Gwennie's Girl Page 28

  ‘I know—no pressure…but it’s not enough now, Lizzie.’

  What do I say? Do I just shrug it off and say it’s been nice? That’s what I should do. That’s the safe thing to do. Oh, Gwennie, where are you? Nanna, what would you do? Oh shit, here I am, a middle-aged woman and I want my mother. I want to curl up in a ball, be cuddled and told what-to do. Not that Gwennie ever did tell me what to do. She just talked and asked me about things and I would know what to do. Or what to say. I want my mother.

  ‘Lizzie…oh, Lizzie, love…’ His arms were around her, holding her safe. ‘It’s OK. You don’t have to do or say anything, right now. I’m leaving Friday but trust me it’s not an ultimatum. There are things called telephones and e-mail…even old-fashioned stuff like cards and letters with stamps. I know you have a few assignments in the pipe line…just think about it…OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll still be here, love…just in Bangkok rather than Paris…and I’ll be back. Will you just think about it? And, Lizzie, you know I’d never hurt you?’ She nodded.

  He kissed her goodbye gently, no pressure. ‘I’ll think about it, tomorrow,’…or something like that, said Scarlet O’Hara who was with a bloke who didn’t give a damn.

  But Lizzie did give a damn and so did Sam it seemed. Lizzie was just scared. Would she always want her mother, always want Gwennie—or Nanna—when she was scared? Sam was lovely. He did not mention the “M” word again, just held her hand as they walked up to her apartment, collected his bag, kissed her tenderly—oh so tenderly—and smiled goodbye. Lizzie went to the Philippines and onto Brazil the next week.

  During the flight, her thoughts went to Sam as they often seemed to do nowadays. Joining him would mean leaving her beloved apartment and Europe and her sense of independence and her job. She didn’t think she ever would take the plunge. Yet, she didn’t want to finalise a break. Why couldn’t things have stayed as they were? Why did Sam have to move? Why did he want it to be all or nothing?

  She loved being with him, enjoyed his company and his loving. She even enjoyed his concern for her. He had been anxious about this trip, warning her, ‘Be careful, Lizzie. The Philippines is no ball game, and those bastards in Brazil kill kids and journalists. They play for keeps. Keep your head down.’

  It had been a pleasant change to have someone caring for her. She just didn’t think she wanted to exchange all she had in her life for something so different. Or was it that she feared it might be for something distressingly familiar? Sam would never hurt her. At least, not deliberately. So, she would take his advice, be careful. When was she ever anything else? Cowards are careful people, and Lizzie seldom took any real risks although there probably were some risks in this assignment so it might be a fear-filled trip. But it would be a different fear—or she was different.

  She had noticed a man on the Swiss air flight from Geneva to Manila. She couldn’t help noticing him when he created such a fuss about putting his boxes of hand luggage under his seat which was immediately in front of her. He was dressed rather oddly with gaudy green and yellows with a scarf knotted around his neck.

  She landed in Manila, in heat and dust, and was greeted by a woman, Rita, whom she had met at yet another conference. Rita was a human rights activist who was with a peasants group advocating for better conditions for rural workers. She was dark haired, brown eyed and a mini-typhoon. Her network supported a theatre group which performed in the streets of Manila, acting out funny but inspiring plays about agricultural conditions and prevalent mistreatment of local leaders who encouraged a form of trade unionism and unity of purpose among villagers.

  The troupe of players included gifted writers and entertaining street educators whom the crowds loved. But the government did not share that same admiration. One of the leaders, Jose Ferrera, had been imprisoned on blatantly trumped up charges of inciting criminality and was being held in gaol in Manila. Rita had provided substantial and verified data and had asked for international networks to plead for Jose’s release…hence Lizzie’s visit.

  Rita embraced Lizzie and with tears in her eyes, thanked Lizzie for accepting the assignment. Lizzie always loved the Philippina’s passion and understood how much the young woman put herself at risk. They went together to a tiny local restaurant which was in a lane not far from the airport—food and drink was important after all. The two women talked for hours as Rita summarised the increasingly tense situation in Manila with the government reacting to criticism and calls for change but eventually Lizzie had to confess she was fading from the flight.

  ‘Um, Lizzie, I have to explain about your accommodation. It is imperative that no one knows about your visit to Jose. This could put you and many of our group in danger. You will need to stay quiet and not draw any attention to yourself as a foreigner. Someone will contact you when it is safe to make the visit to the prison. Meanwhile, I shall also arrange for you to visit Smokey Mountain, the rubbish mountain which is home to so many of the poor in our country of extremes of wealth and poverty. This can be the official line about what you are doing here—to gather international economic support for known small enterprises. OK?’

  Well, it did all sound a bit cloak and dagger to a suburban housewife from Melbourne but sure. ‘OK.’

  I trust you Rita so on with the show. Rita took them out a back door and into a decidedly beat up looking car and they drove into the old town known as IntraMures, “inside the walls”. This was no longer a fashionable part of town. There was evidence of real poverty amongst the relics of historic buildings. Lizzie was checked into a small hotel where, at last, she could sleep for a while on a single bed after taking a dribbly shower.

  Next morning, a driver arrived to take her to Smokey Mountain. The day was already hot. The stench was already strong. The flies made an Australian outback seem free of the need for the Aussie salute to keep flies off your face. These circled slowly looking for an open mouth or eyes or nose or ears, vile persistent creatures breeding in the filth and slime that was everywhere underfoot. Smokey Mountain was indeed a mountain. It was a massive build-up of garbage dumped from the nearby suburbs, brought in by trucks all day. There was an ever-present haze rising in the heat which exacerbated the smell and the slippery black ooze of decaying food and piles of grey teeming maggots made walking around a sensory nightmare. Oh there will be rats. There will be rats. There will be rats. Lizzie could feel herself beginning to panic. Stop. Stop it. Stop it. Get a grip, girl.

  Her guide was a man of maybe fifty something, erect and quietly dignified. He spoke about the conditions. ‘The people live by finding anything of value in the rubbish from the trucks. They work in self-organised and agreed teams so there is no fighting. The children help when they can so we have to be vigilant. Last year, we lost a little one who could only just walk. She was buried under a load, and we did not find her body for many hours.’

  Lizzie could only hold back tears and wonder at the composure of this man who was telling her stories which must break his heart. He continued, ‘Tetanus is another problem because we do not have access to immunisation. Just last month, a girl was injured. We were blessed to have a visitor that day too, and there was a car to get the child to a near-by medical clinic. I think God was good to us that day.’

  Lizzie bit her tongue about what sort of god would leave people in such conditions.

  As they walked around, her guide introduced Lizzie to many of the people who lived on this mountain in shelters and crude huts built from scavenged wood and plastic and cardboard. In one area, she saw a path had been made of bits of brick. The path led to a shelter made of an old wire bed base with cardboard at the opening—an attempt to keep the black slime outside. Lizzie marvelled again at how people will make such courageous moves to keep their homes as best they can. Then she saw just outside the opening a tiny glass bottle with a small sprig of pink plastic flowers. The young woman standing outside smiled at Lizzie. She was justifiably proud of having beautified her home.

 
How do people find the spirit to do this? Would I ever have this sort of strength? I doubt it somehow.

  Lizzie watched as a couple of young adolescent girls emerged from another hut, in school uniforms, hair plaited and neat. How do mothers manage this for their daughters living in such conditions? Her guide spoke of a school established by a woman who lived on the mountain, who taught what she could at whatever time of day pupils could attend. She just asked that they present as proud of themselves. Courage? You bloody better believe it. Lizzie knew she would beg for respectful support for these heroes when she returned to Geneva. It was the very least she could do.

  Meanwhile, she was driven back to IntraMures. This time, she was taken to another building which looked to be a hotel of sorts, run down, grubby and just a tad sinister. Get over yourself, Lizzie. Remember what you have just seen on Smokey Mountain.

  Well, her room was certainly a room, one of many coming off a long passageway. Her driver told her to stay in the room “until someone comes”. He added, ‘They will bring food.’

  So this was not a very brief stay. Lizzie thanked him, found her bag had already been placed in her room and went to collapse onto the bed—then paused. The bed was covered in a decidedly dirty-looking pink-satin bedspread. The pillowcase was no cleaner but did have ruffles. Lizzie looked around rather more closely. In a wardrobe, there was a greasy, stained toilet and a small basin, no shower, no hot water, nothing much at all apart from one chair standing forlorn against the wall. Lizzie really did not want to whinge but…how long was her stay to be??

  She thanked her stars that she had long been in the habit of travelling with two sarongs for what her wonderful assistant back in Geneva called “just-in-case” situations. Lizzie decided this was definitely one of those cases. She pulled back the pink satin, tossed it and the pillow onto the floor, spread one sarong on what appeared to be a sheet then crawled onto it and draped the other sarong over herself. Amazingly, she fell asleep which was again proof she was an insensitive female. She was woken hours later by a knock on the door and found a tray with water, bad coffee and a stale roll covered in some sort of fish paste. It was true she was insensitive because she ate it. She spent all the next day waiting in her room. The only time she opened the door was in response to knocking which was not always on her room door. Slowly, she began to realise there were “visitors” going in and out of the other doors. Never seeming to stay very long. All men. Oh blimey. She was in a brothel. Oh blimey.

  Another day and night went by and still nothing, so Lizzie decided to take action. In daylight hours, she crept downstairs and asked in the disreputable bar (well, why be surprised that a brothels’ bar was disreputable) to use the phone. She called the number Rita had sent her before she left Geneva. A male voice answered, and Lizzie identified herself. There was silence. She tried again and added, ‘I am her to see Jose.’ Click.

  Lizzie headed back upstairs. Had she been indiscreet? Had she put Rita at risk? Should she leave and try to find her way out to another, real, hotel? Confusion. Panic. She lay on the bed and tried to think clearly. What if she had given the game away? Bugger. Bugger. What if the phone was tapped and she had put the whole plan—and Rita’s group—in danger? Bugger.

  She stretched out on the bed, then got up, put her passport in one pocket of her jeans, her toothbrush in another pocket and a spare pair of knickers in the last one. Be prepared in case someone comes kicking down the door. Oh really, Lizzie, do get real. You are a housewife from Melbourne with an overactive imagination and what good would a spare pair of knickers do anyway? Go to sleep.

  She did eventually.

  When she woke next morning, it was to a grotesque reflection looking back at her from the spotted mirror. Her face was bright red and resembled a decidedly blotchy pumpkin—well, if pumpkins were red. Her eyes were reduced to slits, and she looked like some misshapen sumo wrestler. Bloody hell, what had happened while she was sleeping? She gingerly touched the bloated cheeks and puffy skin, and just at that moment, someone knocked on the door. Bloody, bloody hell. She opened it tentatively to see a strange young man standing in the hallway. Had he mistaken the room? No, he wanted Miss Lizzie to come quickly to see Jose. Where was Rita? ‘It is too risky for her, come quickly.’

  Lizzie grabbed a notebook and her sunglasses. Amazingly, this young man did not seem to flinch at the sight of her—was this the way he thought all Melbourne housewives looked or was he extraordinarily polite? Should she take her bag and camera? No, definitely not. OK, OK, I am coming quickly.

  They left the hotel/brothel, and in about an hour, they arrived at the gates of the prison where another two people joined them, two more men who did not appear to notice Lizzie’s swollen face. A large black cauldron with two handles was passed to her and one of the men took the other side. What is this? ‘It is rice because we are allowed to take food to the prisoner. Do not speak and do not look at the guards. Stay quiet. We will do the talking.’

  Lizzie could be very obedient at times. She shut up, carried the cauldron and followed meekly. As they entered, the smell of urine, sweat and fear hit her. This prison, which had been built to hold about four hundred men, now housed about 4,000 poor devils. Her escort spoke to the first line of guards, then the next set and the next and the next. They were in the bowels (appropriate image according to the stench) of the place where it was hot, humid and the guards were armed and sullen.

  Lizzie began to feel more than just a tad nervous. She had no papers, no authorisation. What if someone spoke to her? She assumed they were speaking Tagalo and she had not a word of the language. As they were standing, waiting yet again for some invisible permission to proceed, her opposite number on the cauldron somehow sensed she was nervous. Now how would he ever think Lizzie was nervous? ‘Just keep looking down. It will be well. Just trust us to keep you safe, Miss.’

  Somehow, Lizzie was inclined to trust these strangers but her bad demon popped out of her mouth. ‘The way I look this morning I might frighten them away.’

  ‘What has happened to your face?’ So you did notice. She explained she had awoken with the disfiguration.

  ‘It was probably a cockroach. They sometimes crawl on you while you are sleeping and they can even give a sort of bite.’

  Screech. ‘What??? A cockroach on my face?’ Double screech.

  Guns swung around. Guards on alert. Escorts pale. Lizzie in full remorse mode. ‘Say nothing. Say nothing,’ whispered urgently by her companion. Some questions and answers as the guards obviously demanded some explanation. Lizzie had no idea what they were all saying because she kept her slitty eyes on the ground and tried to look invisible.

  Apparently, eventually, things calmed down. Big foreign lady sigh. Slowly, they continued into the very centre of this hellhole. Big Philippine sighs. Hand over the cauldron. Introductions to Jose. Exhale, Lizzie, do your job.

  She spent an hour asking questions and memorising answers before the guards returned and they were ushered out through all the security checks again. Back to the hotel/brothel, pack bags quickly, off to the airport and another rather more comfortable hotel room for two days while her face gradually returned to normal and she wrote her report in which she did not mention she was now known as “the woman who almost got them killed for a cockroach”.

  However, in time she was forgiven by Rita when an international campaign swung into action on behalf of Jose and the charges were finally dropped.

  Lizzie had been in Manila for two weeks and was to fly from there to Sao Paulo. Back again at the airport, she went to the Varig airline counter to check in. She was aware of someone pushing behind her and looked around to see the man with the scarf again. He was going on the same flight. Now, that’s coincidence. I wonder what the odds are of that happening out of an airport this size.

  After checking in, she went through security to a waiting area, wrote a postcard to Sam and wandered to the bar for a drink. With the prospect of the airline food ahead of her, she ordered a tomato
sandwich. Bad move. The Americans who colonised the Philippines might be able to reach the moon, to build soaring skyscrapers and speeding cars, but they did horrible things to food. The bread was soggy plastic, the tomato looked exhausted and, she felt sure, had never really felt sunlight or soft rain so she pushed it away and settled for the coffee in a plastic cup with a plastic spoon, with a powdered milk product and choice of sugar or two different sweeteners.

  At the table opposite, a man bit into a doughnut iced in screaming pink. He was watching her. It was the man in the scarf. He didn’t smile or acknowledge her. He just watched her, which was decidedly disconcerting. Lizzie tried to concentrate on reading the Herald Tribune she had found but, short of holding it up to cover her face as they do in B-grade movies, she could not seem to escape his observations.

  Oh shit, she thought. You win, mate. I’ll go and sit somewhere else.

  She slung her camera bag onto her shoulder, folded the paper, put away her glasses and left the table. She walked towards the departure gate and found a seat, settled herself and opened the paper. Slowly, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise. She could feel a prickling of her skin. She didn’t want to look up but her eyes rose slowly and there he was. Sitting opposite again. Watching her again. There was no hint of flirtation. He just watched. Lizzie tried staring back at him. Nothing. No response at all. He just watched as if she were a specimen under glass. She tried to return to the paper took out a pen and began a crossword but still, she was conscious of him and knew he was aware of her effort to concentrate and her discomfort. It seemed they would never be called to board.

  Lizzie admitted defeat, slung her bag up again and flounced off to the ladies’ toilet. To her amazement, when she emerged at the boarding announcement, he was standing watching the door, and he fell into line behind her as she waited to have her boarding pass checked. He was sitting behind her this time so she told herself to forget him. He was probably just curious about the coincidence of their flights. Or a little crazy.