[Special Report: Dismissing herbal cures or any normal asthma treatment, certain individuals in a remote town in Pampanga resort to bizarre remedies that seem to manage the obvious symptoms. But does it really work?]
The door to the small concrete building that served as their bodega creaks as Renato dela Cruz opens it carefully. He says he’s sure he can find them here. Once inside, his eyes suddenly have this bizarre, focused gaze, looking around the shelves and cabinets that lined the walls. He opens cabinets one by one, carefully. Nothing. He motions me to follow him to a back room divided by a pile of sacks of rice. Right behind a movable wooden shelf he finds his “treasure”: an “innocent” bunch of day-old mice, still quivering as Renato scoops them into his cellophane bag. He grins to me and says, “Yum!” I pretend to vomit; he laughs.
Renato is a rice and vegetables farmer; just one of a few dozens eking out a living from a patch of rice field in this little town in Sta. Rita, Pampanga. Although he’s already in his late 40s, his four children are mere toddlers. He says he used to be very healthy, but that changed when he was in his mid-20s. That was when the asthma came. He didn’t know then that it was asthma. He was shovelling hay one day when suddenly he couldn’t breathe. In this backward town where people believe in magic and the local version of voodoo, called “kulam,” the village’s medicine man told him somebody secretly hates him in the village, probably a rival to a lover, and that that person has put a spell on him. He would then try an endless succession of herbal medicines, all fruitless. He almost died during an asthma attack. That was when he finally went to a doctor and got proper medial diagnosis. But having no money to buy the prescribed drugs and regimen, he went back to native cures. Until somebody told him to eat live baby mice for his asthma. Renato swears it works.
Back at his house, Renato carefully places the still-squirming baby mice on the table. He says “Malinis naman iyan” (“They’re clean, anyway”). He takes out a saucer, pours some vinegar in it, throws in a dash of pepper and salt. He sets down and, with a face I couldn’t really read, he solemnly picks up one live baby rodent, dips it in the vinegar, and places it in his mouth. He then slowly chews it like it’s the tastiest thing in the world. “Manamis-namis,” (“Sweetish”) he says after a while, answering a question I didn’t actually ask. I’m reminded of those rodent-eating aliens in V.
In still another part of town, I’m introduced to Michael Jose. Micheal’s 19, and has asthma, too. And like Renato, Michael’s family thrives on farming. When I tell him about Renato’s baby mice-eating “cure” for his illness, Micheal puckers up his face. “Hindi epektib yun!” (“That’s not effective!”), he says. I have been told in advance what Michael’s up to, of course, and he is saving the “show” for me. Michael brings out a cardboard box. When he removes the lid, I see four house lizards inside, and they seemed too stunned to move. Michael has everything ready: on the table, there’s a saucer with what looks like soy sauce and vinegar in it. He picks up one lizard, and for a moment my heart breaks for the little creature. I can see the lizard’s still very much alive. Micheal carefully (the lizard has a tendency to jump) dips the creature in the soy sauce, and quickly puts it in his mouth, as if afraid he might change his mind. He begins chewing it. “How’s it?” I ask. “Medyo mapait,” (“It’s slightly bitter”) he says.
Michael has been eating lizards on a “regular” basis. According to him, that means “at least twice a week.” If you ask him if it actually works, like Renato, Micheal swears by its efficacy. “Dati halos araw araw kinakapos ako ng hininga. Ngayon halos hindi na, parang normal na lang,” (“I used to get asthma attacks almost everyday. Now I rarely get it, it’s like I’m living a normal life already.”)
The town’s resident health center clinician is aware of the townsfolk’s strange remedies, but she says not much could be done. The government does not provide enough medical support, especially in far-flung barrios. As long as there’s something the epople could hope for, they’re free to cling to such hopes.
Before I leave I pay a last visit to Renato’s house. He’s tending to his fighting cocks in the backyard. He’s blowing cigarette smoke on a cock’s face to “make it brave and invincible” when he suddenly gets into a coughing fit. He’s wheezing when the worse part of it is over. “Wala yun,” (“That’s nothing”), he says. It was worse when he was still not eating live day-old baby mice; the attacks were more frequent, almost deadly. I say nothing. I have nothing to offer, and I don’t want to remove that bit of hope. I shake his hand and thank him for accommodating me. I say “Goodluck,” but he didn’t hear me; he has already turned back to his fighting cock, and from the looks of it, trying to stifle a cough.
