Crossing Allenby Bridge

by Michael Looft

  I awoke with a startle, the dream still tugging me down into a shameful depression. I could hear the others chatting in the back, so kept my eyes on the outside scenery, trying to regain my sense of reality. It took several minutes to shake the phantoms away. Nevertheless, I faked sleep for most of the ride back to Manila, still feeling occasional shudders.

  CHAPTER 4 | SHANGRI-LA

  Edwin declined my offer for dinner at the Shangri-La, but Mark and Sarah’s eyes lit up when I mentioned it. God knows what they’d been eating the past few months, and the three of us waved goodbye to Edwin and within minutes slid into a comfortable booth at the grill restaurant, underdressed, but tired and famished after a long day and not caring much what we looked like. Mark seemed to be in a chipper mood, and I ordered an expensive bottle of wine, treating this as a cut-loose party compared to the subdued comportment needed for the previous dinner we shared with Ms. Luisa. I started the conversation off by talking about the Center and the day’s events, but Sarah’s eyes twinkled, and she quickly took it in another direction.

  “Harry… do you have someone special back home?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Careful, Sarah, Harry is a sneak. Before you know it, he’ll steer the conversation back to you,” Mark said with a smile, lifting his wine glass to his lips.

  “That’s not fair!” I shouted in mock anger, “Besides, my life is boring compared to yours.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that.” Sarah flashed an incredulous look. “Our lives always seem boring to us, but almost never to other people.”

  “That’s true. Look at you and Mark, surviving Mongolian winters and now down here helping slum dwellers. I should say that you’re leading extraordinary lives indeed.”

  “See what I mean, he’s turning it back…”

  “Oh, shut up, Mark.” It was the most playful I’d ever seen Mark, and I think we were all turning giddy off our second glass of wine, empty stomachs awaiting their due. The attentive waiter brought a second bottle at my nod, along with some bread. Sarah raised an inquisitive eyebrow, staring me down until I spoke again. “Well, as you young people say these days, it’s complicated. That’s most relationships, right?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know,” Mark said with a smirk, and I heard a sudden thwap under the table as he let out a soft wail followed by a laugh, keeping his eyes buried in his glass.

  “You’re not so old, Harry. Besides, you do look pretty darned good for your age. Is that wrong of me to say?”

  “Of course not, I need all the validation I can get–and to answer your question, her name is Elena.”

  “And, how long has this complicated relationship been going on?”

  “Since last fall. I met her the same day Mark did.”

  “No way!” Mark broke in. “She’s not the meditation lady, is she?”

  “That’s the one.” I felt my face redden. “She also runs a yoga studio and does some kind of energy work.”

  “That’s so San Francisco,” Mark muttered.

  “Wait.” She shot an incredulous, almost jealous look at Mark. “What meditation lady?”

  “Remember how I told you I worked with Harry at the bank? Elena came in one day to do a guided meditation. Harry sat next to me.”

  “Get out of town, really? How postmodern!” She gave a screech that turned a few heads over to us. “So, she came into the bank? And then what happened? What did you say, Harry? Did you turn on the charm or what?” She leaned in and fixed intense eyes on me as if telling a secret, lowering her voice, “You know what I think? I think God plans all these beautiful little chance happenings for us, and as long as we’re walking our path, it all works out.”

  “You sound like her, now.”

  “You know, I still do that meditation she taught us,” Mark said, leaning back with his glass to his lips.

  “Oh yeah? She sounds marvelous already.”

  “I’m trying to convince her to come for a vacation in September, so maybe you’ll get to meet her then.”

  “Cool! We should go to one of the islands.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I wanted to change the subject and avoid having to talk about Elena or my personal life in general. “So, what do you think of this country so far? Besides hot and humid?”

  “I’m in love with it,” Sarah responded, without batting an eye. “Yes, it’s hot and humid, and a little maddening at times, but the people here are so darn sweet. Our friends at the Center–they are made of gold.”

  “I agree. Speaking of the Center, what do you think about all this Christianity stuff at the Center? I didn’t ask that right. I mean, you know… about it being so front and center?”

  “Well, I am a preacher’s daughter, so I’m used to it. In fact, some of it gives me a feeling of comfort. Some of it doesn’t.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s basically the prosperity gospel in action.”

  “Oh? I never heard that expression.”

  “Health and wealth,” Mark chimed in with a wry expression plastered on his face.

  “Yeah, some people call it that too,” Sarah said, glancing his way and resting a loving hand on his forearm. “The general idea is that if a person has the right amount of faith and displays that faith in the right way, God will send that person riches and good health.”

  “Like a cosmic Santa Claus?”

  “Never thought of it that way, but maybe.” She wrinkled her brow, pondering my flippant comment as though it were serious. Mark chuckled. “You ever read Max Weber?”

  “No, but I think Mark has. Isn’t that the guy you were talking about that night at the Fairmont?”

  “Good memory. Yeah, the Protestant Ethic. Great book. America stripped down naked,” Mark responded, drinking the last of the second bottle of wine and forcing a third to be brought to the table.

  “I’ll have to put it on my reading list, then.”

  “Definitely! It’s a real page turner, which is saying a lot for a sociology book. Most of my professors saw nothing but holes in his arguments–but I couldn’t help seeing a lot of truth in what he says,” Sarah cut back in, her eyes blazing, “I’ll give you the abridged version unless you want to go back to talking about your love life?”

  “No, let’s stick with stripping down America. That sounds way more interesting.”

  The three of us laughed and I settled back into my seat, belly satisfied and full glass in hand, feeling the ease of friendship developing between the three of us. Sarah leaned forward, while Mark rested an arm on his cheek, head tilted with his left ear remaining in the conversation. It dawned on me I had succeeded in pushing a button connected to a deep passion inside her, and she barreled forward with a long treatise on a subject that both entranced and startled me.

  “Remember the Puritans?”

  “Sure, people who wore boring clothes and didn’t smile much.”

  “Something like that. Not a bad description, come to think of it. Well, they were Protestants, doing their best in England and Holland and a few other places to purify religion, particularly from Catholic influences.”

  “I’m guessing that’s why they got booted out and sent to America,” I cut in, and she nodded in agreement.

  “They were most concerned with the salvation of their own souls rather than anything else. The focus was on the individual and his connection to the God, not on priests or indulgences, etcetera. For these guys, idle hands were the devil’s hands. So, working hard was a big deal. Not just working hard, but also saving money and not spending it frivolously. Of course, doing all that work and living a Spartan lifestyle invariably meant saving lots of money. This took root in America, and became part of our early culture. That is, to be a pious individualist, you gotta work hard, and you gotta save your money. If you know his story, John D. Rockefeller epitomized the Protestant ethic. The American dream is built on these same ideals he followed of pulling oneself up by the bootstraps, being self-reliant, and striking o
ut on one’s own.”

  “Good ole’ fashion individualism. Nothing wrong with that,” I responded.

  “Unless individualism becomes the new God,” Mark muttered, without looking up.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but America definitely has an ethos of individualism raised up high and wrapped up in the accumulation of wealth,” Sarah responded.

  “Isn’t that accumulation of wealth the opposite of Puritanism, at least the way you’ve portrayed it?” I asked.

  “Not exactly. Everyone has a calling, and as long as he works hard in that calling, he’s following a divine path. If God makes him rich in the process, that’s just a blessing from God, and not bad as long as it doesn’t lead to idleness.”

  “But is that true of America today?”

  “Religion’s long flown the coop for most of America, but it doesn’t matter. But as Weber said, we’re still stuck in an iron cage of materialism rooted in these unconscious patterns that might no longer fit.”

  I shot Mark a knowing look and he returned it with a sheepish grin. “I guess you found the right girl for you, Marko.” Then I turned to Sarah. “Look, I don’t see the problem with a little individualism. Isn’t it part of what makes America so great?”

  “Maybe so, but great in what way? We hear a lot about how people are feeling more and more alienated and isolated. Where’s the community there? Could individualism be at the root of the general malaise we see in America?”

  “I’ll tell you what the real problem is. It’s too much freedom. That’s what I say.”

  “Really?” She cast an inquisitive eye on me and cocked her head back.

  “Well, it’s like this. I don’t know much about children, but from what I hear, they need lots of boundaries to feel safe and happy. Ever go to a house where the kids are in charge, running around like wild beasts?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Those kids might be in charge, but they’re anxious because nobody’s setting limits on their behavior. Many of them are just acting out to get those boundaries set–though they may not be aware that’s what they’re doing.”

  “Interesting. Okay, how does that relate?”

  “Every time I hear about a mass shooting or people doing crazy things, I think of the chaos of my cousin’s household with his kids staying up late and pulling crazy stunts. Only, now it’s older kids and society not setting boundaries.”

  “Restricting freedoms?”

  “Yep. The whole country’s going crazy because we have too much freedom, and maybe, as you say, a bit of individualism thrown in there.”

  “Everybody wants to be special,” Mark slipped in. “Killing a bunch of people and winding up with your picture on the front page is an expedient way of doing that.” There were several moments of silence after he said this, each of us sensing how little time it took for the conversation to veer into the macabre.

  “Well, it seems we have it all figured out,” I laughed. “But I’m not sure what the solution is, and I’m certainly not advocating for drastic measures like taking away people’s guns or sending in the brown shirts.”

  “Yeah, that never works,” Sarah muttered, refusing another glass of wine and leaving Mark and I to the third bottle as we took a break to ponder the dessert menu. Once the waiter came around and we ordered a few things to share, I couldn’t help keeping the conversation going. It had been a long time since I’d had a real intellectual discussion, and we had struck upon that sweet spot thanks to Sarah’s knowledge and passion, made fluid by the wine.

  “But other countries seem to have similar freedoms and guns, etc., and those people are not crazy. What’s that all about?”

  “Most of those places have a strong social safety net. Our lack of one cultivates individualism and even accentuates it,” she retorted in a sharp tone.

  “Sorry, but that sounds like a liberal sales pitch to me.”

  “Which part?” she asked, sensing a twinge of anger rising in me.

  “Well, I just don’t see the connection between some guy wasting a bunch of people with a rifle and whether or not he has health insurance.”

  “When you put it that way, I don’t either, but when people are struggling to survive and living a few paychecks away from sinking below the surface and they’re told they must do it all on their own and nobody is going to help them if they hit hard times, that’s a recipe for disaster. Worse, they’re being told that nobody should help them because they must learn to do everything on their own. That strips them away from their communities and puts them in a different frame of mind.”

  “A kill or be killed mindset,” Mark added.

  “Quiet over there in the nickel seats,” I thundered with a wink. “I’m planning to win this debate.”

  “Are we debating? I thought we were just sharing ideas.” Sarah feigned a hurt expression before turning a frown into a welcome smile. “Listen, Harry. I get that handouts can enable people, and in some cases, keep them from self-actualization, to use a loaded term. It would be a shame to take away a system that helps so many others and one that gives them the opportunity to survive and potentially contribute to society.”

  “Is that the government’s job, though? Why can’t churches and NGOs like the Center do that kind of work instead of taking my hard-earned money and doling it out to the masses? I’d much rather have a say in who gets my money than have it taxed away into the ether.”

  “That’s a fair argument. I’m not advocating for government to overstep its role, but I still think as a country, as a world community even, we’re all trying figure out how to make sure people get the help they need in the way they need it. Many people just need a leg up. My big concern in shifting everything over to churches and nonprofits is that some people might fall through the cracks–people who are not on the radar of those organizations. So, I think the government’s role is to make sure everyone has a fair shake in the world they live in.”

  “Well spoken.” I could have quibbled with a few points she made, but it was getting late and I didn’t want us to spend the rest of the evening hashing out details on something we weren’t going to resolve anyway. As a bartender once told me, two drunks are not going to solve the world’s problems on barstools, and the three of us had long since crossed the Rubicon into Tipsyland. We ate our desserts in silence, punctuated by subdued talk about where they were living. I found out that due to overcrowding, they were not living in the dormitories, but in a rented apartment near the Center. They still showed up at 7:00 a.m. for morning devotion, and stayed for dinner each night, but were free to leave afterward to cohabitate in sin. I was a bit shocked at this revelation given how regimented and structured the Center and its people seemed. Who knows, maybe they made allowances for depraved foreigners who drank and fornicated, marking them for eventual salvation precipitated through modeling consistent behavior. At the end of it all I hugged both goodnight and put them in a taxi home.

  I spent the next two weeks following Edwin around metro Manila and learning more about the work of the Center and its pain points. Of course, funding was an issue. His image of microfinance as a locomotive pulling boxcars of various services stuck out in my mind; and that locomotive requires fuel to keep it moving–in this case, money. As head of operations, Edwin made certain each program ran as smoothly as possible. For him, that meant keeping his finger on the pulse of activity. From an outsider’s perspective it might seem like he accomplished little by bouncing from one location to another, often spending less than a half hour in each place. I knew enough about effective management to see the wisdom in his method. Each office, branch, meeting, or group of people had at least one person in a leadership role: The Peer Servant. He spent a few minutes with each peer servant to listen to them. He never said much, spending most of the time listening. He also jotted down notes on a tiny pad he kept in his shirt front pocket, which I’m sure made the peer servants feel supported. At the end of every discussion he would take their hands in his and bow his head, utteri
ng the same prayer to each: “May God bless you and your family and the work that you are doing to help His children.”

  I attended several weekly hour-long meetings set up by the Center. These were groups of fifteen or twenty people living in the same neighborhood that knew one another and decided to band together in solidarity. I noticed more than one group at most meetings, recalling one meeting with five groups present–close to a hundred people. People met in an open lot filled with rubble, surrounded by low-rise cement buildings in an area close to the port. Compared to the location where I met Edwin on that first day, it looked more run down and reminded me of a post-apocalyptic wasteland–dusty paths strewn with garbage and a pile of rusting bicycles and other scrap metal. Edwin seemed at ease while strolling through each community, as if he belonged there. I was amazed at how he could make five minutes with a person seem like he was spending all day with them, relaxed and present. I wish I had that in me, always feeling like I’ve got to run off somewhere when I have nowhere to go. I suppose I’ve never been all that comfortable talking with other people unless it’s a business transaction, and even those were hit and miss.

  I fell into a rhythm of spending the early part of my days shadowing Edwin and the afternoons reading, and talking to Elena. Our calls started from every few days to just about every day throughout that August. It was a good way to spend my evenings since between daily downpours and the seedy nightlife culture around the hotel, wandering around after dark was inadvisable. The one time I went out after dinner looking to stock up on bottled water I was propositioned twice. Edwin told me the area used to be popular with American servicemen before forces pulled out over a decade prior.