From 1992 to 1994, Jessica Bryan visited
the Philippines four times as the guest of Rev. Filomena "Mely"
Naces, a faith healer who is now deceased. She was profoundly changed
by her experiences with Mely at the Faith in God Spiritual Church in Vacante,
Binalonon, and she is writing a book about her interesting adventures.
The "working" title of the book is "THE SALTMAKERS OF PANGASINAN:
A Memoir of Psychic Surgery and Faith Healing." Jessica hopes for
publication in the U.S. and the Philippines in early 2006. Jessica has
allowed us to reprint one chapter from her book. This incident took place
when she first arrived at Vacante.
THE WAKE
I have been in Barangay Vacante in Pangasinan for
only a few days when early one evening we set out for a distant barrio
to attend the wake of a member of the church who has died. The choir girls
are wearing their Sunday clothes: clean-pressed flowered shirts, dark-colored
skirts and sandals. They are somber as they pile into the jeepney, where
they sit demurely with their music books in their hands, the usual laughter
and chatter strangely missing. After about forty minutes over narrow roads,
and finally to a road that is really not a road at all - but sun-baked
ruts through a sugarcane field - we come to a stop and everyone climbs
out. It is silent except for the whisper of insects. Single file down
a narrow path, crossing an open sewage ditch pungent with the smells of
farm life, past a sleepy white cow who rises to her feet in astonishment
at our arrival, we come out into a clearing dimly lit by candlelight.
I am frightened, although I'm not sure why. Perhaps it is because everything
is dark and the country is alien, or perhaps it is because I know the
dead man is waiting for us.
Crouched in the clearing, dozens of mourners stare intensely at something.
At first I think they must be praying over the man. Panic grips me, my
heart catches in my throat, and I am suddenly nauseated. I have never
seen a dead body, except for one brief moment at my grandmother,s funeral
when I was thirteen. I have been insulated from any intimate experience
of death by my tidy life in America, and at this moment I do not want
to consider my own mortality.
As we get closer to the circle of mourners, I am astonished to see that,
in fact, they are gambling, and what they are staring at is merely the
dice in the center of the circle. Apparently it is customary to gamble
at wakes, with the winnings given to the widow to pay for the funeral.
We continue towards the back of the property, past the chickens sleeping
in the trees and the dusty stalks of recently cut sugarcane, to where
there is a small nipa hut with an entry ladder made out of tree limbs
bound together with jute rope. Four adults and three children live in
this one-room hut. I climb the ladder behind Mely and find myself inside
with the deceased, his widow, and his oldest daughter. The casket takes
up one-third of the room and it is closed, but there is a small glass
window over his face for him to look out and us to look in. Although I
know he has been dead for ten days (and certainly his eyes must be shut),
I imagine he is staring at us. I am horrified. I want to become very small,
flatten myself against the walls of the room, and become invisible. I
begin to sweat profusely and it is not from the heat. Tearing my eyes
away from the casket, I look at his widow and daughter and observe their
obvious despair. They are wearing black clothing and have the customary
torn white rags of mourning tied around their heads. Making animal sounds
born of their terrible nameless grief, they look like they are about to
collapse. Wringing their hands and swaying ever so slightly, they speak
with Mely in low tones and I know I must leave immediately. This is too
intimate, too private for a stranger to participate in. What can I possibly
say to these women?
Scrambling down the ladder, I make my way back to the front of the clearing
to join the musicians, who are beginning to sing and play guitar. Sitting
next to me on a small wooden bench in the deep darkness is Joseph, Mely's
brother, and I am overwhelmed with the impulse to lean over and smell
his neck. He is so completely sexy - in a way America men never are. He
is brown and earthy like the land he tills, his muscles hard as stone
sculpted from his work in the fields.
An old man sits down on the bench on the other side of me and says: "I'll
sing Pangasinan because this place Pangasinan," and he begins to
sing a deliciously sweet song.
The children press in on us. I can feel their hot bodies and their hot
breath pressing, pressing, pressing at my back. Most of them have never
seen a white person and they devour me with their eyes. They make me intensely
nervous, and I move closer to Joseph, as if he could shield me from their
gaze. They beg to touch my naked arm to see if the white color will rub
off and whether underneath I am dark, like them. I ask Joseph to make
them move back, and they do. It is so hot that even with them several
feet behind us I can still feel the heat of their breath on me and the
hunger in their eyes.
Some of the adults begin to dance. One very old man asks me to dance with
him, but I cannot. I am afraid that if I move, I will not be able to control
my desire to run away. I do not know if he will be insulted, nor at this
moment do I care. Then two old women get up and begin to dance with each
other. Executing a stiff waltz, they stumble over their feet and each
other, laughing hysterically. Joseph puts his arm around my waist and
pulls me even closer to him. Of course everyone wants me to sing and I
doa Grateful Dead song about trying to run away from the devil - because
it is quick and happy, and they won,t know what I,m saying anyway. Joseph
and his cousin Alano are quite proud to accompany the amazing stranger,
who is not only large and has skin that is a different color, but she
plays guitar, something usually reserved for men. Joseph leans over and
whispers in my ear that everyone thinks we are married. It's a circus
as well as a wake, and except for the dead man, I have become the major
attraction.
Then Mely and the choir pass by us on their way back to the jeepney. They
have finished the service and the blessing of the man who can now finally
be buried. Mely looks at me with a question and a twinkle in her eyes
as if she is wondering whether her guest has been behaving herself.
At breakfast the next morning she says: "I'm so proud, because you
made the people happy with your singing. You helped them forget their
sorrow."
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