lesson plans and other
preparations at school in the afternoon.
She went upstairs and sat on the porch overlooking the
street below. The rain pitter-pattered on the muddy concrete, gathered in ruts,
and poured into drainage ditches alongside the road.
“Rain, rain, go away. Come again no other day.”
Rosie looked up. Stars poked their heads between storm
clouds, eager to be seen. The faint outline of the mountain stood against the
summer sky. The Lee Estate was shrouded in the darkness, this thriving piece of
land a good ten kilometers square, enclosed by a wall five meters high.
She went to bed and stared at the ceiling for an hour, maybe
two. Normally, the soft sound of rooftop rains would send Rosie gently into
sleep, but she couldn’t stop thinking about all the families living in harm’s
way.
“He’s got all this unused land. How can he not help?” she
thought, “There must be something he’d be willing to do.”
.
No comments:
Post a Comment