“André, we need to pick up a patient from a distant mountain,” the nurse said as I was passing by our clinic in the Kamantian mountains. I had been on my way home to grab my backpack before heading back to the city, Brooke’s Point, where I was working at the project base station, about twenty kilometers (12.5 miles) away.

When the inhabitants of the remote mountains fall too ill to walk on their own, they are either carried out by others or transported by helicopter from a sister organization. That day, the helicopter was out of order.

The nurse led me to Maman (Uncle) Mungking, the man who would guide me to the patient. I had never seen him before. He looked tired and a bit dirty, and was wearing clothes that did not fit. He had traveled a great distance to ask the nurses for help in taking his seriously ill wife to the hospital. Ours would be a journey of more than fifteen hours just to reach Maman Mungking’s home. How will we do this, just the two of us? I wondered.

Providentially, the nurse suggested I go to the busy lilinguwan (local market where the villagers gather on Sundays to sell goods) to recruit a volunteer to join us. I invited one, spoke to another, appealed to a third and begged a fourth. Each time, I was unsuccessful; upon hearing the name of the destination, people lost their enthusiasm. They knew it was far away.

Without hope, I began my return to the clinic. On the way, I saw Silu, my first friend when I arrived in the mountains and one of the local church leaders. I invited him to join us on the mission. He accepted the challenge, and we both went to the clinic to meet Maman Mungking. As the nurses prepared rice for us to take on the journey, Silu and I each went to our homes to gather what we would need, agreeing to meet on the trail.

Around five in the afternoon, Maman Mungking, Silu and I met up. I had a bakid (a basket used to carry items or a sick person) strapped to my back. Maman Mungking led, and slowly, we stopped seeing houses; we were going deep into the jungle.

For the next 15 hours, we endured strenuous hiking and many injuries from thorns, nettles and leeches, or falling along the way, particularly at night, when following the trail grew difficult. We also suffered through the coldest night of my life. Trying to sleep around our meager fire on a mountain called Megringgit, and without blankets, we frequently awoke shivering and had to reignite the fire. Even when Maman Mungking, from atop a mountain, had pointed to his house in the distance, I thought we were close, but our journey took many more hours. 

All was not miserable, however. Insects had sung their melodies, announcing the arrival of night. Small streams allowed us to replenish our water and bathe. Hunters shared their bananas with us, and the rice which the nurses had prepared tasted better than any I had ever eaten. I think hunger made me imagine I was eating lasagna.

Finally, we arrived at Maman Mungking’s house. Inside was Lunis, Maman Mungking’s eight-year-old grandson, and a woman weighing about forty-five pounds, who struggled to walk and breathed heavily. Minan (Auntie) Noraya, his wife, was in poor condition. We would have to carry her all the way.

Maman Mungking prepared a meal of chicken, cassava and palm heart, serving us the best they had in gratitude. Maman Mungking is a very kind and loving man, one of the few I have met. After making sure we were satisfied, he took care of his wife. That night, Minan Noraya’s breathing slowly got worse.

We left before sunrise, guided by Lunis. Maman Mungking carried his wife while Silu and I followed. We walked with difficulty, anticipating the first rays of sunlight. It had rained overnight, and the trail was still a bit slippery. Knees and ankles begged for mercy. We were tired; it had been more than twenty hours since we left Kamantian. Fatigue discouraged us, but urgency restored our determination. Minan Noraya’s life was at risk.

We took turns carrying Maman Mungking’s wife up steep climbs and through ravines, stopping many times to let her rest because the movement made her nauseous.
The sky was darkening as we entered town, and we stopped under a tree by the road to call for an ambulance. It started to drizzle. The two owners of a local store had noticed us as we passed their shop. They came out and gave us a huge umbrella, asking what was going on. As we told them the story, the owner’s eyes filled with tears, knowing that people are living isolated in the mountains and sometimes dying because they do not have access to the basic care essential for survival. They gave us bread and water, which we ate gratefully.

It began pouring. A few minutes later, the ambulance arrived. It was a truck. Minan Noraya was placed in the cab with Lunis and Maman Mungking. Silu and I rode in the back. Wind. Cold. Not a combination I enjoy very much.

When we reached the hospital, the staff immediately admitted Maman Mungking’s wife, cold and struggling to breathe. We remained there for a few hours before she was transferred to the hospital in Brooke’s Point, where she received oxygen. There she stayed for a week.

Upon discharge, Minan Noraya was taken to our project base station, where she stayed under our observation. The family did not have many clothes, so I went to town and bought some clothes and a pair of slippers for each of them. Lunis had never worn slippers or shoes. It was quite interesting to see his first sensation from not walking barefoot.

When I was not busy with project activities, I gathered with Maman Mungking and his family, talking and observing Minan Noraya’s health. One day, as I returned to the base, I saw Pastor Kent rush past me in his car. Maman Munking and Minan Noraya were inside. They were heading to the hospital.
I returned to work and, hours later, learned that Minan Noraya needed oxygen. There were no machines available, and someone had to manually ventilate her. I joined them at the hospital. For three days, our group of three took turns ventilating Maman Mungking’s wife. It was an agonizing time when life and death crossed paths. Maman Mungking never left his wife’s side. He was always ready to spend hours pumping oxygen.

During those days, another missionary brought us food, and my work at the project’s base station was put on hold. Maman Mungking’s exhaustion was evident, but his love for his wife gave him the strength to keep going. Finally, an oxygen machine became available, and Minan Noraya was transferred to another floor, where she remained for a few weeks.

Because the doctors and nurses spoke English and Tagalog (the national Filipino language) and did not understand the native Palawano spoken by the patients, I served as an interpreter. I also went to the pharmacy whenever the nurses needed to provide medication.

Nights were long and exhausting as we monitored Minan Noraya and prevented her from removing the oxygen tube, which bothered her. We constantly changed her position to prevent her bed sores from worsening. I brought diapers and wet wipes so Maman Mungking could clean his wife. Minan Noraya was fed through a tube, and the only nutritional option allowed by the doctors was milk, which I would buy in town.

No matter how much we tried to help, it always seemed like it was not enough. We prayed throughout each day. Maman Mungking is a man of faith who learned about the gospel from missionaries who passed by his house in the mountains, and he remembered the stories they told. Sometimes, I had the privilege of opening a Palawano Bible and reading stories to them. I spoke about creation and shared God’s mighty deeds on behalf of His chosen people. I presented moments when Christ healed the sick, gave sight to the blind, made the lame to walk and raised the dead. I spoke about the eternal hope of Jesus’ return and the long-awaited day when there would be no more sadness, tears, pain or death. I could see the light of hope in their eyes, even in the midst of so much pain. Though I was tired, my heart was full of peace and affection for my Palawano friends.

As the days passed, Minan Noraya’s condition was unstable, improving then worsening.

That weekend, while visiting my small Bible study group in the mountains, we received exciting news: Maman Mungking’s wife would be discharged on Thursday. We were thrilled, but she still needed oxygen, and we did not have any, so we called the hospital and asked if she could stay there one last night so we could prepare everything to receive her safely. They agreed. I returned home happy and slept, waiting for the moment to pick them up.

The next morning, I woke up and started getting ready. I opened my phone to check for messages and discovered a text that brought tears to my eyes: “André, the patient had complications and did not survive.”

I left home in silence, going to the clinic to see what needed to be done. I was informed that once the hospital released the body, a helicopter would be available to take Minan Noraya back to the mountains.

At the project base in Brooke’s Point, I met Lunis, but I lacked the courage to tell him that his grandmother had passed away. At the appointed time, I went to the hangar, grabbed two large rolls of plastic and some tape, put them in the car, and went to a Palawano friend and asked him to help me. We needed to prepare Minan Noraya’s body for the return trip.

At the hospital, I met Maman Mungking, who was completely devastated and crying inconsolably. It broke my heart. I stayed by his side as we awaited the papers releasing his wife’s body.

When the papers arrived, we entered where the staff had laid her uncovered body. We wrapped Minan Noraya in a sheet, covering her from head to waist and from feet to waist, then sealing the halves with tape. Using a stretcher, we carried her body to the truck and headed to our mission base. I realized that this might be the last time I would see Maman Mungking and Lunis. As we placed Minan Noraya’s body on a stretcher basket attached to the outside of the helicopter, I said goodbye to Lunis and Maman Mungking, then watched the helicopter fly away until it disappeared from my sight.

I had spent nearly two months with Maman Munking, Minan Noraya and Lunis, from the day I left Kamantian until the moment they returned to their mountain. Our bonds grew very strong. I recalled an AFM trainer say, “The work of a missionary is more than just going and taking a trip. Missionary work is incarnational; you learn their language, you learn their customs, you become close to them, and you serve them, expecting nothing in return.”
When I was with them, I could see gratitude in Minan Noraya’s smile. I will never forget one moment when I was pumping oxygen, and she signaled for me to bend down. I thought she wanted to say something to me. Instead, she extended her hand, cuddled my face, smiled and went back to sleep. That gesture made me understand that it is a privilege to serve and be useful in meeting the needs of others. I felt my heart fill with love and gratitude.

I never saw Maman Mungking or Lunis again. My time in the Philippines ended, and I returned to Brazil. Yet I continue thinking of my Palawano friends, especially Maman Mungking and his family.

On Facebook one day, I saw an update from one of the clinic nurses. She had posted a photo, and Maman Mungking was in it. I was so happy to know that he was in Kamantian. As I exchanged messages with her, she told me that Maman Mungking was attending services and prayers at the clinic. Another nurse told me that Maman Mungking always asked about me and would tell them about our times together. I was so happy that day. I realized that the Lord is working in Maman Mungking’s heart and that, without a doubt, he will be a light in his village, an area not reached by the gospel.

I dream of the day when death will never separate us, and our loved ones will forever be free from illness or death. On that day, love will triumph, and life will be reborn. There, I will see Maman Mungking and Minan Noraya, along with Lunis and many other Palawanos whom I had the privilege of knowing and serving. Until that day, I remain on the path, giving food to the hungry, water to the thirsty, clothes to the naked, visiting the imprisoned and the sick and waiting for my Lord to call me and invite me into His kingdom.

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