I Will Be the One

by Larry Farmer

  If looks could kill… But I relished her contempt. She soon eased into a smile, and shook her head before looking away.

  “I know a guy from Mississippi at this university in town,” I said to change the subject. “I taught a course there once. We’ll work something out. I’ll need you as a reference for her.”

  “Of course I’ll reference her,” Lois said. “But, sweets, we better go. The jeepney to Midsayap leaves soon. The last one until late afternoon. Then we have to catch a bus.”

  “I’m supposed to meet Margaret this afternoon,” I said, “but I couldn’t tell them what time. I’m not going all the way up to her site. She’ll meet me at the station.”

  “Are her bees still alive?”

  “They’re even expanding, hotshot. We haven’t had a honey harvest yet, though. I need to give her a new queen and some fumigation papers. It’s all in my backpack.”

  Margaret’s provincial town was half the size of mine and on a paved highway. This vastly speeded up getting us there.

  Something was happening when we reached the station at Margaret’s provisional capital. The market square was abuzz and serious. Had there been another political assassination, I wondered?

  I searched the tiny carinderias at the plaza for any Americans. It wasn’t long before I heard my name called out.

  “Mississippi,” a girl’s voice boomed. I could barely see her curly brown hair in the crowd, but when she saw me looking, she began waving her arms and jumping up and down. “Mississippi,” she called again.

  “Rhonda,” I yelled excitedly.

  “We’re over here,” she yelled pointing toward the center of the market plaza. “Come with me. Is that Lois with you? I’m so excited to see you again, Lois. Thanks for coming.”

  Lois and I fought our way through the crowd until we reached Rhonda. We all walked together out of the station area.

  “It’s horrible, Mississippi,” Rhonda explained. “There’s an epidemic. Some of the barangays have bad water. I’m not sure how, but kids at the schools drank it, and some are already dying. There’s panic. They’re flooding the hospital and government agencies. Weren’t you a nurse before, Lois?” Rhonda asked, looking at her hopefully.

  “Oh, no, Rhonda, not me,” Lois answered. “I so wish, but it wasn’t me.”

  “An epidemic,” I said shaking my head. “It spoiled your holiday, didn’t it, Rhonda.” I sympathized even under the circumstances, because PCVs guard their time off jealously.

  “No matter,” Rhonda said. “That’s the last thing on my mind, except I’m glad it allowed me to be here to help out in some way. I was a nurse back in Rhode Island. I’m so glad I came.” She grabbed our hands to pull us around a building. “Margaret and Jenny are getting a Coca-Cola at a booth. We took turns waiting for you.”

  Even the slightest attention from a friend always melted me while I was in the Philippines. At our sites we gave so much, and people expected so much. So when even the slightest kindness was given from someone who didn’t need help, it felt special.

  Smiles greeted us as we approached the other two.

  “Mississippi,” Margaret called out. “We were afraid you wouldn’t show up. And my goodness, you brought Lois. Fantastic.”

  “I have your queen bee and fumigation papers, Margaret,” I told her. “Can you install her so I don’t have to go up?”

  “Of course,” she said. “What do you think of me?”

  “Hello, Mississippi,” Jennifer said stoically.

  “We’re scared to drink the water,” Margaret explained as she took a swig from her Coke bottle. “It’s supposed to be safe. The contaminated water seems to be in the rural barangays. And only the ones by the rain forest, at that. I guess Rhonda told you about the epidemic.”

  “I did,” Rhonda assured.

  “Several have died,” Jennifer said as she pulled out a cigarette from her bag and lit it. “All children. It seems to be a problem with school children; I don’t know why. That’s the only common link we know of right now. It just happened. People are freaking out, as you can see. They don’t know what’s going on.”

  “You say it just happened,” I asked. “Like this afternoon, this morning, five minutes ago?”

  “We arrived at noon,” Rhonda said. “The first rumors were already floating.”

  “The panic has been for the last couple of hours,” Jennifer explained further.

  I looked around, as if looking for an answer.

  “Let’s go to the hospital,” I finally said. “Let’s see what they’re up against, what they have.”

  The hospital was up a small hill just beyond the edge of the marketplace. It gave me time to think as we walked. Doctors and nurses were treating small children on the lawn in front. They were so busy I hated to bother them. I noticed a man and a woman, who I assumed were administrators, judging by their civilian attire, sitting at a table in front of the patients. We approached them, and they looked up from their paperwork.

  “Are y’all with the hospital?” I asked.

  “We are with the regional health and nutrition office,” the woman explained. “Can we help you?”

  “We’re Peace Corps Volunteers from America,” I explained.

  “You are what?” the woman asked.

  “Peace Corps. We’re a volunteer organization from America. We’re here to help you in any way we can.”

  “America sent you here? How did they hear about this so soon?”

  “We weren’t sent here for this, but we just happened to be here and heard about the epidemic. We want to help.”

  “I’m a nurse,” Rhonda said.

  “We have many volunteers,” the woman said. “I am sure they can use more.”

  “Is there anything you need?” I asked. “Supplies?”

  “The children are vomiting,” the man said. “They are dilapidated. Once their stomachs are settled, they will need food. Most are very poor.”

  “Is there a place I can call Manila?” I asked.

  “Inside the hospital,” the man answered. “You can get supplies?”

  “Probably,” I answered.

  My cohorts looked at me incredulously. I had confidence I could deliver, thanks to my experience at the bank.

  “Can you ask for powdered milk, then?” the lady asked.

  “That would just make them vomit more,” Rhonda said.

  “They will be able to handle it by morning, and there are severe shortages of food. Powdered milk would be best.”

  “I thought the water was bad,” Jennifer quizzed.

  “The water is bad only in two areas. We will supply good water. More reason to have powdered milk.”

  “I’ll get it,” I promised.

  The lady led me to a phone. I didn’t know the Peace Corps phone number, but it was easy to get. The Peace Corps had connections, and by dusk a jeepney full of powdered milk was delivered to the agency staff at the hospital. The man and woman were beside themselves with joy.

  “We will separate up the milk,” the man explained. “We called for vans and people to deliver. We need to keep half of it here.”

  “For the patients?” Margaret asked.

  The man looked uneasy.

  “In case there is a shortage in town.”

  That left us puzzled, and the man saw it. The woman tried to intervene.

  “There are shortages everywhere, not just at the hospital and the barangays.”

  “Where else is there an epidemic?” Jennifer asked.

  “It won’t all be used for the epidemic.”

  As we were talking, those helping them with the milk were furiously carting it off to a van. Lois followed them as if with a radar.

  “They think we’re stupid,” she whispered to me upon her return. “Suckers. They think none of us know their dialect, but I do. They’re talking about all the money they’re going to make from selling all this powdered milk.”

  “What will you do with the milk you’re filtering off here?” I sa
id as I pushed my way to the van.

  “There are other needs,” the woman insisted.

  “I overheard your cronies over there,” I said angrily. “You’re selling this on the black market.”

  The man squirmed. “Only half of it.”

  Somehow we were supposed to understand this is how life worked here. I did understand that and felt naïve for not considering it.

  “I didn’t get this to make y’all rich,” I yelled, my voice cracking with rage.

  “Mississippi,” Margaret scolded. “Don’t make a scene.”

  “I’m going to do more than cause a scene,” I said angrily. “There are children dying in the barangays. We’re trying to save some lives right now. You can cheat stupid American aid workers another day.”

  “Mississippi,” Rhonda said curtly. “Watch your mouth.”

  I looked at the government workers. “You’d better put that milk back where it belongs. I won’t stand for this.”

  By now everyone within earshot was looking at me. My American friends, except for Lois, tried to pull me away, but I jerked my arm free and kept staring darts at the agency staff.

  “We’re very sorry for this,” Rhonda apologized to the Filipinos around, as all my PCV friends except Lois again pulled at me to leave.

  “Put the milk back,” I repeated as I jerked free again, glad that I was bigger than everyone around me. I could feel my jugular veins bulging.

  Reluctantly the staff gathered the powdered milk onto the tables in front of us.

  “The Peace Corps should reconsider accepting Southern rednecks,” Margaret lectured me.

  I could see the humiliation on their faces.

  “And ex-Marines,” Jennifer reinforced.

  Lois supportively embraced my arm inside of hers and walked with me, stoic.

  “They’re just going to go around the corner and take off with it to the black market anyway,” Jennifer advised. “You know that’s how it works here.”

  “They can’t be sure we don’t have people to follow through and check on it.”

  “Yes, they can,” Margaret insisted. “They can be sure no follow-through will be made. All you did was cause a scene. The Ugly American. In this part of the world, that type of behavior can get you killed.”

  “It’ll get you killed in Mississippi, too,” I countered. “It ain’t going to be free for them. At least they got challenged.”

  “Let’s go get something to eat,” Jennifer intervened. “It’s been a long day.”

  I suspected the rest of the Peace Corps would hear about this and it would reinforce their perception of me. But I didn’t care. Growing up a Jew in Mississippi got me used to being odd man out. Being a Jew of history reinforced it. As far as I was concerned, there were all kinds of cultural exchanges going on.

  Chapter 12

  “So, this is what you were telling me our first night out in Manila,” Lois said to me as we ate at my Lola’s. “There at the Hobbit House, while we were waiting to hear Freddie Aguilar sing.”

  “Then you come with us tomorrow,” Lola beckoned to Lois and me. “You pass by the museum all the time, Mississippi. Cotabato City has a cultural museum, and it’s on the way to your bank. Just a block behind your jeepney path. Why haven’t you been there already, if you are so interested in our history?”

  “And they even have some shrunken heads there?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, of course,” Lola explained. “I rented a jeepney for me and the girls tomorrow after mass. We will come home and eat and then proceed to the museum. When I was a teacher, the museum knew me well. They always made provision for me and my students. I know the history so well, and they let us in free on Sundays, since the museum was closed anyway. I could be the tour guide for my students, and so we did not need any of the staff at the museum. Just someone to let us in and then to lock up again when we finished. That is how it will be tomorrow. I am showing the girls here that board with me. They never heard about the headhunters in Mindanao, and they want to see with their own eyes. I hope the shrunken heads do not give them nightmares. You two can piggyback with us. Is that the word, piggyback? Maybe it’s tag along, I think. Anyway, it will be a delight for us to share.”

  As our rented jeepney turned the corner to the cultural museum the next afternoon, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t known it existed. A nice single-story, part-stone, part-wooden structure with a big sign to advertise the history that lay inside.

  I had always pictured Papua New Guinea when I thought of headhunters. It made sense that other places in the Pacific Islands would have such a past, but I’d never considered the Philippines as being one of them. I began to wonder why. It wasn’t so long ago the whole world was the Wild West, so to speak.

  “Some say there really were no headhunters in the Philippines,” my Lola began her lecture to us. “The only documented shrinking of heads was in the Amazon forests in South America. Since the Amazon was part of the Spanish Empire, as was the Philippines, many think Spain created the demand for heads like you see on display here. I was born in the nineteenth century. I heard my whole life that they existed here in Mindanao. I do not know if it is legend or not. Whether fact or invented, it is a part of our culture. Bahala na. It is of no matter. Who cares? Headhunting parties existed, maybe not because of we savages now called Filipinos but because of our so-called civilized conquerors. The heads became trophies. Headhunting increased under the Spanish, I am told. Maybe it existed only then, and into the early days of the Americans.”

  Lola and the girls looked at Lois, then me, scoping us out one at a time. I came into the museum thinking they had a savage past, but now it was turned around on me.

  “The Americans finally stopped the trade,” she continued. “It was for tourists, what I heard about it when I was a little girl. But since I am not always sure what is legend and what is fact, I will tell you both, and you believe or not believe what you want.”

  Lola led us to another display. She gave us time to study the drawings and read the explanations before continuing.

  “While we are on the subject of Filipino savages. The aborigines of many of these islands were the Negritos. A few tribes of them are still around. They are small, pygmy-like people. Many of them were cannibals. Many of them today are still very primitive as hunters and gatherers. But no cannibalism anymore. I think. Ha.”

  She led us to another display adjacent to where we were and continued further.

  “It was the Spanish that named these islands the Philippines, in honor of their King Philip. It was Legazpi that first set up colonies for Spain here in 1565. Spain finally unified all the islands that make our nation today. Before the Spanish, there were many little kingdoms. Muslims were already settling here in Mindanao and the more southern islands. The Spanish introduced our blessed Catholic Church. But even as the Spanish decided we were the savages as they named our country for the first time, they did not even have the courtesy to call us their own name for us. Instead of Filipinos, they called us Indians. We were part of the Inquisition of Mexico administration. Can you believe? So I never knew if we were American Indians or Indians from India, who were known to be not so far away. This was a trading post for the Spanish, and they traded with Goa in India, which was Portuguese. So who am I to my conquerors? I don’t know if I am of the people of Geronimo, who was alive when I was a girl, or of the great Raj in India. Ha. Crazy colonialists. Do what you want. You own us, right? Ha. A century after colonization began, there were two hundred fifty-two missions in the Philippines, with two million so-called savages converted to the blessed Catholic faith.”

  “Can you tell us about these shrunken heads, Lola?” asked one of the girls that boarded. “Even if it is legend. How do you shrink a head?”

  “Yes, let’s get back to the shrunken heads,” Lola said, smiling. “Shrunken heads right here on Mindanao, even when I was a little girl. First the skull is removed from the head. Then the flesh is carefully removed. Red seeds are placed u
nder the eyelids, which are then sewn shut. The mouth is held together by pins from a palm tree. Fat from the head is removed. Then a little ball is placed inside the skin to keep the form appearing like a head. The flesh is boiled in water, and herbs are used, and tannins. The head is then dried with hot rocks and sand and is molded. Then the skin is rubbed with charcoal ash from coconut shells. The ash is not just for taking care of the skin but used to keep the spirit from seeking revenge by keeping it trapped inside the head.”

  “But Lola,” Lois interrupted. “Many of the soldiers around still hunt for heads of the enemy even today. Isn’t that true? It is engrained in your traditions.”

  Lola hesitated as if considering what to say, or perhaps to say nothing at all. After musing for a moment, she explained. “We have headhunters even today, it is true, Lois. It is still with us. It never really ended, if you consider this new trend of it since the early days. What happens now, many times, is not cult practice anymore but retribution, not by the avenging spirit of the head but by rival military clans. Retributions against segments of the population. ‘Filipino coconuts’ some call this. A rice bag filled with human heads. Sometimes they are even carried on jeepneys. Sometimes it is intimidation, but there are still many superstitious and ritualistic Filipinos that use it as a part of dark magic. I don’t know. I’m just an old lady. I don’t know what to believe when I hear something. Believe, don’t believe. I don’t know. Many things happen in the no-man’s lands. We are here in the neutral zone. Beyond the neutral zones it is not always pleasant. In the past, some say still with the Muslims even now in the south, there was—and perhaps still is—a slave trade.”

  She looked at the girls in front of her, who were motionless and expressionless.

  “Be careful,” she warned. “There are evil people. Pray to the Blessed Virgin to protect you. Know what you are doing. Take no chances. Live long and prosperous.”

  She then looked at Lois and me.

  “The same for you two. But especially you, my dear Lois. White-skinned women are a trophy to some. Don’t take risks by going where you don’t belong.”