We finally went to Mindanao! For the last 14 years, we have wanted to visit Mountain View College (MVC). But due to many reasons, including sporadic rebel uprisings in the province, it just hadn’t worked out. But since Bubit, one of Jilin’s sisters whom we also consider a daughter, is going to school there, we finally decided the time had come. MVC is in a hilly region that is very beautiful and cooler than the lowlands. As it turned out, all the fighting, bombing and other unsavory activity was happening at least five hours south of the school, so we didn’t have much to worry about.

The highlight of our trip took place on Sabbath, my birthday, when we got to attend church at Sulads High School, located higher up in the mountains. On clear nights, its lights can be seen from MVC. Sulads is a student-missionary program for missionary-minded youth at MVC. They have established innumerable elementary schools and now this highly acclaimed high school, all for the native peoples of Mindanao.

Of course, a visit to Sulads meant a bit of travel—a two-hour drive followed by another two hours of hiking. When we arrived at our guest house Friday evening, we got our first indication of the adventure that lay before us. We found a note on the floor informing us that we would be leaving for the mountains at 4 a.m. and might not get back until Sunday.

Three a.m. Sabbath morning came much too soon, but we were ready when, at 4:20, out of the gloomy darkness, we heard the roar of what sounded like a very large dump truck. I remembered a story Bubit had told me of a field trip she had been on where the students had been loaded into the back of a dump truck, so I thought maybe we were to have a similar experience. Sure enough, as I peered through the doorway, I saw what appeared to be a very large dump truck pulling up outside. Oh well. As they say, adventure is discomfort seen from a distance. We grabbed our bags and hastened out to meet our fate. When we got to the vehicle, we realized it was not really a dump truck. It appeared to be an ancient military vehicle with giant wheels. We went to the back, and a rusty door creaked open. We reached into the gloom, grasped a helping hand and stepped up the first three feet onto the bumper and then on up into the vehicle. Several other passengers sat on narrow side benches. As we found our seats, we were glad to see that there would be plenty of fresh air since there was no glass in the window frames. But as we started driving, we found that these window openings furnished ample access for acrid exhaust fumes. I only hoped that enough of the cold, damp morning air would mix with the nauseating exhaust that we wouldn’t die of carbon-monoxide poisoning. Gears ground, the un-muffled exhaust roared, and we lurched off in a cloud of smoke. The old double doors at the back banged open. I reached out to slam them shut, only to find they had no latch. Feeling around in the darkness, we found a short length of rope and tied the doors together and then secured them to an overhead pipe. At least we would not be falling out the doorway as we rattled and bounced up the rough road.

The next three-plus hours were less than enjoyable. Unfortunately, we were driving on an “improved” road that had been blessed with a generous layer of gravel from the local rivers. I use the term gravel very loosely. The rocks varied from pea-sized all the way up to stones a foot in diameter.

As the gloom of night slowly dissipated and dawn broke, we began to get glimpses of our beautiful surroundings through the low windows. When we stopped to refuel, I was relieved to climb out and feel firm soil beneath my feet. Now I could see our vehicle. It was gigantic and appeared to have the chassis and drive train of an old WWII 4WD truck. On top of this was perched an old Jeep cab and behind that a rusty steel box in which passengers sat. I crawled underneath the truck (not difficult since I could comfortably sit upright beneath it) to see why so much exhaust was getting into the passenger compartment. I found that the exhaust pipe was broken off mid-vehicle, and fumes could rise unimpeded through the many rust holes in the floor. As I crawled back out from underneath, the driver apologized for the terrible shaking. He said the front driveshaft had been welded crooked, so it caused a lot of vibration. I told him I hadn’t noticed the driveshaft, but adding an extension to the exhaust pipe would be helpful. He agreed that sometime in the future that might be an upgrade he would consider. We boarded the truck and continued on.

After a long time, one of our fellow sufferers sang out that only one more hour remained in the trip. The grade had steepened, and our speed dwindled to about five miles per hour. I was tempted to ask that we stop so I could get out and jog along behind. We passed through deep rivers, up steep hills and around terrifying precipices. Eventually, we arrived at a point where we were crawling at a snail’s pace up a steep track, engine roaring, wheels spinning, mud and gravel flying. Then we were going nowhere, at least not in a forward direction. I think this fact became apparent to us about a full two minutes before the driver admitted defeat. He finally let off the gas, and the truck began to roll backwards, bouncing from boulder to boulder. It occurred to me to wonder if the brakes actually worked. Finally we stopped, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly, the time had come to walk, and I was more than happy to make the transition. As I reached for the door to untie it and escape, I was met with a chorus of “No! No. No. We can make it. Don’t get out. No problem. No problem.” I let go of the rope and cursed the fact that I could be so influenced by herd mentality as to allow myself to continue on in this crazy undertaking when it was clearly safer, far more efficient and even faster to travel by foot. I resigned myself to my fate, sat down again and held on tight to keep from sliding off the bench.

From this point, things only got worse. The driver could not see behind us, but he released the brakes and, slipping and sliding sideways, we started backing down for another try. Our right tires fell off the road, and we tipped crazily at a terrifying angle. My only thought was that here I had escaped drowning in a raging torrent scarcely a month before (another story), only to die in the belly of this rusty beast as it rolled over and over into the depths of a nameless ravine.

Amazingly, the tires clawed back onto the track, and we slithered, slipped and bounced backward an additional 50 meters before coming to a stop. For a moment, we sat safely and serenely with all four wheels planted on solid ground. Then the roar of the engine grew to a crescendo, the clutch popped, and the beast lunged forward. Bouncing and slewing from side to side, we made a full-throttle assault on the hill. The wheels spun furiously, and the engine screamed and bellowing as never before, but our forward progress slowed. Faster and faster all four wheels spun, but our forward motion ceased. Slowly, we slid left towards the precipice. Much too late, the driver applied the brakes, and the truck clung to the side of the mountain. This time, I wouldn’t be dissuaded. Amid the chorus of, “No! No. No. We can make it. Don’t get out,” I untied the door and escaped along with Leonda, Jilin, Bubit and anyone else who valued their lives. The driver and the remaining passengers came to terms with the fact that we were wimps and let us go. The driver nonchalantly swung from the cab and ceased whistling long enough to tell us that all he needed to do was install the chains and everything would be perfectly fine. We let him install the chains, and we walked up the stony path with joyful, grateful hearts, knowing we had cheated death. How good it felt to be alive!

Much later, we heard the bellow of the beast behind us, and eventually it overtook us. The track at this point was much saner, and we agreed to ride the final kilometer to the trailhead.
From this point, the trip became pure pleasure. After a quick meal, I put on my backpack, and we hit the trail. In Kamantian, we are used to trails six inches wide with a major dropoff on one side, so this was a joy. Later, a young boy on a horse came by and offered to carry my pack. I am not used to walking without 10 to 20 kilos on my back, so at first I refused, but when I saw his dismay, I had to give in. Feeling light as a feather, I drank in the wonderful mountains, the vistas, the solitude. It was so wonderful that I could not help but run ahead of everyone else as we climbed higher into the mountains. Not a soul was around, so I ran and walked and sang at the top of my lungs. The day was beautiful, the temperature was perfect, and the breeze was invigorating. We arrived at Sulads High School at about 11 a.m. Sabbath School was in session as we slipped into one of the most beautiful churches I have ever seen. It was nothing more than a large roof without any walls, but it was a sanctuary indeed, surrounded by nothing but God’s creation. About 200 local people were at the service, and it felt so good to be among them. Some call them natives, some call them poor, some call them impoverished, and the more politically correct call them economically challenged. They are so down to earth, so grateful and so easy to relate to. Nobody talks about the economy, investments, portfolios, retirement accounts, insurance, the latest action of the board or any of those things that civilized people talk about. It was nice to be in a place so much like my Kamantian home.
As usual, just before church, they asked if I would give the sermon. I was glad to do so. I spoke about the one thing that decides whether we are forever saved or forever lost. Most Adventists don’t seem to know what that is, but you can find it in Matthew 25:31-46 and in chapter 70 of The Desire of Ages.

After church, we toured the Sulads campus. It is nestled in the hills overlooking a valley ringed by beautiful, rugged mountains. There were flowers everywhere. The dormitories were actually little houses built by the students’ families from whatever materials were at hand. The largest house was about eight feet square and housed six students. We learned that many of the students are girls who fled from their homes to avoid being forced into marriage at the age of 12 or 13.

I was struck by what a blessing it would be to have a high school like this in the mountains of Palawan. Words cannot describe how much admiration I felt for this little school. It inspired me. Even Jilin, whose usual prayer request when not at home is to return to Kamantian as soon as possible, said this was the kind of school she would love to attend.
Much too soon, it was time for us to leave, and we hit the trail once again. Since I was carrying my backpack again, I plodded along with the others. We arrived at the beast late in the afternoon and began another long and arduous journey. As darkness fell, I tried to lie down on the seat to rest, but I kept getting thrown off. We finally arrived back at MVC after 9 p.m. In spite of the discomforts and frights we had endured, it had been one of the best birthdays I could remember.

If you ever want an adventure, set aside a little time to visit the Sulads School. I am sure you will never forget it.

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