In the Presence of My Enemies (10 page)

The kids were at just the right age to really enjoy traveling as we renewed contact with our supporting churches and individuals. Jeff was in sixth grade, Mindy was in third, and Zach was in second. We didn’t homeschool that year; we “carschooled.” Each child had a personal box of books and a little lap desk, and we did our work rolling across the highways of America. Since all three of them were together, I even figured out some joint assignments for them.

The one subject they could not work on in a bumpy car, of course, was handwriting. We had to wait for that until we stopped at a rest area or got to someone’s house. But they got an education regardless. They had a little atlas in which they tracked each state we went through, putting a sticker on it. They learned a lot about the country of their roots, even though they had never really lived in the States.

For six months of that furlough we settled down in Arkansas next to my parents, and the kids went to public school. We wanted the kids to know what it was like to live in America, not just to live in a car. So we made a point of establishing a routine. Meanwhile, Martin traveled alone to see some constituents and also made a short trip to the Philippines to take care of things.

Then the furlough was over, and the whole family returned again, this time back to our original post on Luzon at Aritao. Although the kids had made lots of friends in Arkansas, they were just as excited as we were to head “home” to the Philippines.

With other pilots in place on all three islands, Martin was named chief pilot for the Philippines. This meant he did a lot of instruction, safety management, and general oversight. He also became the substitute whenever one of the pilots had a medical problem or a family needed to go back home.

We continued to enjoy our family vacations while serving in Aritao. If we weren’t at the beach, we often traveled to Baguio, the summer capital of the Philippines. Baguio is up in the mountains, so the climate is cool. We liked to rent a place there that had a kitchen, and then we’d buy our food in the local open market, where there was always a wonderful variety. We would cook vegetables I couldn’t get elsewhere. Between trips to town, we’d go horseback riding or sightseeing. In the evenings, we’d enjoy a cozy fire.

By now, of course, we had a pretty good understanding of how to get along in Philippine society. For most Filipinos, bribes were just a way of life. The police stopped people for no reason at all and took their licenses on a pretense, when what they really wanted was a payoff. We always tried to tell them how wrong this was—but after all, Martin needed his driver’s license, and so in the end we’d give them the money.

We had more than one ethical debate with ourselves about whether this was wrong for us to do. As the years went on, we decided the wrong was on
their
part, in stooping to extortion, rather than on our part for doing the necessary thing in response. I suppose some people would disagree with me on that, but we had clear consciences.

Our kids got an education in Philippine culture the time someone stole Zachary’s bicycle. Everybody in the barrio knew who had it; in fact, we did too, because we saw the person riding it around. “Dad, that kid took my bike!” Zachary cried one day. Martin proceeded to do the logical thing—at least so far as we understood Philippine ways. He sent a go-between to talk with the parents, politely asking for our bike back.

They immediately got very upset and embarrassed, because that’s not how it’s done in their culture. Our go-between returned to explain that a person doesn’t accuse the other person of wrongdoing. Instead, the person offers a ransom for the property, and then everyone can be happy again.

Martin said, “How about if we send you back with a homemade cake and some cookies?” We really hated to give them cash.

This was done—and they quickly returned Zachary’s bike. In their view, we had established a relationship with them; we were their friends now, and they were our friends. Everyone in the barrio was pleased that we had handled this in the proper way. No one had to be ashamed or embarrassed.

The next time I had reason to think seriously about the word
ransom,
of course, a lot more than a bicycle was on the line.

6

The Perils of Palawan

(November 2000; May 29–30, 2001)

If you asked my kids today to name a favorite memory of life in the Philippines, they’d probably say Thanksgiving Day 2000. It was one of those special occasions when we all piled into the airplane and got to fly with Martin to a tribal station.

We were on Palawan covering for the pilot who was away, and we got this great idea to surprise our missionaries there, Norm and Jacqui Rice, with a full-fledged American Thanksgiving meal. They were living in a village all alone, struggling to learn the language, and we knew this would lift their spirits.

On one of his runs into Puerto Princesa, Martin found an imported turkey. It wasn’t cheap, but he brought it home anyway. We excitedly radioed Norm and Jacqui that we’d come the next day and “bring dinner.”

I basically stayed up all night cooking. Besides the turkey, I made pumpkin pies and vegetables; I baked bread; I even brought along a can of cranberry sauce I’d managed to find back in Manila, which was more rare than turkey in this part of the world.

By the next morning, I had it all ready and boxed up to fly.

The approach to this particular jungle runway was about as exciting as the best roller-coaster ride at Disney World. Martin followed the tree-lined river, edging lower and lower. We all gasped as he suddenly spun off into a sharp curve at the last minute to drop onto the grass. But as always, his technique was flawless.

The Rices were in a huddle with a group of villagers at the edge of the runway. After the propeller stopped spinning, we crawled out of the plane.

“Hi, everybody! We’re here! Happy Thanksgiving!”

The look on Norm’s and Jacqui’s faces as we started unloading our meal was unforgettable. I had a tablecloth, china, candles, and little doilies. We just kept pulling things out of boxes until we had set a beautiful table.

All the while, Norm kept teasing the kids. “So, didja bring a turkey?”

“Yeah, we did.”

“Oh, you did not—you just brought a big chicken,” he’d say. (That is the usual substitute for Americans in the Philippines at holiday time.)

Finally, with a great flourish, we unveiled the golden bird.

“No way, you guys! This is incredible!” They absolutely freaked out. “Where did you find this?” We told them the story as we all squealed with delight.

I’d even managed to find some Dream Whip for the dessert that day. And so, there in that little tribal hut in a Palawano village, we had a complete Thanksgiving dinner.

Afterward, we all went to the river with their dog to play in the water. Martin took the airplane back up for more landing practice. He was trying to see if, with some additional tree cutting, the approach could be less hair-raising. Late that afternoon, we flew out again. What a special memory we made that day.

* * *

It was only six months later that we were back on Palawan, this time without our children. A busy schedule of flying awaited us, so we were grateful for a chance to relax at Dos Palmas for a day.

The resort staff were right there to meet us at the commercial airport with big smiles and warm welcomes as we got off the plane. Martin and I were among thirty or so other guests who had come to Dos Palmas for a tropical getaway. Traveling on a small hotel yacht, we arrived on the island about lunchtime and had a wonderful buffet. The weather was perfect.

Two giant palm trees rose in the middle of everything—hence the name of the resort. There was a walking path around the island’s perimeter for strolls or rides on rented bicycles. Other activities at the resort included diving, snorkeling, and fishing. A lovely gift shop beckoned.

Our cabin was air-conditioned and had a refrigerator. The floor was tile (this being the tropics), but the room had a nice decor. Beyond a set of drapes was the outside deck maybe three feet wide and about six feet long. I thought to myself,
This is such a perfect spot! Tomorrow morning, while Martin sleeps off his jet lag, I’ll come out here and do my nails. Then maybe I’ll even write some letters.
I was really looking forward to this break, even though it was to be less than twenty-four hours.

We took a nap that afternoon. I’d brought along some snacks: some pop, mozzarella sticks, and peanut M&M’s for the room. We opened mail, and Martin talked nonstop about his time in the States.

Soon it was time for the evening buffet. As we were leaving the room, I said to Martin, “You know, this door doesn’t look very secure.”

He glanced at it and then quickly said, “No, they never do. But don’t worry—I’m sure our things will be fine.” After all, the resort had its own security staff patrolling the grounds.

We returned to the circular building with the thatched roof for a sumptuous spread of roast beef, fried fish, and sweet-and-sour pork. There was also a fresh salad bar—everything we could want. The open-air eating area was pleasant and breezy; dress was, of course, casual.

At the table next to us was a somewhat tall, brown-skinned man with a big smile and an attractive, young Filipina woman. Little did I anticipate that I would soon know them much better: it was Guillermo and Fe. We could tell by his accent that he was an American. When their food came, I overheard the woman say something about returning thanks for their meal. He demurred but said, “You go right ahead.”

That evening, on the way back to our cabin, we noticed the videoke place. Videoke is a popular thing for Filipinos to do. Someone with a great voice was performing, and we almost stopped in to listen. But instead, we decided to keep walking and enjoy the evening air.

We stopped to overlook the pool for a while, and then we turned back toward our room. The sky was clear, the water totally still. We talked and talked late into the night, and then we went to sleep, without a care in the world.

* * *

Six hours later—and for the next year—there was neither bed nor hot water nor electricity nor Bible, not even the most basic things of a woman’s life. I woke up each day with nothing to accomplish—nothing at all, except to stay alive. What a strange feeling this was, compared to my previous life as a busy missionary wife, mother of three growing children, homeschooling teacher, family bookkeeper, letter writer, household organizer, flight supporter at the radio, hostess to a never-ending stream of houseguests—my “to do” list had constantly overflowed. Now, the page was entirely blank.

The first days aboard the fishing boat, I didn’t even have to belabor what to wear. There was no choice: it would be the same gray short-sleeved shirt I had worn round the clock since the abduction.

Sonny, the Dos Palmas cook, at least had a little dirty kitchen with a woodstove to use in preparing meals for us all. He used fish brought up from the hold below; there was also a stash of rice. One night they gave us something hot to drink—coffee, we assumed. It actually tasted quite good. The truth was it had been prepared from rice that had been burned all the way to a charcoal state, then mixed with water.

Guillermo volunteered to become our “water boy,” perching on the edge of the boat with a pail to bring up water for washing. (Not that I could get very clean with salt water—I learned that soap won’t lather up at all—but at least it was better than nothing.) This task sounds easy, except that with the boat moving along at a good speed, Guillermo had to be very careful not to get pulled overboard.

Our freshwater came from two large plastic barrels, perhaps fifty gallons each in capacity. The longer we traveled, however, the more we were warned to conserve. Rizza, however, seemed not to get the picture; more than once I noticed her washing out her clothes, probably in order to keep looking her best for Reggie. “Oh, Rizza, please don’t use up our water!” I begged. My pleas didn’t do much good.

Rizza didn’t seem to get the whole idea of Muslim modesty, either. The Abu Sayyaf admonished her at least to wear a long-sleeved shirt, which she did—but then promptly unbuttoned the front down low.

Eventually, we could tell that the freshwater was running low, as “floaties” started to appear. Soon it was completely gone and we were forced to resort to drinking melted ice brought up from the fish hold below. Yes, the smell and taste were less than appetizing.

Guillermo was another one who never quite bought into the modesty idea. Muslim men are supposed to be covered at all times from the navel to below the knees. Somehow that didn’t stop Guillermo from stripping down to his Skivvies in order to take a saltwater bath (or more precisely, to pour water from a dipper over his head). Everybody else on the boat was just dying with embarrassment, especially the Abu Sayyaf.

“Martin, come on!” he called out. “Join me for a bath.”

“No, no, that’s all right. You go ahead.”

All of this did not endear Guillermo to the captors. They had pretty well tagged him as a “bad guy.” Martin, on the other hand, was viewed as a “good man” (even though he was a Christian missionary) because he didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t swear, and he had a wife and children.

Our captors raised their eyebrows, though, when they went through Martin’s wallet and came across a picture of Felicia, Martin’s sister in her midtwenties, who is beautiful, with long blonde hair. “Who is this?!” they demanded, assuming she was Martin’s girlfriend.

“Oh, that’s my little sister,” he replied. This seemed to settle their concerns.

Several of the younger Abu Sayyaf began to figure out that Martin was handy with mechanical things. Soon they had him fixing their transistor radios and showing them how to set the watches they had stolen. They had been randomly pushing buttons and getting nowhere up to that point. He also gave lessons on how to use their newly acquired cameras.