Tribal Times: a special edition.

We started out packing our backpacks, mine being a day-pack and Marcy and Paul’s being the regular backpacking size: gynormous. We were packing for a week, but as Marcy and Paul also had to fit a load of clothes for the tribes, we were packing light, resigned to the fact that we would be dressed in stenchy clothes by the end of the week. Yum yum.

We headed out the door, my pack bulging at the seams and everything big or bulgy tied on or around it, making me look fit for a horse saddle more than anything else. We piled into a jeepney, banging our crap against the ceiling and our cramming our knees against each other…appropriately beginning our long trip that would eventually take us to the Bajau, a sea gypsy tribe in the Philippines, and the Bitok mountain tribe, on the island of Palawan.

We made it to the airport, where we met up with a ministering pastor of indigenous tribes, particularly the Bajau, named Pastor Jelon. He was a humble, young man in his thirties that had been in the ministry for about 11 years doing work in the tribes. The Bajau are a group of people that are highly disdained by the overall community in the Philippines, and certainly disregarded by most everyone. As complete social outcasts and bottom dwellers of the social food chain, to be a pastor who would live and breathe among them and learn their language was absolutely unheard of. And yet that is exactly what Pastor Jelon did, and does, throughout the tribes found across the country.

As Marcy had gone with him on a trip to the Bajau a few years back, they were acquainted, and we met with him at the airport so he could accompany us on our trip throughout the week. Together we flew to Palawan (an entire hour long plane ride, by the way) and made it to the Bajau by the time it was dark. As the tricycle carrying the three of us bumbled up through the bamboo huts lifted on stilts, a crowd of people began to gather around, and as soon as they saw it was Pastor Jelon inside, they shouted and cheered for happiness to see him, and actually began clapping. It was their personal celebrity, and it was pure joy for them to be receiving him. That is something that spoke novels to me about the love he showed them, more than any description of his ministry among them could depict. It was beautiful.

They ushered us into the chieftain’s hut, and after I had clumsily navigated the stick ladder to climb up into the hut (it is not easy to do), we sat down in their one big room (smaller than the size of my bedroom in the states), and they served us coffee and crackers. The whole group of Bajau waiting outside took shifts coming in and out to take turns looking at the American visitors (and Filipino husband, mind you), standing around with inquisitive smiles. The excitement was palpable. And then something wonderful happened. They brought in a casio (a casio! last thing I imagined in here), and a young man sat down to play, and another young man sat next to him, and sang, chanting in his own tribe’s language, a beautiful song in this incredible, beautiful, exotic, enchanting voice. He sang as though he were in love with the song’s formation, loving the way it came from his heart and into the room. I don’t know else to describe it, but it was beautiful. Afterwards, Pastor Jelon played some songs on the piano as well, and being a typical filipino pastor played incredibly well and had just “picked it up”, not having ever been taught. Oh, and he also plays incredible guitar and can speak 10 languages. Yeah. I know.

Luckily, the chieftain’s hut had electricity, that had just been installed only about a year or so before, so we had light to get ready for bed and get our things. Of course, since you’re sleeping in a room with 8 or so adults and who knooows however many more kids scattered about, there’s no privacy to change or anything like that. So you just engage in i’m-changing-in-the-car  tactics, with pulling over and careful use of your sarong, etc etc. And most of the family had given up their normal floor space in order for us to stay there, and they took the floor of the kitchen area at the front of the hut. Nonetheless, the sleeping arrangements were tight, with me, then marcy, paul, jelon, a couple old ladies, a mom, about 5 toddlers and a few older kids sleeping around the room. Our group of four certainly became rather snug by the end of our time together, ha!

Our first night there was a quick one, as in the morning we were to leave for the Bitok tribe in the mountain. So, in the morning I gathered the kids’ attention and we played a whole lot of games that involved running and me getting so sweaty I could veritably have showered that morning. I finally tuckered out on a bamboo bench somewhere and just kinda let the kids stare and stand around me…  Almost all of the little ones were entirely naked, up to probably about 8 years old. It was very dirty, of course, and all the ground was dirt, and since they had no bathroom or running water, bathing seemed…well, a non-reality. They were on the beach’s shore (oftentimes Bajau build their huts in the water, so that their houses are directly over the water), so the kids would always be swimming or playing in the sea water, but that’s about as close as it got. The first night we were there, our bathroom was the darkness of night, peeing on the beach shore. Hehe, if that’s tmi, go ahead and strike from memory. Hehe.

Oh, as an fyi, if you ever find yourself staying with the Bajau, be careful where you brush your teeth. See, I was brushing my teeth outside and figured I could spit anywhere since I see them peeing just about anywhere, anytime. Don’t let this way-of-the-urinary-wind betray you, however, as there are still rules. So, ya know, I was brushing my teeth, la di da, and meandered over to the big tree near by, and spit out my toothpaste. Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat. Ta-da! Fresh. Except, uh, woops….apparently they worship this tree, and I just spit at its roots. Whooooopsies! Good thing I made friends already. He he.

That, by the way, is the great things about kids: there is no need for words to show them that you are their friend.

So we left to meet with a second pastor who had ministered with the Bitok (not Bajau, Bitok–the mountain tribe) many times, Pastor Martinez, and who would guide us to where they lived in the mountains. The pastor who was the first missionary to the Bitok people ten years ago, and who had actually renovated their life with sharing Christ and creating a community for them (Pastor Jojo), was not there at the time, so we were lucky to have Pastor Martinez be able to go with us.

After a bus ride or two, we hopped off, the happy group of five that we were, and headed on the road of 7 miles or so to get to the Bitok. After crossing a river 18 times, myself attempting flip-flops then deserting them to the more reliable bare of foot, we traversed the beauties of the green, green jungle that dripped leaves and ferns and oozed crickets and cawing through the cracks of space offered to any live object… it was spacious, crammed with life, delightful, entirely new and yet so old. Wonderful.

We got to the top. There were the same bamboo huts, and then to my total surprise we turned a corner and there was a basketball court and a finely-built, new building that turned out to be the school. Apparently Pastor Jojo had been busy, and had really taken an entirely scattered, impovershed indigenous group and had created a veritable town. Pretty awesome. AAaaaannd, they had a CR (bathroom). Um, shall the Lord be praised? Yes, yes He shall.

We dropped our packs, and as Marcy, Paul and the pastors sorta meandered around or rested, pretty much immediately I was harassing the children that were shyly gathered about and we began a good old-fashioned game of chase. We ran up the path, down the path, across the basketball court and through the huts…over the wagon and under the wagon, around the flagpole and through the church. Some of the kids here, since many or most were in the school, could speak a few words of English, which was AWESOME. Actually, there was a very tangible difference between the children of the Bitok and the Bajau kids, as not ONE of the Bajau children were in school or had ever gone. The Bitok was definitely a much more prosperous place, on many levels.

So in the morning we woke up to do devotions at the school, and at this point I am literally trembling from the insane itchiness resulting from the numerous bug bites on my body (I counted the big ones to about 80 ish). Cort-aid was a godsend, let me tell you.

Pastor Jojo’s wife Nancy was the teacher of the school, and a really incredible minister to the people as well. Later that day, a mother came to Marcy and I with her infant child, just a few weeks old, who was crying incessantly. In her gaspy cries, you could hear congestion rolling in her chest, keeping her from a full gasp of breath. She was exploding with frustration in her yelps for air, and as Marcy held her and prayed over her, a realization came upon me like a creeping mist: this child is dying. This little child, who is exerting itself with every fiber of its being to live, is dying.

The mother and family had been smoking, both during pregnancy and after, and despite warning and pleas from the pastor and his wife, they continued. And the little one was born with bad lungs, and now was dying.

The pastor’s wife took some money and told them to go to the hospital. I saw them walk by at full speed to make the trip down the mountain and find a doctor. Without understanding why, I ran after them, caught up to them and took the little one’s head to my lips, and I gave her a kiss, whispering for her to be ok. Then I went back, and they continued their road. Later that day, they had come back. The child had passed away, not strong enough to make the trip.

There was going to be a funeral service that night for the baby, and a burial the next morning, after which we would be leaving.

In the service that night, I took the mother in my arms and held her close, as if to tell her, she is forgiven, she is loved, there is no condemnation tonight….God is here. The little one is gone, but there is no harm in the place she rests.

The smell of death lay in the small hut…a smell I had never smelt before, but knew as soon as I breathed it. Even death is a cosmetic experience where I am from, but it is not so here.

In the morning, the burial procession went through a jungle path across the river and through the woods, literally being hacked clear by machete-bearers in front. It felt very bizarre and foreign, more than any other time of my stay here. So we walked to a very remote place, a site that seemed so random to me but obviously visited times before, as I could see from the small stick crosses in the ground. They were slowly being encroached upon by the constantly growing ferns. Pastor Martinez spoke words over the ceremony after a hole had been dug, and the people gathered around. It began to rain. The words continued, though I could not understand them. Then the little casket, such a tiny one, was lifted, and lowered into the little hole. The wails of the mother and her little daughters rose up, crying with the rain…and my heart turned into rain with them, feeling their pain, seeing their loss being buried beneath us. And so, after it was done, the people took the dirt and tossed it on top of the grave, laying flowers they had picked on top, and we began to proceed back, everyone much the same as they had been before. Everyone, except, the sisters of the little one, and their broken-hearted mother.

Things are done and made and taken away for reasons I’ll never understand. But in the power of life, the power of death makes everything sharpened. Realizations, dreams, hopes and love. So I learn over and over again what it is to see life for what it is: precious, precarious, and passing. And so, as I move forward, I remember and keep these things in my heart.

Our time was spent there, for our full day there, in playing basketball with the kids, teaching them songs and games, talking with the Pastora about the ways of the people and the things she and her husband are trying to teach them and bring to their world. We ask her in what ways we can help, and we discuss a second trip in October. It is an incredibly impovershed group still, but things are, without a doubt, growing. Only so far as the dedication of God’s people reaches is as far as it will grow, and fortunately, the dedication of Pastor Jojo and Nancy his wife is pretty amazing. So the Bitok people are blessed, and I am blessed by their example, and hope their resources expand continually so that simple things like medical care, continuous food supply and job income are a part of their daily lives.

We hike back down the trial, much without incident except for me losing one flip-flop and so hiking back barefoot once again, at least until we crossed the river for the last time and I could slip on my running shoes. We arrived to a small store, bought 4 big litros of Coke and some crackers, and sat down to feast. Nothing has ever been so wonderful, or have I ever felt so good. A bit crusty, but so good.

We then went back to the Bajau tribe, and we spent more time with them. This particular tribe has very few Christians in it, and since Pastor Jelon had first been there to share the truth of God’s love to them, the pastor who was left to care for them had been frequently gone for as much as 6 months at a time, and thus the population was not strongly affected by the goodness of God’s love. And so, that Sunday, we managed to rustle up as much of the community as possible and Marcy shared with them the love of Christ. We prayed for them, and blessed them, and we were blessed to know that Pastor Jelon’s nephews were living with them and planning to stay.

After church was the time for fun. The Bajau are, as I said before, sea gypsies, so their main trade is, as you would guess, fishing. So, Sunday was the day for us climbing onto their super cool boats and being taken to a lovely island where we could relax and walk around, and they could spear fish for our lunch. Heck yeah. So the “boys” stayed on the boat and spear-fished while Marcy, myself, pastora Nancy and Angel (ladies from the Bitok tribe who had climbed down the mountain with us) went snorkeling in the incredible tropical waters that held a really amazing display of corrals and tropical fish. It was my first time snorkeling, and it was pretty freakin awesome. It was a gorgeous island and I can’t fully emphasize how stunned I was that my Windows tropical sea desktop picture actually existed.

So, after the boat’s engine died and we couldnt’ get back and were stuck on the tropical island (oh, the misery), we toodled around and got a bit sunburned and enjoyed ourselves ’til the boat was finally fixed and we were on our way back to the tribe. Somehow the tribe had heard the boat had broken down, but had heard a slightly different version, and that there had been an accident. They were totally scared that we had been sunk and/or had died or what not….very dramatic homecoming, at all costs. But also a little funny. Anyway.

That night we stayed with neighbors of the Bajau, and sort of ministered to them there as well, actually. They were two young ladies in charge of the store that was mainly supported by business with the Bajau. One of the girls had actually gone to Bible school to be a missionary, but she was not ministering to the Bajau at all, and if anything, stood with strained ties between themselves and the Bajau. They really acted as disdainful of them as the regular population did. As Marcy and I listened to both sides of the dilemma, we both felt moved by the lack of compassion and care on the store owners’ part, and tried as well as we could to speak truth to them, that God’s love will be seen or not seen, depending on how they treat the Bajau in their actions to them. So, we hope and pray that perhaps this can be something that will grow into a prospering relationship, really blessed by God.

In the morning, we said our goodbyes and made our way to the airport. But before we took our flight, we HAD to make one stop: Crocodile farm. Yeah, that’s right. A crocodile farm. And seriously, farming means business there. We took a tour through a warehouse of crocodiles, where literally piles of live crocodiles are hanging out in these large bin/pool things, and you just walk around these bins. If you so cared to be entirely idiotic, it wouldn’t take much for you to just drop your hand a bit into the bin and see if it got chomped off or not by the shiney baby (or not so baby) crocodile teeth. It was insane. I mean there were thousands of crocodiles in that one room…not to mention the 75 foot long crocodile skeleton on display. Or mentioning the dozens of FULL-grown crocodiles in outside exhibits/living areas or whatever you call ‘em. Apparently this crocodile breeding/raising ground is the source of almost all of the world’s crocodiles for zoos or other crocodile farms, though I was a little hazy about why was needed…I dunno I probably wasn’t paying attention, though I didn’t pick up on any comments involving “shoes” or “belts” or anything, sooo…I guess there’s just a big need out there for crocodiles. Yeah. Anyway, the place was a pretty cool visit, all that is to say, if you care to see a pile of teeth and reptile flesh. Not a bad way to pass an afternoon if you’re feeling a bit dull.

By the way, I don’t have any pictures of the Bajau (except the boat ride) or of the crocodile farm and stuff like that because my camera has kinda sorta pooped out. It miraculously worked for the Bitok tribe, but it’s super off and on, so I apologize for the lack of digital supply, because there were so many great things I wish I could show you… but where I lack pictures, I am bountiful with words…bahaha….much to your chagrin, I’m sure. Ha! Oh well! …moving on….

So after the crocodiles we rode about 5 jillion jeepneys more until we arrived at the city for our plane ride, where as we waited around, we were able to meet up with Pastor Jojo of the Bitok for a few minutes since our plane travels crossed paths. Then we continued to wait around even more. We come to find out our flight had been cancelled, and they are so very sorry, would you mind staying a high-class hotel nearby free of charge? Food? No problem, we’ll cover that too, and anything else you’ll be needing. So very sorry about the inconvenience, you’ll be flying out tomorrow morning!

Turns out to be quite a nice hotel, as we’re greeted with a fresh iced tea at the front desk and led to our very own spacious rooms. Two beds! To myself! Ha! Since we had been sleeping on crowded bamboo floors for the last week with (at best) scattered bathing opportunities, it seemed like the presidential suite of a Ritz. Running heated water? Check. Big, soft bed? Check. Cable and air conditioning? Check check check! Oh yes, running WARM water. You know what THAT means. That means I took out all my dirty, damp clothes from our trip and washed them in the sink and hung them to dry on the shower curtain rod. I felt a little like what a homeless person would be doing in a hotel, and as soon as the thought crossed my mind it was as quickly discarded with catching site of the air conditioning unit in the corner. Um, SCORE! Then I remembered I hadn’t taken a hot shower since I got to the Philippines, and that I was a smidge fresh myself, so decided it wouldn’t be bad if I took a wash myself.

So our misfortune offered us an extra day of winding down and relaxing, with free food, great dining and cable at our fingertips. I was totally refreshed as we made our flight the next day, toootally showered and felt as pampered as an Indian princess. We had a smooth and happy return home, to our own beds and fresh, clean clothes. Ahhh. The sigh eased itself across the room as we crossed our doorstep, our minds filled with a sense of accomplished adventure, and bodies with the happy weariness fit only for the sweetest of homecomings.

Just before the Great Hike

On the way!

On the way to the Bitok tribe

Inside the school, Pastora Nancy on the left

The house behind me is Pastor Jojo’s house, where we stayed

Yeah, it’s awesome. The bathroom.

Yeah, it’s a monkey. That’s pretty much it.

A little one’s passing

This is the Bitok church

The woman in the back left is the chieftain’s wife, and the two children in front are their children

Just your day in the life of a sea gypsy tribe

When our engine pooped out, another boat came along to tug us to shore :)

The island we stopped with the Bajau for snorkeling and spear fishing