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Children's Mural St. Stephen's High School

This was my second time in Manila proper. The city itself is quite different then Quezon City. The streets are much narrower and if this can be believed the buildings are closer together then in Quezon City. I am told that Quezon City is fairly new and is a result of people moving out of Manila because there was more property and space to be had. Though Quezon by any other standard is quite crowded, it does have an open feel to it ad there are not so many tall buildings. You might often time here the term “Metro Manila” being used. This is to designate the area or clusters of Cities that make up the whole of the middle of Center of Luzon Island. Metro Manila is made up of many cities, which are independent in government, each having their own Mayor and distinct geographical area. Because the population in Metro Manila has expanded to such a great extent, there are over 40 million people, half the population of the Philippines living in this area, there is no space separating the communities. It feels very much like the

Entrance to St. Stephen's

barrios of New York, only each city is independent from the other in the true sense of the word.

I think what struck me first, besides the congestion, is the marked difference in the poverty that I saw on the streets of Manila from Quezon. It was in Manila that I actually saw adults’ begging. Something quite frankly I don’t think I’ve seen here in Quezon up to date.

Being one of the most established schools in Manila, St. Stephen’s initially found itself the church to the English speaking community. However, when the Cathedral of St. Mary and St. John was build the English speaking community moved its residence there. As a result St. Stephen’s began to administer to the Chinese population that was settling in the general area at the time, which would be around 1904. Given the missionary connections with Shanghai, China this was a fairly easy transition and in so many ways made sense to the calling of the church. Soon a school developed with the result that the current compound over one hundred years later, now sports a pre-school, middle school and High School. I was quite impressed by the size of the institution in the buildings and in the student populace.

St. Stephen's Courtyard

The intent of the Bishop was that he and I have a quick look at St. Stephen’s and move over to St. Peters the second most established church in Manila. However, the moment he walked in the door and the principal caught wind of his presence, a very impromptu meeting was arranged. The Principal Mrs. Joy Dy is a very friendly woman and very dedicated to her work. She quickly arranged a tour of the campus for me, by which the pictures I have posted here are the result. Afterwards the three of us had lunch together in which I had my first taste of coconut juice straight from the fresh coconut itself. I had an opportunity to share some of the stories of the Chinese immigrants of Saskatchewan and Mrs. Dy listen quite fascinated.

The Rain Outside My Window

Well, rainy season is definitely here or so it would seem. I am told that it is quite early and some are blaming this on global warming. I awoke last night to the sound of the rain coming down quite intensely. I don’t think it could have rained any harder and then IT DID. I must admit I am absolutely fascinated with the rain; how does it come down so

The Vendor Battin' down the hatches

hard, is it shear mass or amount or a bit of both? When I think of the descriptions in the bible of the skies opening like a window and the rain just pouring down, I have only to look out my window and see this. I am told that I have seen nothing yet and that it will get much more intense. Man, the thunder is loud and raucous as well. Usually, when

there is a loud clap followed by car alarms, you can pretty much be guarantee the electricity is going to go out. This has happened only three times so far and the electricity has been out at the longest two and half hours. When it first happened I went into mourning for my air-con (this is what they call air-conditioning  here), well mourning is rather polite. I went into full all out tear your  hair gnash your teeth – all out Ancient Greek kinda of grieving. I am  beginning to think my attachment to electrical appliances is unhealthy –  what would myhumidifier think back at home? Let me just say the thought of  using a humidifier strikes me as very funny giving the weather here. We live  in a very interesting world of much diversity and it’s even stranger that in    the course of a day’s travel I can be in a completely different world.

Today was pretty much a day of relaxing and catching up on my reading.One thing that I am beginning to enjoy is the reality that I can actually read books. I haven’t been able to read books of personal interests in quite some time and during the school year there is just too much other reading going on to warrant anything of the sort that I can do now. I think this is one blessing that I was slow to realize. I have also been given ample opportunity to pray more regularly and get back to some meditation basics. This all in all has been a very positive thing.

Driving in Metro Manila/Quezon City is quite a spectator sport. I can’t imagine taking the wheel myself, but I have a great deal of respect for those who do. The first thing one must become acquainted to when driving is that the horn is your closest friend. People beep and toot away here as a form of communication. There are no particular rules of driving except get to where you need to go and get there in one piece. The horn helps communicate to those around you that you are moving forward – please don’t get in the way and that’s that. I’ve watched people drive down the breakdown lane when traffic has gotten too

thick. It also seems to be a normative practise when possible to travel in the left lane if the right lane is clogged. Somehow this all makes

sense in the bigger picture of driving. I comment and still comment how freeing driving seems to be here compared to back home. Let me just say that being a pedestrian take guts too. Cars will come at you even if you are in the road – mind you pedestrians will come at you even if you are in a moving car. For me so used to cars stopping to allow people to cross the road, it took me a while to realise that this was not going to happen here. I stopped being gingerly quite quickly.

Like the stories I’ve heard from other countries people here hang, sit, and ride atop roofs back doors and the such as they are travelling on vehicles. At first I was quite shocked to see a packed Jeepney with at least four guys hanging off the back traveling down the highway at a good pace. This would be an Insurance man’s biggest nightmare.

Let’s talk about Jeepneys. When I first arrived in the Philippines I immediately noticed these amazing

ornately decorated “mini busses”. I think the best phrase would be “pimped out” buses - mind you – to use a vernacular phrase. Jeepneys are decorated in bold and flashy colours and print. It is not uncommon to see the Blessed Virgin Mary, Jesus and all sorts of religious décor. It puts the “k” in Catholic Kitsch. Jeepneys are well organised and function as the main source of public transport. I am told that they originated with the utilisation of jeeps that were left behind by the Americans. Theses jeeps were commandeered, decorated and put to use as transport. I am told that each Jeepney has its own route and that they function like any bus system except with the Jeepney you can catch it and be drop of anywhere on the route you want. People stand in clusters at the side of the road and wait for one to come and wave at it to stop. Jeepney drivers are notorious for stopping just about anywhere and they have been responsible for many traffic jams that I’ve been in. It’s not uncommon for people to commute

three or four hours jumping from one Jeepney to another to travel across town. To pay for your lift you pass the money up from the back to the front – each passenger moving it forward until it

gets to the driver – when he makes change and then passes it back down the line. I am told that Jeepney drivers are very adept at this and make no move to stop driving in the process.

There is another mode of transportation called a Tricycle. These can be either a motorcycle or a bike hooked up to a cab that has been welded on and ornately decorated. Tricycles are used for transportation and for transport. I’ve have seen everything being transported on Tricycle from mattresses to a big pink pig. They are very handy because their size allows for easy manoeuvring and in the heavy traffic zone that is a plus.

One might wonder where you park in all this glorious movement. Most establishments that you go to there are security guards. Their uniforms are very distinct and these people I am told are trained – this doesn’t surprise me because most security guards that I have seen are quite fit.

They carry guns mostly pistols, however depending on where – likes banks - I have seen shot guns being carried in a position ready to go. To supplement their income security guards will manage the parking in the area of the shop that you may be going to. This can be quite an interesting operation and their creativity is remarkable. Not only do you get you a parking space, you also have security that your car will not be damaged or broken into. When you leave they make sure the traffic stops for you and you can drive out with ease. It is customary to give them a tip for their trouble. I am told over the course of the day they can make a good supplement to their wages.

A tradition that was brought by the Spanish is that of the Fiesta. Every May parishes traditionally have a celebration often on their Feast day. The Spanish colonising of the Philippines was very much one of the Sword and the Cross. As I think I mentioned before, with the Spanish there was a very thin line between the Roman Catholic Church and secular government in many instances the two were often the same. When the early missionaries came they found the native population very much resonated with some of the traditions the Church enjoyed and this was a great asset to the conversions of the local populace. This is by no means unique to the history of the Roman

Church with a tradition of devotion to saints and a very visual array of religious expression like processions and elaborate high holidays. The very things that the

Reformation condemned about the Roman Church have been itsgreatest adva

ntage to reaching native populations. One such tradition was the love of gatherings and celebrations. The Fiesta fit right in to local custom and has been a facet of religious life here in the Philippines since. The Roman Catholic congregations often times have elaborate processions with statues of saints being displayed and paraded around the streets. Fiestas traditionally are held in the month of May and as you drive around the Barangas of Metro Manila you will see bright flags hanging across the streets and colourful banners. Usually politicians have bright placards announcing their well wishing for the season. As I mention before, often times these Fiestas fall on the feast day of a patron saint of a parish.

Saints play a very big role in the life of the Philippines. Like in many countries where the Roman Church has found itself – saints became very tangible and accessible mediators to a God portrayed as distant and who “lives” far away in a heavenly realm that we aspire to, but would never presume to be able to reach, particularly while being denizens here on this

Earth. Before Spanish Catholic Christianity came to the Philippines there was a very vibrant religious worldview. They believed in a supreme creator being called Bathala and beside the social structure of humans there existed a parallel world - it has been described as an “invisible society” – that coexisted along and with the

world that one perceives around oneself. This world was inhabited by spirits that included deceased ancestors, other deities and lesser gods. It was important to honour these spirit denizens and one way by which that was done was through celebrations of ritual and feast days.

Now I am using the “pass tense”

when I describe this cosmology, but I can assure you that some, maybe many, would tell you that this isn’t too far from the current Filipino world view, which is behind the devotion of Spanish Roman Catholicism. There is no doubt that spirits and this other world play a very important part in the psyche of the Filipino. This is very similar to what I experienced in

Ireland where Tirnanog, that other parallel reality, existed so close to the twilight. And not to mention with my own family traditions, which are seeped in Acadian/Native and French Catholic understandings of how reality is multilayered. Filipino society can be described as distinctly functioning from the right side of the brain. I believe that this is common with many Asian cultures where there is more of an emphasis on community and ones identification, which comes from that community. I am kind of getting this feeling from what I have observed in the Filipinos and how they relate to each other and how they react to me when they are unsure

how I will respond to their hospitality. This brings me back to what I refer to as the “food thing”. I had a bit of a rant with Bishop Dixie, because I was experiencing some acute stress over how

food is such an important focus here. My stress was coming from a point where I was feeling tired that I felt I had to take what was being offered me – even when I wasn’t hungry and even if I didn’t like what was being offered. I can’t tell you how many times that I had to for

tify myself psychologically because I was being offered fish which has been sitting in marinated vinegar sauce in the heat for a good part of what I know has been the day. I never say “no” and always take some, but there is almost predictably someone at the table who insist I take more

and looks at me challengingly if I don’t. (Also, let me state that this usually comes from a man who knows me and is one of the entourage – I am beginning to realise this is quite common amongst guys here - this challenging, but I will talk about Filipino machismo in another post) Now mind you, let me say, I never found the food offered to me to be untasty, I will be the first to admit it’s the presentation that gets to me. Sometimes I feel like a toddler - way too concerned with texture and appearance. Part of this anxiety came from a conversation that I had with Lean who is a development officer with the Diocese, who just happened to invite me to lunch, about why I wouldn’t eat balut. Before I go on let me say we were eating in the courtyard under a mango tree and eating food from a vendor. The “food thing” was in play, because the security guards, Fr. Jaime and the other people from the diocesan centre were looking over at me quite pleased that I was eating Filipino food from a vendor outside in a very Filipino way. You see, many foreigners will not eat Filipino food from a vendor because it is “hard on their stomachs” which is a subtle reference to the “revenge of Montezuma.”We were sitting at a plastic table under the mango tree and it was a particularly windy day. So as a result leaves would fall on the table. But just as it happens here in the Philippines, leaves very rarely fall on their own, but usually have

passengers. In this case it was very large red ants, which would land with their mandibles wide open ready for a scrape. I am talking ants that look like the damn fire ants that you see on National Geographic programmes - not the little intrepid ants that I am constantly dissuading from foraging in my room. I’m talking the kind of ant that rampages through the rain forest putting the fear of an organized carnivorous menace in the heart of the denizens who live there. When I asked what kind of ants they were Lean said, “Friendly”. I probably haven’t

mentioned as of yet the Filipino sense of humour. It’s pretty dry and quick and not to mention somewhat biting. So with that I began to swat the damn things so they wouldn’t get any ideas about how I might taste. Now back to the Balut. Balut is an egg which is an undeveloped duck embryo, which is hard boiled and eaten with salt. It’s considered a delicacy. Firstly, I am not a big fan of eggs either way and if I am

going to enjoy eggs they’ve got to be cooked really well. Let’s not talk about a developed duck embryo. My anxiety doesn’t come from the food necessarily all the

time, but from the feeling that if I don’t take it I am somehow insulting my host. It’s not really the food, but the sharing of the food and partaking in the group that is sharing in the food that seems to be important. O.K. in honesty that isn’t always the case in just the Philippines, I’ve been at a table in Canada and declined a second helping and have been given a “look” that boarders on “why are you insulting me”, but hey this was a rant and I was totally into being emotional. However, in North American most people don’t get to worried if you don’t eat something or like it.

I thought I insulted Lean because I explained that I didn’t really like eggs in general and when Balut was described to me it sounded like it was soft boiled (I’ve since found out that it is cooked hard boiled most of the time.) She insisted I try some, “its part of your exposure” I said I would want a bucket near me, just in case. O.K. if the conversation about Balut wasn’t interesting enough it soon turned to eating dog. Yes. The mountain people here eat dog. It’s considered a delicacy as well and it is served as a special dish cooked for special occasions. Now I know eventually I will be served dog, though I do have a feeling that I may have eaten it already. I was in Cainta, the Igorot village and I think it was served to me the first time I visited. Why I think this is because when I asked what I was eating, I didn’t get an answer and later when the bishop was talking to Padi Juliet he said we ate a “traditional mountain dish” and then started speaking in Ilocano, which is one of the indigenous languages of the Igorot. I can’ say the thought of eating a dog doesn’t bother me, but I know I am going to face it sooner or later and most likely I will try it. In conversations that I’ve had with people I am told that they do not eat every kind of dog, but there is a special fat juicy one that they eat. Many people here have dogs as pets and I was assured that those weren’t the ones that people ate – there is a special kind that roams in the mountains. You when there are those times when you are away you are talking and then you realized what the words are that are coming from your mouth? Well welcome to my world. I really didn’t know I was saying this until I did, but I heard my voice suddenly say, “I don’t like eating

intelligent animals.” Now it was an honest answer, except that I like eating pigs, and I’ve been told that pigs are fairly intelligent. Now chickens are reportedly supposed to be more intelligent then cows – I really don’t know, what I do know is that they both seem rather simple to me and I like to eat them. However, after my comment about not eating “intelligent animals” I tried to back peddle and explain how people of European descent understood their relationships with dogs in that great history of man and dog of

ours. I tried to paint a romantic picture of man’s best friend and the symbiotic relationship that I was sure that nature had intended between man and dog. How dogs were protectors and hunting companions and that eating them wasn’t really what we did, in fact I don’t think eating dogs come up on the radar unless there is famine and all that. She wasn’t all that impressed and said that people in North America treat dogs like children and the – for lack of a better word – disdain in her voice was evident. Maybe disdain was too harsh a word, perhaps it was more like “stop being so silly”. That’s when lunch was finished and we got up and moved on our way. In my anxiety I told all of this to the bishop in an emotional rant – dog and man history and all. I have to give him credit Bishop Dixie knows how to listen and he is very good with my anxieties. He assured me that Lean was most likely not insulted because she is used to working with foreigners. I will be the first to admit that my own anxieties do manifest themselves rather acutely, but rightfully it’s because I am still swimming the waters of a new culture and sometimes I am just too comfortable saying what’s on my mind. I can assure you that I have spoken with Lean since and she wasn’t offended at all. In fact she said that she liked people who are direct. Nice.

What was I talking about? – Oh right, this post began with the Fiesta. Well the festivities began

with Eucharist which was a High Mass. I’m talking incense, a procession and lots of singing. It’s amazing to be in a high church Mass, where the parish is so use to the use of incense. I won’t say that it was casual; however its application was so familiar that it was done in a very common way and did not seem like anything special or out of place. Even the incense burner looked well worn and casual. After the High Mass we ate and then went outside for games. This was really quite fun. There were children’s relay races and adults as well. The adults were separated into age, male and female. People really know how to have a good time both watching and participating. Music here is always playing and while the games were happening what we would call “vintage” music was blaring in the background. In fact there are very few places, stores, markets and definitely cantinas where music isn’t blaring at massive decimals. The music can run the gamut from late sixties to eighties. I must admit I

have had quite a few blasts from the past listening to the various songs that I’ve heard. On the flip side when I am hanging out in Burger King the music is particular contemporary and a lot of it is in Tagalog. It’s quite good and there are a few songs that have stuck decidedly in my mind.

From what I have observed music and singing is very close to the Filipino heart and the fact that Karaoke is everywhere attest to that reality. Below my window, under the makeshift roofs, is a small building where people cook for one of the small restaurants or “carinderia” as they called hear. I should say that cooking usually starts at 4:00 a.m. Most people here get up fairly early and the day is considered well started by 6:30. It’s not unusually for people to travel two or even three hours to get to their work place. As I mentioned I smell the food starting to cook quite early and the clanging of pans and buckets is soon to follow. Many times I will hear someone start to sing a pop song. First in a single voice and then usually joined by two or three more. I will say they are quite good.

Because I am with the Igorot, which means simply “mountain people” they usually have a traditional dance or set of dances to usher in a celebration. The men usually play the music on these circular - what seems to be bronze gongs – the men lead the dancing and the women follow them at their side.

Sometimes I do not know how to articulate the poverty that I see around me constantly. There are times when I see things and I say to myself that it could not be possible to get any worse…and then it does. I have found myself vacillating between irritability and anger at such small and silly things and it’s only recently that I have realized that this is in response to the constant desperation that I see around me. Sometimes an image enters my head and it’s quite simple and benevolent but it reduces me to uncontrollable weeping; my dreams are permeated by these images and there is not one night that I don’t sleep and see these things over and over again. There are times that all I want to do is escape and forget what I see and I am hardly comforted by the fact that I could end this tomorrow if I wanted to, but those around me can’t. I try to convince myself that its what their used to but this is just a cold way of comforting myself and doesn’t alleviate the realization that much of this poverty is lived and allowed by people who are so much more vastly comfortable. I understand why they live behind tall walls with guarded gates and I find myself just as guilty of the pleasure of basking in the comforts of a wealthy compound – the open space and the sweet smells of flowers - eating apple pie with ice cream and having coffee with real crème with the rector and his wife. It’s with guilty reluctance that I leave such a place, because I know when I pass through those gates that I will be confronted again by what often times seems like a nightmare. The author of this nightmare is complacency. If I could describe images of hell these would be the images that burry themselves in the depths of my mind. It’s malaria of the soul a fever which does not fully go away. Such structures as the caste system, and the institutionalize berating of the poor which blames them for their own condition exist to comfort those who have, but do not wish to give, because the greatest fear is that they could be who they see on the streets.

For me to see this around me and realize that it’s so much bigger then I am fills me with hopelessness that I find hard to stop it from turning into hardness. I am so overwhelmed by this that the only way I can express it is through grief - this grief comes so unexpectedly. The only other time I felt something with a force like this and with the same depth, was when I was greiving my grandmother’s death. Poverty is synonymous with the heat in my existence. I pray for a transformation of this grief and it’s at times like these I know I can’t bare to exist alone and that without Christ and the salvation promised us by Him the explanation of the reality around me would not make sense.

When I am at Burger King I often times sit next to the window and almost daily a young girl - she must be all five years comes up to me with her hands out – I look at her and simply shake my head and signal “no”. Almost every day that I’ve been there she has come up to the window where I sit - she has only begged once - now she comes up and looks at what I am doing. She is fascinated by my computer screen and there is a look in her eyes that I can’t articulate. When she is done with me, she moves down the window to the next person and if they should have a computer she stands for a bit watching them. Then she sort of runs away in this carefree manner and I see a glimpse of what I know to be joy – the kind of joy that only a child can harbour and I become undone. I have marvelled at how black the soles of her bare feet are.

When I lived in Ireland I witnessed poverty. I’ve been to tenement buildings in Dublin where people live on top of the each other in very close proximity; where farm animals are housed in courtyards or in any available space that preset. I’ve have been welcomed in Gypsy camps. I have sat in the streets in Dublin on a blanket reading fortunes to make my living while gypsy children begged a little ways down from me. I’ve squatted in old buildings to make a home and I have lived in concrete structures that I have rescued from the decay and overgrowth to make a home. I’ve lived in a similar way to the simple homes I’ve been in here. I thought Dublin was crowded and polluted - an ocean of humanity by which you flowed with or drowned. These experiences and memories are now flooding into my mind daily as I connect their similarities. But I was so much younger in those memories then I am now. There is a great fortitude in youth that is cradled by idealistic and self focused naïveté. There are times when I miss that disposition.

Today I was invited to go with the Bishop and the Episcopal Church Women on what they call a Medical Mission. Together with a team of doctors the ECW and some of the military go to rural areas and provide free medical care. In most cases this is the only medical care that these communities will receive and the Church tries to do this once a year. These would be communities that migrated to a vacant piece of land and set up temporary housing, which turned into more permanent dwelling. The property that is chosen is usually the least valued and is owned by someone else whether it be the government or a private individual. Most of the communities that I have visited with the Episcopal Church have been what is termed squatters communities. These communities are usually made up of a minority groups who have come to Metro Manila usually from the distant provinces. Today the community was from the island of Mindoro principally. When the Episcopal Church can it will buy property in or by these communities and build a church structure. This Church structure will function as a worship space and a community meeting place. In the case of the community I visited today in Antipoalo their “church” was a roof with four pillars. You can see in the pictures the cross at the back of the church that was today serving as an operating theatre.

Perhaps the one thing that continually is startling to me is the drastic shift from abject poverty to wealth which lives side by side to each other. There is no gradation and the comparison is startling. Even when I was walking around this squatter’s community just past the concrete wall were brand new houses being built for the upper middle class. These stand in stark contrast to the rest that is around them. In my Yankee sensibilities my first reaction to this is there is a complete lack of shame at work here. To build such ostentatious examples of wealth in the midst of such degradation lacks decency, however I know that this is not New England.

There were two stations that were set up – one for general examinations and medical care and the other was for minor operations. The majority of the medical procedures were circumcisions. This was the first time I had experienced a medical procedure being performed out in the open as such. I was amazed at the composure of the boys who were undergoing this procedure. As you may notice in some pictures that I wasn’t the only one interested; there was a group of boys watching intently on the side line. Afterward you would see boys walking around holding their shorts away from their privates. To be honest I could not watch all that much and took a place away under a tree with Padi Juliet.

There was a sea of humanity everywhere and people were sitting and waiting and generally just carrying on. This was a big event and important to the community. The one thing that I am really enjoying is the fact that in the three weeks that I’ve been here I have began to set up real firm connections with people and I am beginning to meet them in different places. The Episcopal community is small but very proactive. The Episcopal Church Women have been very good to me and if you will remember I attended their conference earlier this month. It was a good move because it put me in contact with quite an active group. Myself, Bishop Dixie, and Padi Juliet were accompanied by two other women, Espera and another Filipino woman who is living in New York and over for a visit. What a great time I had with these people.

The warden at Holy Trinity (that would be the Ex Pat church in Makati) which was one of the main sponsors of this Medical Mission is a Colonel in the Philippine Army. As a result he usually brings his entourage with him henceforth the military you see in the pictures. I’ve gotten used to the military being around and I must say that my reaction to them is much different then when I lived in Ireland, but then again the military was present to help not to hinder. I am always treated with respect by the Philippino military personnel and I must say I feel quite safe in their presence. They were part of a bigger scheme doing a good thing. There was a curious moment when one of the military officers came up to me and Padi Juliet and said to Padi Juliet, “Ah – he looks like me.” I hadn’t noticed because I was looking around and he spoke in Filipino.

Afterward Padi Juliet mentioned this and we had a conversation about the Mestiso, which is the name they call a class of people here that are Spanish or foreign blood mixed. I first heard this term when I was at the ECW Conference earlier this month when I spoke at length with the organist, named Holland, who was playing for conference. He sat down next to me during lunch and as we started talking he was very surprised that I wasn’t Filipino. He said that I looked Mestiso and he had assumed I was. Now, the draw back of looking Mestiso is that this traditionally is a very wealthy class and their referred to as “rich Filipinos”. Nice, as if I don’t have enough issues as is. He said that if I kept my mouth shut people would think I was from that class and probably speak Filipino to me. Since my conversation with him he has been right. There have been many occasions when cashiers spoken to me in Filipino and have been visibly shocked when I have responded in English. Now I personally don’t think I look Spanish or Filipino, but I have been told I have unusual features - perhaps that is what is at play here.

After the Medical Mission the five of us drove to Fairview Church, which is another church that has been built in the middle of a squatter’s community. Bishop Dixie had gotten word that a former seminarian had died recently and he wanted to find out where the wake was being held. I found the Fairview Church of the Resurrection to be quite a beautiful building. It is of an open style with grates in for windows that can be opened. As I mentioned before this is one style of architecture that fascinates me, which is a product of the climate that I find myself in; it gets so hot that there is no sense in having traditional windows. Most buildings have the roof extended quite a bit away from the building to compensate for the rain during the rainy season. These churches built in the middle of these transient communities serve to offer a legitimizing presence for the community. They offer to the people a refuge and an underline statement that they are not alone.

There are very few street signs when you venture forth into the outer Batangas of Metro Manila. I find the streets confusing in Metro Manila/Quezon so for me being out in the suburbs is even more of a mystery. Though there may not be adequate and predictable signage people know the streets and all you have to do is ask, which is what we did, over and over again until we found the spot were the wake was. Again we found ourselves moving through the tight allies of a squatter’s village moving deeper and deeper into the recesses of human ingenuity in their plight to live. The rain had begun to fall, slowly as it does and then progressively harder. Mud became a constant barrier. I don’t know how to describe the smells that confronts the nose when walking through this damp, muddy existence. We came upon an encampment that had tarps set up against two walls that made a triangle with a concrete floor. There a long table had been set up and around it were at least 14 people playing bingo. The rattling of the ice inside a plastic container created an ethereal rhythm that was both raucous and melodic at the same time. It was a refuge to the undulating grief that permeated this rustic spot. Beyond the long table sat a cluster of people in the corner near to what I began to make out as a coffin. There was a wall hanging behind the coffin and flanking at both ends were these large silver floor candles and in the middle was a crucifix. The scent of roses was in the air and about eight people were sitting around the half open coffin. As I approached to pay respects I was relieved to see that the coffin was sealed and that a glass plate allowed us to view the face of the deceased. I suppose in this weather that would be an essential necessity. We were offered seats and that is when the mother told the story of her son’s demise. Of course the conversation was in Tagalog and I had to be filled in later.

The rain began to come down much harder now as I looked over at the table at the people playing games in fellowship as they sat in support. It fascinates me as to how people just cope with the weather. They live in a world which is a balance of inside and out, but mostly out. Boys take their shirts off and walk around in shorts letting the rain fall as it will. Women put cloths on their heads or use umbrellas to shield themselves. I watched as people’s feet lay in pools of water that began to collect persistently underneath the table and none seemed to take notice. Leaks occur and people move. There is dampness but it is a warm one and the water is a constant presence. I sat in a small plastic chair; my feet wet my shirt sticky and the thoughts that this is one of the most uncomfortable moments in a long line of uncomfortable moments, but in that I became acutely aware of the fact that I am living and that my mortality is a step away.

Wednesday, 27 May 2009 – the evening

I don’t think I have talked much about the signage here – it’s really quite amusing. When you drive down the highways here there are huge billboard signs up everywhere. At night they are lit up and they are quite impressive in size and colour. Tagalog and English are the official languages of the Philippines. Tagalog is the primary language of the Tagalog people which occupied the Metro Manila area. It has a lot of Spanish influence given that the Spanish were here for over 300 years. As usual the language spoken near the capital becomes the “standard” language that is used universally; much like what Mandarin has become in China.

Now there are 7,000 islands that make up the Philippines and there are a multitude of languages spoken. The break down seems to be thus: Cebuano is spoken by 6 million; Hiligaynon by 3 million; Bicolano by 2 million and Waray-Waray by 1 million. Now these are the major ethnic groups of the Philippines. The people I’m hanging out with, the Igorot, are indigenous people and they differ in their language as well as customs because they are considered minority groups. I do hear a lot of Tagalog spoken, but the majority of the language I hear is Igorot and sometimes I have to be told which language I am hearing, because they tend to twitch back and forth. I am told that 55 percent of the population (the Philippines has a population of about 80 million) speak Filipino, which is based on Tagalog and 45 percent speak English. Both Filipino and English are considered the official languages and English is taught in schools – in fact English is often the primary language of the education system. English has become the lingua franca of the Philippines because there are so many languages and most meetings that I have attended have been conducted in English for this reason. As a result the Filipinos have developed a very creative way of expressing themselves in English and Tagalog and I see this most markedly in the big billboard signs.

The signs for advertisements can be quite saucy by North American standards and the combination of Tagalog and English sentences show an amazing creativity. I say to my Filipino hosts that I love their use of English because it is so “tasty” and creative. It really works on image and word play with sound. I found that Tagalog has its origins in Sanskrit – I began to wonder because the way it is pronounced and the written spellings I’ve seen reminded me of Pali which is the vernacular language of India that the Buddha spoke. Much the way Aramaic would be the vernacular to Hebrew. I used to chant in Pali and am fairly familiar with it and its pronunciation. Once I made that connection, I began to pronounce Tagalog much better.

My Tagalog is developing slowly but surely. I am learning all the foreigner basics. What, where why, how – how much – may I buy – where’s the comfort room – give me – I’m learning – and counting. Bishop Dixie makes it a point to teach me at least a sentence a day. He tells me that I will be here long enough to pick up quite a bit. My next goal is to get to a book store and pick up a conversational Tagalog book to help me on my way. Even though most people speak English here in Metro Manila/Quezon some don’t have quite the same proficiency and it’s nice to be able to reach out in their vernacular – plus I feel less imperial when I don’t make the assumption that I will be understood. It is quite a blessing that most people do have English here, because the isolation factor decreases quite a bit for me.

Today we (the bishop and I) got up really early (5:30) to go pick up Patrick and head to Baccalaureate Eucharist that was being held for the graduates of the Brent School. I also met Deacon Reshley who drove up with us. Apparently, he lives very close to the Diocesan centre and he is the Deacon up at Holy Spirit, which has fastly become my favourite parish. That is the one, mind you, with the little school in the middle of the Batanga (which is a barrio).

Deacon Reshley is quite a character and I enjoyed his company on the way to get Patrick. He is quite funny and very intellectual, but in that down to earth sort way; he began talking about the present Pope and some of his earlier writings when he was working for the former Pope John Paul II. Either way it always throws me, particularly when a person is ordained. He was prattling on about some other stuff and I found myself rather not amused and said to him that I had no time for Rome, because I am Anglican and then began to espouse the merits of our current intellect in Canterbury. I hadn’t realized that Deacon Reshley had started in the Roman Catholic Church and then came to the Episcopal – Oh Nicolas does it again. I didn’t want to be offensive and probably wouldn’t have said that if I had known. However, the Bishop assured me that I was not voicing an opinion that wasn’t shared by all present, and that Reshley would understand. I am not sure what the circumstances were that led him to the Episcopal Church– I believe he started out his journey as lay person – however, I am sure I will make it a point to ask in the future. This was my first impression. After getting to know Reshley more as the day rolled on I realized that he was someone who was not afraid to voice his opinions and his humour boarders…well that is a polite word…on being almost scandalously saucy and irreverent. He is the first Filipino Priest I’ve met that smokes. He is fifty one and has three children.

The Brent School is a school that was started by the first premier missionary bishop of the Episcopal Church in the Philippines, Charles Henry Brent. The school was started for ex-pat kids and now is a very large and very prestigious private school that caters to the international community. Currently, I believe good many of the students are Koreans. The Philippines is cashing in on being a country that has English as a one of its official languages (and like India there is a growing call centre business here as well) – so many students from other Asian countries come here for that reason to study it. The place, as you will see from the pictures posted, is state of the art and very new looking.

Attending the graduation Eucharist was quite nice and an experience. I love the energy of the graduating class and the youthful hopefulness. The thing is these students most likely will go on to big things. A school like Brent International produces quite a reputable stock. I must say I saw more Caucasians at Brent International School then I’ve seen in all the time I’ve been here. In fact there was such a plethora of them that when I was introduced to one, a Canadian from Toronto, I could see in his eyes and feel in his tone that he was registering just another “North American” and to him this wasn’t special and talking to me seemed to be a bit of a chore. So I politely let him go. He was just a gym teacher from Toronto anyhow. A good many Americans and Canadians are “imported” to teach at the school most likely because of its connection to the Episcopal Church USA.

The Baccalaureate Eucharist was held in a gym that was the first gym I’ve seen not to really look like a gym. One of my favourite parts of the Mass was watching Bishop Dixie bless each child individually. It was really beautiful. I’ve noticed here at Eucharist that it is quite customary for the children to line up and be blessed if they haven’t had their first communion as of yet. The Church in the Philippines is still quite traditional and though it is permissible for the baptised to take communion, there is still a very conscious understanding that one must be taught what the Eucharist is before receiving it. So the blessing of the children is received with such a feeling of awe and happiness. I think our Church in North American has done itself a disservice by making everything so “common” and automatically accessible. We do not emphasise the “specialness” of the Christian initiatory rites of passage and instead we tend to react to a structured graduating form of Christian education and initiation as steps that are isolating and non egalitarian. Is this a product of an “I have a right to” society or apathy? We start questioning why baptism, why should we bother with Confirmation? I was raised to believe that those things that we work hard for are the ones most well earned and valued. Valued because we understand its meaning and sometimes that meaning lies in the work, which means waiting. Is the Church suffering in North America, because we have robbed it of its basic value by making its most treasured rites old fashioned, common all in the name of instant accessibility? I wonder how are we to impart value if we ourselves do not promote it? Or to be more vernacular, “You can’t sell the goods, if you give them away.”

Because we were part of the bishop’s entourage we were invited to have lunch in the faculty room with attending faculty. On the way to the Comfort Room (did I mention that they call bathrooms here “comfort rooms” or the “CR”?) I met Bishop Dixie and I asked him in all seriousness, well as serious as I could play, if it was all right to use my “five chopsticks”. He looked at me with all the concern of a person who was entrusted with imparting cultural norms on the foreigner and was about to politely, but seriously explain that it wouldn’t be received well, until he saw I was joking. We had a good laugh at that one. When I am with the Igorot not to eat with my hands would appear pretentious, but here at Brent? Need I say more?

How does one describe academic people anywhere? They are charming in their insular way, but terribly lofty in their mental worlds. Brahmans who want to forget who they were to become something that their trying to be, which is usually their former teachers. They are a link in the intellectual chain that is forging future links.

I know how Saint Peter felt when he hung out with the burgeoning Christian community under Paul’s care eating what he was taught to be unclean food with unclean people. I know the feeling he must have felt when his own people came and he felt compelled to sit and eat with them. Giving the impression he was ashamed of his behaviour. This angered Paul and Peter was accused of hypocrisy. I have noticed that when foreigners and Filipinos intermix there is uneasiness particularly when there should be an equality in rank and or education. This uneasiness is more pronounced when rank is overlapped with cultural differences. I am thinking a Filipino bishop entering an ex pat community and watching the conflicting responses to the office of “bishop” and juxtaposed to that of the Filipino. People are often times easier to relate to when they are your students or making your tea.

If I am with a group of Filipinos and we meet other foreigners - it could be having tea with the rector of Holy Trinity or having lunch with some of the faculty at Brent, in the course of the conversation I will begin to receive most of the eye contact and eventually the conversation will turn around to common themes that we share. I know in many cases that this is not done consciously it can be very subtle, but I have noticed it and I have seen myself inadvertently getting caught up in it. What’s more important is that it is noticed by the Filipino company present. It embarrasses me because I am very much in a Filipino world when I am not in those rare moments surrounded by Ex Pats. There is something compelling about familiarity that pulls you in and this isn’t necessarily something which is bad, however there is such an undercurrent of colonial impetus to just being a foreigner here that I can’t help to see its very subtle mechanism. I imagine that Peter had some moments in these regards.

The Filipino people have such a sophisticated sense of hospitality that I have barely scratched the surface of its depth. It is easy to misunderstand its implications and to get too caught up in self importance to really comprehend its implications.

There seems to be one common denominator that links people around the world….beer. I’ve found out that Filipinos, particularly men, like to drink beer and they are not afraid of it either. After visiting the Brent School and being dropped off at the Diocesan Centre I received a text message from the bishop inviting me over to his house for supper, which I gladly accepted. When he swung around to pick me up he said he had noticed that I mentioned I like beer and so we went to the store and bought some. We also bought ice, because the beer wasn’t cold. When we got back to his house it was full of his family. Filipinos do not live in isolation and they have their families around constantly it is always a social affair. There is a sense of community that I am not used to and acts of independence are not quite understood here. The bishop was inviting me to his house not as an idle gesture, but to articulate that I was welcomed there anytime and that I should feel free to drop by when I wanted.

This was such a great evening. I got to hang with Bishop Dixie and his second eldest son – who is just graduating from medical school. I took the opportunity to ask the bishop how he was called and what lead him to where he was now. I had no clue the amazing story that was about to unfold. It was great. Bishop Dixie comes from the same ilk as Bishop Patrick in Tanzania. In fact there are times when I look at him and am reminded of Patrick so much. Apostolic bishops both constantly wanting to be with their people and so Spirit filled.