My birthday was fun. I rented a jeepney for the day and about 30 of us, friends and neighbors, went to the other side of the island which is untamed, mysterious, and dangerous to most people here. Na Salem a close friend was hesitant to come because of the robbers they say lie in wait on the unpaved cross-country rode through the mountains in the middle of the island. But we had no encounters. Kyla (my PeaceCorps friend) and I rode on the top with the kids, Yuning playing the guitar, Nene waving and blowing kisses saying I love you to people along the roadside as we all laughed.
First stop was Tinago Falls. The rocks there are smooth and form a natural waterslide which is a blast. Mormons where there also, more for business than pleasure I assume, wearing all white, wading in the water, and baptizing new followers. We splashed and played in the cool water, and after lunch we went to Mainit hot spring to lie around in the steamy healing waters, drink tuba, and sing our songs until the setting sun beckoned us to head home, lest we be forced to brave the mountains and their dangers after nightfall.
New Pics
Monday, October 09, 2006
hospitality
I was on the balcony the other night sipping on a cup of hot tea and watching the fishermen with their pumboats and lanterns coming back from the nightly run of tamban, when I heard Yuning calling my name from down below. It’s not unusual for people to call me down from my ivory tower to ask a favor, but usually not this late. I rushed down to find Na Elesita his wife laid up under the Rambutan tree nursing her right hand. Apparently she had slipped and caught herself on a giant clam shell which many people keep as decorations in their yards. They’re wicked sharp. The 2 inch cut on her palm went straight to the bone. After the incident they apparently went to town 4km away from their home only to find out the ambulance is out of order. So Larry and I drove them to the provincial hospital half an hour away. I felt queasy watching the doctor tie up the stubbornly squirting vein, but it was a stitch and run operation, taking no longer than 20 minutes—-no waiting, no paperwork, no fees. I was impressed...
In contrast, a couple of weeks ago I took Jose who’s had a broken femur since May to the gov’ment hospital in Tacloban 2 hours away, for the second time. The first time, after the motorcycle accident (Jose, 19 or 20 years old, one night got drunk and decided to steal his buddy’s motorcycle only to crash it into a big rock), he spent 6 weeks in that piss-stinking hell that is the EVRMC ortho department waiting for a miracle that never came.
Jose and his mom Kate are as poor as them come. Jose, 20 years old, is the only full-Filipino out of his five half-siblings. The other five are half-Belgum, half-Pakistani, half-Aussie, half-American, and half-Chinese. Kate, a former prostitute now haggard with time and hardship, tells me this with what sounds like a sense of pride as we sit together in the hallway of the ortho department, which now stinks the of the burnt flesh of a six year old who looks like he was saved from a burning house. She goes on and on talking and ranting, surprisingly with flashes of intelligence and insight...Why are you a missionary? ...Is God here around us with of all of this? Is the water in New Jersey hard or soft? The smell, the heat, the talking make me nauseaus...
Anyway the first time Jose was admitted they couldn’t afford the surgery to put a pin in his leg. I helped them with what money I could gather but it still wasn’t enough according to the doctor. I told them (and myself) that I would help with what I could, and that they should do their part to raise the rest of the money on their own. Kate tried to contact her other children scattered throughout the Philippines but nothing, not even a piso. During the month and a half they stayed in the hospital, we had no contact. They ran out of money eventually, and resorted to begging for food from their ward neighbors for a while. Finally the hospital either had pity or grew tired of them and gave them money for the bus fare to come bake home—both of them defeated, Jose still with a badly broken leg, and now minus a testicle which had become infected and allegedly exploded.
When I visited Jose he was at home lying on a bamboo bed in the dark by candle light. He had at this point lost hope and asked his mother Kate with sincerity if he could just have his leg amputated. I told him that I had gathered enough money to complete the operation, and the next morning at 4am Na Bebie and I helped him with his dead dangling leg onto the bus back to Tacloban.
I don’t want to go into all the frustration, confusion, and mistrust I experienced this past month or so dealing not only Jose and his mom, but with all levels of bureaucracy in a developing country’s govenment hospital. It’s enough to say that it has been a trying experience. In general it seems that being on Phlipside has made me more callused to suffering and systematic injustice. Maybe it's about survival..you gotta be tough to the streets if you want stay alive in the ghetto.. or something like that.
I’m grateful and inspired, however, by people like Donna, a young activist, who’s been an angel in visiting Jose at the hospital almost daily since it’s too far for me to visit often. It’s comforting to know that there are people here like Donna who not only care but do something about the sorry sons of bitches in this world, like Jose, whether or not we may think they deserve our help. I like how Dorothy Day put it when challenged by someone who thought it was a waste to feed and give shelter to alcoholics and the homeless: “God help us if we all got what we deserved.”
I just deposited money in Donna's account for the medicines for Jose's second and final operation tomorrow. Say a prayer that it goes well and that they can go home soon. Good bliss u Deve, Jose texts me. Good bliss all of you my friends wherever you may be.
In contrast, a couple of weeks ago I took Jose who’s had a broken femur since May to the gov’ment hospital in Tacloban 2 hours away, for the second time. The first time, after the motorcycle accident (Jose, 19 or 20 years old, one night got drunk and decided to steal his buddy’s motorcycle only to crash it into a big rock), he spent 6 weeks in that piss-stinking hell that is the EVRMC ortho department waiting for a miracle that never came.
Jose and his mom Kate are as poor as them come. Jose, 20 years old, is the only full-Filipino out of his five half-siblings. The other five are half-Belgum, half-Pakistani, half-Aussie, half-American, and half-Chinese. Kate, a former prostitute now haggard with time and hardship, tells me this with what sounds like a sense of pride as we sit together in the hallway of the ortho department, which now stinks the of the burnt flesh of a six year old who looks like he was saved from a burning house. She goes on and on talking and ranting, surprisingly with flashes of intelligence and insight...Why are you a missionary? ...Is God here around us with of all of this? Is the water in New Jersey hard or soft? The smell, the heat, the talking make me nauseaus...
Anyway the first time Jose was admitted they couldn’t afford the surgery to put a pin in his leg. I helped them with what money I could gather but it still wasn’t enough according to the doctor. I told them (and myself) that I would help with what I could, and that they should do their part to raise the rest of the money on their own. Kate tried to contact her other children scattered throughout the Philippines but nothing, not even a piso. During the month and a half they stayed in the hospital, we had no contact. They ran out of money eventually, and resorted to begging for food from their ward neighbors for a while. Finally the hospital either had pity or grew tired of them and gave them money for the bus fare to come bake home—both of them defeated, Jose still with a badly broken leg, and now minus a testicle which had become infected and allegedly exploded.
When I visited Jose he was at home lying on a bamboo bed in the dark by candle light. He had at this point lost hope and asked his mother Kate with sincerity if he could just have his leg amputated. I told him that I had gathered enough money to complete the operation, and the next morning at 4am Na Bebie and I helped him with his dead dangling leg onto the bus back to Tacloban.
I don’t want to go into all the frustration, confusion, and mistrust I experienced this past month or so dealing not only Jose and his mom, but with all levels of bureaucracy in a developing country’s govenment hospital. It’s enough to say that it has been a trying experience. In general it seems that being on Phlipside has made me more callused to suffering and systematic injustice. Maybe it's about survival..you gotta be tough to the streets if you want stay alive in the ghetto.. or something like that.
I’m grateful and inspired, however, by people like Donna, a young activist, who’s been an angel in visiting Jose at the hospital almost daily since it’s too far for me to visit often. It’s comforting to know that there are people here like Donna who not only care but do something about the sorry sons of bitches in this world, like Jose, whether or not we may think they deserve our help. I like how Dorothy Day put it when challenged by someone who thought it was a waste to feed and give shelter to alcoholics and the homeless: “God help us if we all got what we deserved.”
I just deposited money in Donna's account for the medicines for Jose's second and final operation tomorrow. Say a prayer that it goes well and that they can go home soon. Good bliss u Deve, Jose texts me. Good bliss all of you my friends wherever you may be.
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