Eight Japanese travelers. Two children. A chapel waiting to be blessed. Dozens of couples waiting to be married. And a woman who organized it all — the flights, the receptions, the garlands, the food — from a school room in Sendai.
It was the morning before our departure. Cars came one by one, each carrying a person or a couple with a suitcase. I gathered all the luggage to send to the international airport via a delivery service. Each of them seemed in high spirits, looking forward to the trip. Nobody left without expressing gratitude and a polite request for me to look after them during the journey — a very common practice among the Japanese. We bowed to each other several times as I saw them off.
I prepared the delivery request form for the suitcases and the huge bags containing used clothes collected by the pupils of Rifu Third Elementary School. Their distribution to selected poor families was part of the itinerary. The activity had started when Michael entered the school, through the initiative of his homeroom teacher, Mrs. Horiuchi. They normally collected toys, shoes, and school supplies, but I had requested only clothes this time. I would meet the students in charge and tell them that it was important to give with the right mindset — not only because you no longer needed a thing, but because you wanted the recipient to be happy.
By nighttime, we were on our way to the airport. Because the drive would take about five hours, we stopped at road stations along the way to rest. By the time we arrived at the hotel near the airport, everyone was still energetic — even though most of my companions were in their sixties. We met again the following morning for breakfast and took the shuttle bus to the airport.
The first trouble began at check-in. Because there were many of us, some had fallen into different lines. When it was our group's turn, the staff found that our combined luggage far exceeded the weight limit — caused by the clothes we were donating. We did not want to pay the excess fee, thinking the money would be better spent buying new clothes in the Philippines. After some discussions and pleading, we were allowed to check in everything without having to pay extra.
About five hours later, our plane landed at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport in Manila. As we walked toward the immigration section, the sound of a Filipino folk song grew clearer — a small group of men and women in native costume carrying sampaguita garlands, accompanied by a guitarist. One of them held a placard welcoming the House Representative and our group of Japanese guests.
We stopped when we saw it. After confirming it was for us, they draped each of us — including my children — with a garland. Everyone was pleasantly surprised. I had contacted the Tourism Department to tell them about the arrival of an honored guest, but I had not expected them to prepare that much. A woman who introduced herself as a staff member stayed with us, making sure nobody would bother us along the way until we reached the pickup area.She organizes eight Japanese travelers through immigration with garlands, a government escort, and a luggage waiver — all by making a few phone calls from Sendai. Her ability to make things happen across borders is becoming a recurring motif.
The hotel service finally arrived. It should have been a short drive, but traffic held us up. The Japanese did not seem to mind. They enjoyed watching everything — the vehicles, the drivers, the peddlers. They noticed that most cars were Japanese-made, that some looked too old to still be running, and that the smoke from many vehicles was too dark. They laughed with awe when they saw how drivers squeezed between other vehicles. Horns sounded from every corner.
They noticed the pedestrians crossing wherever they pleased and the vendors — young and old — selling cigarettes, candies, and rags, seemingly unaware of the risk. They asked me questions about these things, and I realized I had never given them much thought. As a Filipino, I had learned to see them as a normal part of city life. The Japanese said it would take time, but if I had a strong will, I should be able to make a difference.
After breakfast at the hotel, we were sent to the domestic airport. Our large luggage had been loaded into my car the night before — Vilma and her husband would bring them to Marinduque by road and ferry. The flight was originally scheduled for seven o'clock, but the departure was changed several times, something the Japanese were not accustomed to.
At around eleven, we boarded the propeller plane. The Japanese were immediately concerned about how safe it was. It felt wobbly, and the sound of the engine was equally worrisome. But as we laughed off our fears, we were greeted by the beauty of the mountain view and the inactive volcano. We were told we were lucky — it was not often the volcano appeared that clearly. Several minutes later, the pilot announced our descent. Before we knew it, we were overlooking the airport and the lot next to it — our first destination.
As we got off and walked, we noticed a group holding a streamer welcoming the House Representative and our group. The town mayor of Torrijos was beside them. As promised, he handed me the Land Title before we discussed anything else. He told us the adjusted schedule for the receptions at the Provincial Capitol and at Marinduque State College, my alma mater.
We took pedicabs — pedal-powered vehicles — to the farm. We crossed the tarmac and entered the gate just a few meters from the runway. We were all amazed by the trees. The people just outside the fence cheerfully watched us pass, and the Japanese waved at them. When we reached the house, Ernie began to climb a coconut tree to get us some to drink. The Japanese instantly took out their cameras — they called it a great skill. Refreshed, we walked around to see the fruit trees, but the heat was becoming intolerable. We returned to the house and prepared for the reception at the Governor's office.
At the Provincial Capitol, we were seated in a semicircle. As soon as we settled, guitars filled the hall and folk singers began the Putong — a traditional ceremony to welcome visitors. People in traditional costume danced and sang the province's unique ceremonial song. We were crowned, and coins were thrown before us to wish us good luck. The singers and onlookers cheerfully scrambled for the coins. Knowing the tradition, I took some of my own money and threw it for them to catch. Before the fun was over, someone played slower music, and each of us was approached for a dance. Unfamiliar with the moves, the Japanese had a hard laugh at themselves.
Upstairs, the Governor gave her welcome message in English, speaking slowly for the Japanese. When the House Representative was invited to speak, he asked me to translate. His message was a mixture of fun and depth that kept the audience smiling. He even ended with a joke that made everyone laugh as we left for the reception room. There was an abundance of food — the Japanese were humbled and surprised. We took souvenir photos before heading to the college, where people had already been waiting for hours.
As our vehicle entered the college gate, the sound of traditional instruments greeted us — selected students in folk costumes, playing and performing. Students at the corridors of buildings waved. A large tarpaulin welcomed the group. Professors lined the pathway, waiting to shake hands. It was the first time I had returned since graduation, and seeing my former professors among them moved me deeply.
The reception was filled with yet more food, more Putong, more crownings. This time, it was the professors performing. It was followed by traditional folk dances. Department heads each spoke, sharing their situation and needs with the guest representative. Their messages came with written proposals. Mr. Abe was the last to deliver his message — with me translating — and he managed to entertain them with his thoughts without promising or committing anything.
Before sunset, we were at the beach in Torrijos, witnessing how busy everyone had been in preparation for the following day. The college teacher and her students had done a tremendous job transforming the bare surroundings of the chapel into a recreational garden. Carpenters worked on the roof. Painters stood on wooden scaffolding, trying to finish before dark.
I could see the glass doors and windows already fixed. Other than the highest part of the roof left open, the chapel was ready. The chandelier hung perfectly at the center. The round stained glass behind the altar gave it a solemn look. Although the stained glass was placed inside out, it was not very noticeable — in fact, I was the only one who noticed. I chose not to have it corrected to avoid risks during the process.
Further down by the river, dozens of people were busy slaughtering animals, cutting ingredients, and preparing for the expected influx of guests. Everyone had a role. It was comforting to see their combined effort toward a common goal — to welcome our visitors to a feast.
Having had a long day, we left before sunset for the resort I had reserved. The caretaker set dinner outside by the pool. Everyone was amazed by the food — rice, fruits, fish, lobsters, squid, and crabs placed on banana leaves. There were no chopsticks or forks — we were supposed to eat with our hands. Something the Japanese had never experienced before.
The night ended with karaoke, as suggested by the Singing Mayor *(not his real name)*. He and his bodyguard had been with us since the airport. They left late, after the Japanese went to bed.
True to his word, the town office employees and officials were there the next morning. Each of us received a necklace made from native materials. The Singing Mayor had prepared sashimi — raw fish cut thin — but it was difficult to find the right words to explain our concern about eating raw fish that may not have met the right quality standards. We thanked him for the gesture.
In the session hall, the Putong was performed a third time — but it felt just like the first. The Japanese were in all smiles, aware of the warmth. After the ceremony, we went outside to distribute the clothes from Japan. Thanks to an orderly system and everyone's effort, the Japanese and the beneficiaries seemed to enjoy the moment as much as I did. The recipients were instructed to say thank you in Tagalog upon a signal — and with that, the distribution ended. We headed to my place together with the Singing Mayor and the police officers.
The place was packed when we arrived. The venue was ready. Food and drinks were in place. More than thirty couples were seated in a semicircle with their sponsors behind them. Guests — familiar and new faces — stood at corners, hiding from the brightly shining sun on a very clear sky.
It started with the celebration of the Mass, during which I was asked to read a passage from the Bible. It was a very emotional experience — considering how I had arrived at that position from the seemingly hopeless situations I had been through.She reads scripture at a Mass she organized, in a chapel she built, on land she bought — and she is not even married herself. The irony is not lost on the reader.
The mass wedding was performed by the town's Catholic priest, who made it a solemn yet fun event. He was the very same priest who used to lead Mass at our parochial church when I was much younger. His vocal quality in singing seemed as great as ever, if not better.
After the Mass, he proceeded to the chapel for its blessing. Candles were handed out, and I threw coins to the ceiling upon the priest's signal. Interestingly, the sky also showered for a short while over the place during the blessing.
Right after the fun of picking up the coins, the mass christening was announced. Participants brought their children and sponsors inside the chapel. The number of participants in both events was remarkable — the town office employees had done their part in informing the public. But it was also made known that participating couples and children would receive cash gifts from the Japanese, with chances to win more through a raffle. These incentives — along with the provision of food — were perhaps too much to resist. Live-in partners who had been together for years, some even decades, finally decided to tie the knot.
The Master of Ceremony called me to the stage to give a short message. I did not have my thoughts written down, and I did not expect to need them. So I thanked them for coming and apologized that I may not be able to talk to each of them. I told them that when they saw me smiling — whether at them or at another person — it meant they were welcome and I was very happy to have them there. With that, the music played, the food trays opened, and everyone filled their plates.
I went around greeting guests from different places and groups — public and private employees, rich and poor, young and old, mostly new faces and fewer familiar ones. The newly-weds were already dancing at the center. The Singing Mayor was having a wonderful time on the microphone. It became more exciting when we distributed the cash gifts. He would call and introduce each couple in his own words, and his style was so effective he never failed to draw laughter when he wanted some.
Relatives from both my father's and mother's sides were present. Most had come by a hired jeepney. They seemed happy to see my success, but I was not sure if I met all their expectations. It was only when the party was over that I realized there were things I could have done better.
My children opted to stay with their cousins, so they were left in Torrijos under Junjun's care. The following days, we toured the island — the butterfly farm, the hot spring, a cave. The next day, a white-beach island for sale, after visiting the mayor of Sta. Cruz. He had plenty of food prepared and his bodyguards accompanied us to the island. With two mayors on the same boat, the Japanese took notice — and photos — of the unfamiliar sight of guns.
Despite the hectic schedule, I convinced the group to stop at my parents' place. My father, not expecting our arrival, quickly put away his tools and took some young coconuts for us to drink. He opened them one by one while Mitch talked with him. When everyone had drunk, Mitch shook his hand and thanked him — like everyone else did — before we left for our next destination.
After a few days, we were on our way back to Manila. Mr. Wakamatsu was left in Torrijos to stay with Junjun's family — we had applied for his tourist visa extension, and the mayor was aware of his presence. One of our companions, Mr. Ikeda, a retired math professor, wanted to visit a university in Laguna that trained students in beekeeping. The department head and her students were expecting us. Mr. Ikeda was surprised when the students asked for help in coming to Japan to train. Unable to promise anything, we left with a sense of disappointment.
The remaining days were spent sightseeing in Manila — Intramuros, Rizal Park. Riding a calesa, a horse-drawn cart, brought back childhood memories. The Japanese said that riding one for the first time in a crowded city was both scary and fun.
The night before we left for Japan, we drove for hours through Manila's traffic to Pasig City to see Venus's store. Because I knew every detail of what had been brought to it, the place did not feel new to me. There was the barber shop, the mini-restaurant, the grocery, the cases of bottled drinks, the freezer, the loading station, the karaoke, the sacks of rice, the gas tanks, the new motorbikes, and the rooms for rent.
What surprised me was the number of helpers Venus had. Asked why she needed so many, she said they were all necessary. I had not been updated about the financial status or her management strategy, so I had no basis to argue. But I had reasons to worry. The items in the store were fewer than expected. She even asked me to reimburse the money she used for the modest food I had asked her to prepare for us. It was not the right time to discuss the matter. My duty to the group was the priority.
This was the deal with God made visible. The chapel she dreamed about was blessed by the same priest who sang in her childhood church. More than thirty couples who could never afford a wedding were married in a single afternoon. Children who had never been baptized were christened under a roof she paid for. Japanese travelers who came as tourists left as witnesses. And the woman who organized it all — the flights, the receptions, the garlands, the food, the coins thrown to the ceiling — had never had a wedding of her own. She gave others the ceremony she never received, and in doing so, she kept her end of the bargain with the unseen God she spoke to in Sendai.