Manila morning

Only three weeks into my stay here, my thoughts of leaving home are still fresh in my mind- the smell of shampoo and the clicking of the paddle fan. "Are we going to be okay?" she asked as we stared at the ceiling. I rolled over on the bed to look at her, her bangs flipped haphazardly in the humidity. Whatever I am asked, I know I cannot give enough. I am starting to wonder if any of us can be "okay" again.

Here in a civil rights advocacy office in Manila, banana leaves and coconuts stare in at me and while I am amused with all the pictures of President Gloria Arroyo juxtaposed as Hitler, the fact that I am already sweating at 10 in the morning is not funny. It's just gross. I have not felt truly clean since I've been here. I have also not felt truly myself. But really, for all the times in recent history I've hated that self, I should just stop bitching and be thankful for rice and mangoes. And this new fruit I discovered, lam sodas. It's a small citrus with a bitter pit, but the meat of the fruit is heavenly. Like a lemon without bite, an orange with less acid. Lam sodas. Many of the words are beautiful here, but I am still lamenting the most beautiful things I have left at home- those I love, my bike, skim chai, and warm showers. Particularly this morning the warm showers.

Things are smaller here. The Jeepneys have tiny entrances meant for a smaller-sized population that does not subscribe to mass obesity. The walkways are narrow and seem a bit perilous and most taxis are tricycles, not Lincoln Town Cars. And things are bigger, like poverty and the smell of feces. The drainage system for this city is non-fuctioning and the spread of Dengue is always pending. One of the staff members at NCCP (National Council of Churches, Philippines) contracted the illness a week before I came. "The mosquitoes are attracted to the filth of Manila," he said with a laugh. Filipinos are always laughing, even this Dengue patient who was in the hospital for three days and lost 25 pounds during the ordeal. "It was good for me," he smiled, patting his belly. "And it is better for me that I am not a child." I smiled and later realized what he meant. For a Filipino child, Dengue will probably mean death. For an American missionary it would surely only mean an inconvenience, but I now wear long-sleeves anyway. The Filipinos laugh at my continuous application of bug spray. They laugh because I'm foreign, they laugh because they can not afford such a precaution.