Men perhaps in their 30’s came in the morning pulling their bikes and carrying their bags on their backs. Some have straight hairs; some wavy. By the clothes they wore, they are not guests of the resort. They came to replace nipa shingles on dilapidated roofs of cottages in the farm. About hundred guests is anticipated this coming August. Pastor M__ said they are mostly Indigenous Peoples being trained as pastors. He failed to mention if they are IPs of Occidental Mindoro or I missed it when he said that. Pastor M__ , the resort caretaker who is the owner’s younger brother sighed -- money is always going out. He means that since last month guests have been infrequent.
The farm situates itself away from the busy main road of Sta. Cruz. Inside the farm, you hear how exhilarated the birds are in the morning and how glad the cicadas are when the daylight slowly fades.
There were plots on the side of the kitchen, hedged with hollow blocks but only grasses grew on them Pastor M __ told me.
On my first night, I was assigned in a cottage with a single room and a bed which is large for me to occupy. The cottage except for the cemented floor is made of indigenous light materials. Bamboo slats for floors and walls and windows and even posts. Coco lumbers for tru
sses and nipa shingles for roof. Light bulbs illumine the night on the receiving area, in the bathroom but none in my room; I have to contend with the light passing through crevices of my room.
Pastor M__ takes care of everything while roof repairs were being done. He prepares the laborers’ snacks. He prepares them coffee usually in ready mixed sachets. He goes to the small market and buys whatever vegetables are available or he buys meat or fish or clams then prepares their meals. I stayed for four nights and became an added preoccupation. He makes sure he has my meals ready and has taken them before I attend to why I was there. I was tasked to assess a women’s organization who makes flowers from corn husks.
I have sunny side-up and steamed rice every morning. Sometimes left-over food the night before are reheated and served. Left-over rice is fried. There is no refrigerator. Pastor M__ prepares food that will not spoil easily overnight. Coffee is the premixed one; I have escaped premixed or instant coffee when brewed coffee percolated in our own house. A friend who owns a store gifted us last Christmas with a coffeemaker. I have to please my host for the premixed one when brewed coffee is impossible to request.
The cottages stood quiet awaiting upkeep before it welcomes guests again. One morning of the third day, a day before I left, I decided to take a walk around the farm and discovered there was another cottage on the right side upon entering the big gate. Inside were piled up chairs, beds all covered with dusts. The entrance door is locked.
Almost every day, I would sit at the dining table while Pastor M__ cooks our evening meal. To keep the fire burning, he would get some bamboo slats discarded from the cottage’s roof and place them into the stove. At the dining table, every night, Pastor M__ and I would always talk about what happened during the workshop. I owe him an update. But it is not really my intention to give him just an update of what happened in the shop with the members of the corn husk craftswomen. But I crave from him reflections because he is a minister of the church. I care not what religious denomination he belongs. He is a Christian he says.
I wanted to hear from Pastor M__ his views on how he could save the women’s project. I wanted to hear from him how he could re-integrate the women in the spiritual realm of their congregation. The women is going through demoralization and is taking to heal from what had happened. I wish we could have done some reflections on what was happening to the craftswomen. I miss those.
The dry season has few remaining days left before its final exit. Corn is being harvested while most are dried on nearby fields along the main roads. It was the first week of June and rain has yet to come.
