Week 2 (continued) – The weekend (Around the Town)
Friday, October 4 – Sunday,
October 6
Friday: Friday morning found me getting ready
to go out and spend a day checking out the city of Manila. Since Phil was sorta an expert on Manila and
Philippine travel and food (compared to little ol’ me who’d been sheltered at
Faith Academy and the birthing clinic for almost two weeks!), he’d invited me
to go with him, see some “real” Manila, eat delicious (and cheap!) street food,
and check out an orphanage he’d been interested in volunteering at. As I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, he
had given me specific directions on how to get to wherever it was we were going
– which happened to be one of the many SM City Malls in Manila (sorta the
equivalent of a Target store, but a mall).
I was supposed to take a jeepney to SM, but Jacque wasn’t sure if it was
actually possible, plus I would have had to walk like 1.5 miles to the other
side of her closed living community to get to the highway where jeepneys
ran. Hence, I ended up taking a taxi and
shelling out about $5 instead of 50 cents to get to my destination. Oh well.
At least I was safe and the driver would for sure take me to the correct
place. With a jeepney, I’d need to know
when to yell, “Stop!” and jump off, and then probably walk a couple blocks to
the SM. I left plenty early to make
sure I’d make it to SM by 9am, when I was supposed to meet Phil at the
Starbucks right next to the SM main entrance.
Traffic had gone so smoothly, that I arrived around 8:30am. No problem.
I got my book. I got my
notebook/journal that I should really update.
And there’s a Starbucks. Don’t
mind if I do have a venti-sized blended café mocha with an extra shot and
whipped cream, and a bagel with cream cheese (cream cheese!!!!). Don’t mind if I do….
To my horror, as I approached the Starbucks, the security officer said,
“Good Morning ma’am. Starbucks not open
yet. At 10am. You’re very early.” NOOOOOO.
I want my coffee! (I never was a
coffee person in the USA…and I’m still not….not really, anyways. I’m not an addict, that’s for sure. I don’t NEED coffee. I just like it. I don’t know what happened since I was last
in America. Now I love it. Blame it on Burkina and fake instant Nescafé
and real but gross coffee that tastes like dirt. So now everything tastes amazing! Plus, coffee shops are just such a cool
atmosphere. Music. Calm.
Good smells. Comfy couches. Maybe that’s what I’ll do when I get back to
Minnesota. Start a coffee shop and
bakery. I always did think it’d be fun
to work as a barista….).
As a backup plan, I decided to check out the mall for a bit, to kill
some time until Phil showed up. But,
alas, the mall didn’t open until 10am either.
What is this?!? TEN O’CLOCK?!? That’s practically noon! What about morning coffee? What about all those early-risers who want to
be out and about by 7am. Gosh, by 10am,
I’ve generally been up for about 4 hours and done enough stuff to merit a
mid-morning snack and possibly also a nap.
Seriously, what is the world coming to, not opening business and
shopping centers until the ridiculously late time of 10am? Preposterous.
So the venti-sized blended café mocha with an extra shot and whipped
cream wasn’t going to happen, nor was the bagel smothered in cream cheese. I settled on reading my book on a table right
outside the Starbucks and I texted Phil to let him know I was (already) there,
in hopes that maybe he’d hurry up and leave sooner too.
About 30 minutes later, I receive another message from Phil:
Phil: at starbucks now. where u at?
Me: im at starbucks, sittin outside.
Phil: where did u go? i don’t see u. i went outside.
Me: uhh….?
maybe theres more than one starbucks at this SM? or did I screw up and go to the wrong mall?
Phil: hold on a few minutes…. don’t move.
Phil: BWHAHAHA.
I went 2 the wrong SM. im at
Marikina, I’ll b over 2 ur SM in a few.
stay there.
Whew. I had been getting
nervous, thinking I was at the wrong mall, I wouldn’t be able to get to where
Phil was, would just get more and more lost in Manila, kidnapped, etc.…. Good to know that, like usual, I wasn’t in
the wrong and was indeed where I was supposed to be.
Phil showed up soon after, and Starbucks opened, so I got my coffee and
bagel after all! Then we made our way to Gentle Hands Orphanage. Learning about how the orphanage functions,
its rules, and its philosophy on how to “raise” children and prepare them for
adoption was very eye-opening. For
example, this particular orphanage, contrary to most other homes, does not
allow volunteers to play with or hold any of the children under age 4. These
young children have one primary caregiver that takes care of them 6 out of the
7 days of the week, and if it’s not their primary caregiver, then it’s always
the same secondary caregiver. This is in
order to help the child develop an attachment bond. Babies who never knew their mother or were
abused or abandoned at a young age have major issues with trusting an adult (or
anyone) and creating a relationship with a caregiver, which in turn, can result
in further complications as the child becomes a teenager and adult, even if
they are adopted into a loving family.
Thus, in order to help children become “more adoptable,” if you will,
they need to have one and only one “mom” as a baby, even in the orphanages. Consequently, volunteers (unless they are
going to be there for at least a year) do not do anything except smile and wave
to the youngsters – volunteers, rather, generally assist more with the
elementary school children and teenagers.
I had been looking forward to playing with the babies, but after Gentle
Hands’ philosophy was explained, I understood and was okay with just walking
through the baby and toddler rooms and greeting the caregivers. Rooms, just filled with babies. 10 or 12 cribs, two babies a crib. Babies in high chairs eating, babies in
caregiver arms being consoled, babies on blankets napping, babies on the floor
crawling and playing with toys. So many
babies. And only a couple caregivers for
them all. The toddler room wasn’t much
different, except for that it was naptime when we passed and each toddler was
down on his/her own little mattress.
Gentle Hands takes a lot of special cases, including transfers from
other orphanages, like children with handicaps, drug babies, malnourished and
dying infants, etc. Also, a lot of
sibling groups. It’s not uncommon to
find a group of 3, 4, even 6 or 7 children living together on the street, no
idea where their parents are, or where their house is, or even what their names
are. One family we learned about was discovered
in a shack by the river, clearly malnourished, starving, abused, the mother
somewhat present, but a drug addict with other mental issues. There were 6 children, all under age 7
(though no records of birth dates could be found), including a newborn who
appeared to have down’s syndrome. When
they were found, they were covered in feces – apparently the mother had abused
them in various ways, including shoving feces in their faces. This family group was immediately taken into
care and is recovering well, gaining weight, adjusting socially, acquiring
communication skills. In fact, because
they had no known names (first or last), a ceremony was held just a few days
ago, “giving” each child his/her new (or maybe first-ever) name. The older siblings were so excited to finally
have a name, and would immediately respond if someone called for them:
“Juan! Hannah! Angel!”
However, the next problem in the recovery process for this family (or
any child at all) is the question of adoption.
Fortunately, since the mother was “present” in their lives and could be
“found,” the kids were able to be signed over to state custody immediately,
making them eligible to be adopted.
Sadly, kids who are actually abandoned, with no traceable family, often
can NOT be adopted because they are not technically wards of the state, and,
theoretically, a parent or family member could show up or be found at any time
and claim custody of the child. So these
kids are the ones who spend their lives in the orphanages, or at least for 4-5
years, before the state can declare them a ward and legally open them up for
adoption, which is a process that will still take another 2-4 years, if they
are lucky enough to find a family who wants to adopt an older child at all.
So this specific family can be adopted as soon as they finish
“recovering” physically and their papers clear (usually takes about a
year)…..but who’s going to adopt SIX kids?
Especially one with down’s syndrome?
Sure, sometimes a child with special needs does find a home, and
sometimes a family takes in a group of 2 or 3 siblings….but SIX and special
needs? Yeah right. Families who can find it in their hearts to
take on a child with medical issues or more than one child or an older child
who is capable of remembering a previous life of abuse are one in a
million. I certainly understand why a
family looking to adopt would opt to choose a healthy baby, or just one young
child, and I don’t fault them in the least for that decision. However, what is an orphanage to do with a
sibling group like this? Time will tell,
but these kids really need a special family and a lot of prayers, if they are
to stay together and ever be adopted into one family.
Here’s Gentle Hands’ website, if you’d like to learn more about what
they do and how you can help.
However, do realize that this is just one of MANY organizations in the
Philippines (and throughout the entire world, America included) where children
are in need of love and a home. I liked
what I saw at Gentle Hands, but I am also sure that there are plenty of other
equally-loving temporary homes for children that deserve recognition for their
hard work as well.
After we had had our tour and two-hour philosophical discussion/chat
with the orphanage directors, Phil turned to me and asked, “Wanna adopt one
with me?” To which I replied,
“No. I wanna adopt six.” Maybe someday…
Following the orphanage, Phil and I rode a rainbow-painted, music-blaring,
party-happening jeepney to get ourselves to a large local market. There’s nothing like taking an over-crowded
mode of public transport, wind blowing in your face (in addition to some
pollution/smog/exhaust fumes), and a techno cover of “Hark! The Herald Angels
Sing” blasting so loud that you can’t even hear the person next to you. What a great way to go to work every
morning. If that doesn’t wake you up, I
don’t know what would….
At the market, sampling the various yummy types of street food was on
my to-do list, including a fresh coconut blended with ice smoothie. We saw tens of tables dedicated to colorful
fruits and vegetables, herbs, spices, soy sauces and vinegars. In another building were tables covered in
animal pieces and blood, the butchers standing behind the table with an
oversized knife in each hand, anxious to take your order. De-feathered, dead chickens hung by strings
attached to their feet, tied to the lower ceiling beams. They swayed back and forth, ever so
slightly. And of course, flies buzzed
everywhere. Crates and crates of eggs
were nearby, some small (quail), others large (duck), and still others with
purple shells -- these were hard-boiled and salted in the inside somehow; they
were pretty, but I didn’t like the taste and I couldn’t bring myself to finish
it. Which is weird, considering I’ve
eaten some pretty bizarre things in Africa and now have no taste buds and thus
can eat most anything without a problem.
But apparently not this salted egg.
Fail. I was ashamed of myself.
And then there was the seafood section.
Wow! And I thought the meat
section was vast. As far as I could see,
it was table after table of fish, shrimp, squid, clams, crab, eels, and
more. An insane amount of diversity
amongst the different varieties of seafood, but especially the fishes – pink,
blue, white, rainbow; short and fat, skinny and long; some were so small you
could hold a 100 in your hand at once; others were so large that three men were
needed to lift it from the ice chest to the top of the table. All the seafood was packed on ice to help it
stay fresh, and the cement floor of the entire building was wet, due to all the
melting ice and the water used to clean the fish. I had to walk through several puddles that
were at least a couple inches deep, and I congratulated myself for the
well-made decision to wear my Chaco’s that morning. Thank goodness I wasn’t wearing my leather
sandals…. Also, contrary to what you
might think, the seafood (and meat) sections did not smell bad. Sure, maybe it smelled fishy, but not in a
bad way. The odors in these sections
were quite tolerable, especially considering the sheer number of dead creatures
that were present.
Post market adventures, drinks were called for in an air-conditioned
restaurant at a nearby mall to celebrate our successful day of wandering around
Manila and only getting lost a few times.
The beer was good and not too costly (about 60 pesos, or about $1.50 for
a half-liter bottle), but considering I’ve become accustomed to full LITER
bottles of beer for 600 CFA ($1.20) in Burkina Faso, and multiple ones per
sitting at that, the ½ liter serving in Manila seemed rather tiny and
expensive. We enjoyed our marienda
(Tagalog word for snack) of beer in the chilly restaurant (beer is a snack,
right?), a much welcomed break from the hot sun we had endured all morning and
most the afternoon.
For supper, we went back out to the streets and found a “nice” looking
local restaurant, where food was bound to be significantly cheaper (and probably
tastier, too!). I had a
bar/cake/piece(?) of sweet-sticky rice.
From a distance, it looked like a brownie or maybe a chocolate rice
krispie bar. It was pretty good and
definitely satisfied my sweet tooth. I
guess the sweet-sticky rice was my dessert, but it seemed more like an
appetizer, as I had eaten it before my main meal came of fried fish balls in a
red sweet-and-spicy sauce with green bell peppers, all over rice. Very tasty!
A little spicy – my mouth was on fire which resulted in me drinking a
whole pitcher of water – but tasty, nonetheless. Also, it was a lot of food; I ended up taking
about half of it home. All this, for the
grand total of $3.50. What a deal!
I got home by taking a jeepney all by myself to the Valley Golf
entrance, and I was quite proud of this accomplishment: taking local public
transport on my own, like an independent, integrated, and culturally adapted
person. No more taxis for this
girl! Besides, jeepneys are so much more
fun! The party music, the over-crowdedness,
the sketchiness and potentially unsafeness… all for the practically free cost
of 12 pesos (25 cents), as opposed to a taxi which is bound to cost at least
250 pesos ($6) and most definitely will not be blaring techno music. I was almost home! I now just needed to catch a taxi to go the
relatively short distance of about 2 km into the Valley Golf living community
to get me to Jacque’s apartment. Since
it was dark and the road isn’t the most traveled (it’s a residential area, not
a business district) I was not going to be walking --- I needed a taxi. Unfortunately no taxis came by, and those who
did always had passengers already.
Urgh. I ended up waiting almost
45 minutes on the corner of the road until a taxi finally stopped for me. By the time I got back to Jacque’s I was more
than tired out from my day’s adventures and was ready for a good night’s rest.
Saturday: At
8am, Sam, a friend of Jacque’s, picked me up and we went to a nearby orphanage
that she volunteers at each Saturday morning. It was much smaller than Gentle Hands, and its
policies were a bit different, so they had no problem with Sam coming and
holding babies every Saturday, or me coming only this one time. They put me right to work in the baby room,
where there were six children under 9 months of age. Pearl and Michaela were super cute, with
heads full of hair and smiles constantly plastered to their faces; they were
also the oldest, so they loved to play.
Sometimes with each other, sometimes with the caregiver, and sometimes
they were content completely by themselves as long as they had a toy or their
toes. They were starting to figure out
how to crawl, which meant they were getting into things and the door of the
nursery had to be closed at all times.
Sam said that they would probably be moved to the “toddler” room in a
month or two, depending on space availability and if any additional infants
came in. The youngest baby was Matthew
who had arrived a week earlier. They
weren’t for sure about his age, but said he was currently probably about two
weeks old. As Sam and I played with him
and gave him his bottles, we decided that he HAD to be older than 2-weeks. Sure, he was tiny – he was even smaller than
the babies I had seen who were only a few days old – but he made good eye
contact and did a few other things that suggested he was probably older than
everyone originally thought and closer to a month in age. It wouldn’t be surprising if he was born
prematurely or even born full-term but just lacked a lot of nutrition, due to
his mother not feeding him or not having healthy habits herself during her
pregnancy (drugs, alcohol, malnutrition, etc.).
But, we’ll never know, as he was an abandoned baby found outside a
church, without any clue as to his name, birth date, his parents….
Playing with babies until noon was exhausting. I don’t know how the caregiver works in that
room ALL day, almost every day of the month, by herself, with six (and
sometimes more!) little babies to look after, feed, change, hold. I was totally ready for a nap by the time we
left, and I ended up not doing much the rest of the day either.
Sunday:
Being it was Sunday, Jacque and I went to church. However, it was a different protestant church
from the previous Sunday, and we rode with Mark. I don’t remember which church this was
specifically, but I can tell you that it was in Makati, a rich business area of
Manila about an hour drive from Valley Golf, the community where Jacque (and
most teachers at Faith) lives. I found
it so strange and kinda demoralizing to drive for an hour just to get to
church, but I suppose that is partly what big city life is comprised of –
enduring a lot of slow traffic, only to get to a place that is just a few
kilometers down the road and probably could have been reached faster had you
walked or biked, rather than drove your car.
The church service was alright; as per usual Filipino worship, the music
was quite commendable. Also, as per usual,
there was a lot of “saving your soul” mentioned.
Post church, we went to Starbucks for a bible study that turned into
learning more about Burkina Faso than about the day’s scripture readings, and
then we wandered to a nearby outdoor market.
Jewelry, scarves, coconut shell dishes, food, bags, and more! I tried this tasty millet bar dipped in hot,
native Filipino chocolate sauce.
Generally this sort of treat, whatever it’s called I forget, is made
with sticky rice that’s been mushed up into a smooth consistency and flavors
are added to it, like mango jelly, ube (grape), or brown sugar. So it’s soft and kinda gooey, but firm enough
to hold its shape and be eaten with your hands.
My particular treat was made with millet, and since millet grain is so small
to begin with, it just had coconut flavor and sugar added right to it, giving
an interesting texture of tiny little balls/grains left intact. It was wrapped in a green banana leaf, and as
you ate it, you pushed up from the bottom so that more of the “tube” or bar of
millet would rise above the top of the banana leaf wrapper, similar to a
push-up ice cream treat, if any of you remember eating those. The native chocolate sauce was good, and not
very sweet at all – more bitter than anything.
But that’s what made it so delightful: it perfectly complemented and
balanced the sweetness of the millet.
Unquestionably a dollar well spent.
After church, Starbucks, and the market, Jacque and I went over to
Mark’s for a potluck lunch/dinner (it was about 3pm, so lunner, perhaps?), made
cookies for our vacation to Bohol, packed our bags, and made sure flight
details and transportation to the airport was in line. Then we hung out in the apartment complex’s
pool; Daisy and Mark joined us, and we all fantasized about how in less than 24
hours we’d be on a beach in Bohol!
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