Lice
SOMETIMES I have this funny feeling that something is creeping on my head. Maybe it is paranoia. But then I might actually have head lice.
A couple of months ago, I saw a tiny grey louse stuck on my white shirt. The ingenuous kids around me probably thought it was a good idea to share their “clingy pets” with me. However, I would rather have my forehead branded “Ingrata” in bold letters than be infested with those wingless, blood-sucking insects.
As soon as I brushed off the unwanted culprit, I felt the warm embrace of a five-year-old girl. In a matter of seconds, a couple of toddlers tried to find their place on my lap while another quietly held my hand in contentment. Around me were more kids trying to get my attention. I burst out laughing before another girl came rushing to me, broadly smiling despite having lost her two front teeth.
Whether “Go forth and multiply!” is the living motto of lice, I cannot be sure. At that point, I no longer cared. I had developed an indescribable fondness for the children in the orphanage which could not be diminished even by an army of parasites.
From England, I normally come home to the Philippines for the Yuletide Season, but this time I had scheduled a longer stay of over two months so I could do some volunteer work. I travelled all the way from my hometown in Pangasinan to Leyte where I had a humbling yet remarkable experience.
When I arrived, I slowly trudged along the muddy, narrow path to the office of the volunteer organization with my bags. What was I thinking? There I was traveling alone in a place I had never been to before, set to live with people I had never met and spend my precious holidays with children I did not even know. Some male bystanders smiled at me while others uttered words in a language I did not understand. It was evening and there were still little children running around. Ah, the world is crazy and so was I.
I had to be in my best health condition but fate seemed to have played tricks on me. Unexpectedly, I developed itchy skin rashes. I had a worsening cold and in the daytime my eyes almost got sore from the glare of the sun. I willed myself to become resilient.
I had been assigned to an orphanage established and run by the Missionaries of Charity, a religious order founded by Mother Teresa. On my first day, my experience with our own home being turned into a busy daycare center with nephews and nieces running around was completely forgotten. In the orphanage, there were around 43 little kids, mostly ill or abandoned or both. I could hear some of them crying in chorus. I knew it would not be a walk in the park.
Right there, I also found myself with a new name: “Ate Lisli.”
Getting the kids’ attention was almost effortless. Every time I opened the door, they would rush to me in some kind of timid but sweet marathon. The ultimate prize was to hold my hand exclusively for a few minutes. I could sense their longing for the warmth of a touch more than anything else.
There were times when they would line up in front of me. One by one, I would hug them, carry them in my arms, and sway them for half a minute. They would extend their arms in excitement as they waited for their turn to be swung in different styles. After the morning exercise, I could feel my body perspiring, my heart beating faster and myself being happier.
Children aged over three years started the day with a rosary, after which they proceeded to the long tables for a simple breakfast. They prayed together before every meal and they never complained about the food. When somebody mentioned Jollibee Chickenjoy, the kids would savor the goodness of tasty fried chicken woven in their imagination. They had simple dreams, and they appreciated every little thing so that even crayons, coloring books and plain stickers became priceless treasures.
In the room for the younger ones, I was amazed by how much a baby could eat. One of them finished two small bowls of food and still craved for more. I had never seen an appetite such as theirs. And I was further astounded to see them using spoons although they had barely learned how to walk.
After helping with the feeding, I helped wash the dishes and clean the floor in the room that had been turned by then into a mess hall, literally.
Melodies in different keys resonated across the hall as I sang with my little friends. I sang songs I learned in the church choir back in the United Kingdom, a couple of which they knew. The nuns had taught the kids religious songs which even the younger ones had mastered.
I also prepared activities such as coloring, drawing and origami which the kids always looked forward to. I asked them to write their names on their masterpiece, and kept some of their works in a big plastic envelope as souvenirs from the cheerful souls whom I would certainly miss.
When the bell rang at noon, it was time to say goodbye. Usually, they would ask me a question repeatedly in Waray, which I understood using context clues. They wanted to know whether I would be coming back, and when I said yes, they would beam with smiles that could brighten any person’s day.
In the afternoon, I tutored a group of fourth and fifth graders on Math, Science and Spelling. At the end of each day, I would feel like I had used up all my energy.
For a period of two weeks, I was exposed to many underprivileged children. However, what I witnessed was not their misery. Except for some who cried in pain because of illness, the kids were very happy with simple pleasures—even happier than those with fancy clothes and expensive toys who are not contented with what they have. Although their teeth would probably pose an extreme challenge to dentists, they never failed to flash their innocent smiles. They were mature for their age and I think their experiences would make them stronger individuals.
Now I am back in England living a comfortable lifestyle. I drive my own shiny gold BMW coupé, buy the things I want and eat any food I fancy. I have a good career but still have time for recreation and social activities. I have a wonderful family back home. I am surrounded by genuine friends.
When everything is going great, it is easy to forget those in need. That is probably why I feel the need to scratch my head once in a while. I doubt if I have “clingy pets” since I underwent treatment to be completely rid of those insects, if I ever had them. It is probably God’s way of reminding me of the children in the orphanage and the many people in dire need not just of financial assistance but also of the simple touch of people who care.
I am reminded of the joy in giving and the excitement of simple living. It makes me keep an eye on the kind of life I want to live. I hope that these things will stick to my brain and that I won’t need to scratch my head to remember them.
Leslie E. Vicente, 28, is a certified public accountant. After several years with PricewaterhouseCoopers (Manila) and KPMG (United Kingdom), two of the world’s biggest auditing firms, she has taken a short career break to pursue personal goals.
