Wednesday 31st March

Mandy’s been looking after two tiny kittens that have been sleeping just outside the girl’s house looking perilously close to death. I’ve called them Podgy and Fatso due to their boney frames and the names seem to have stuck. Podgy’s the smaller of the two. When she was found, her pipe cleaner tale was so matted and frail that it didn’t move. Mandy’s such an animal lover that she was never going to let them go without help. Over the past few days fussed over them and fed them leftovers from the table. Yesterday she even bought cat biscuits.

The girls have gradually cottoned on to all the mothering. Initially they weren’t too fussed about the pair. Rachel says there are plenty of Podgy and Fatso’s that never quite make it in the heat. But this morning around a dozen of the little ones were taking it in turns to hold the kittens, which by now were wrapped in little blankets. The smaller of the two was still lifeless enough to be unable to do much about it. Fatso is already getting enough strength to get a bit frustrated by all the fussing. His meaow has progressed significantly, to the point that it interrupts meals.

Cats aside, we spent most of the day at a local tourist resort, soaking up some sun as a treat for a day off. The White Rock Hotel is beautifully set in a particularly tranquil cove of Subic Bay. The facilities include several swimming pools with waterslides and wave machines, a banana boat and canoes, and plenty of space to lap up the sun. It’s totally let-down by its staff, who have little enthusiasm for their visitors. We’d briefly visited on Sunday to have a look around and established that it would be 500 pesos each to get in. But this morning, the woman on the gate insisted that we’d have to pay a further 4,000 pesos between us to hire a cottage for the day. We objected and I asked to see the duty manager. He insisted that the fee was mandatory, given the size of our group, despite the fee appearing as point number 8 on the ‘optional extras’ section of the charge board. He said they were busy. We ended up paying. Once inside, the cottage turned out to be a pagoda. The drinks orders that we were told could be made on the beach had to be made inside, the wine had run out (except for the most expensive varieties) and the staff couldn’t work out which tills were working.

Aside from all of that, I’ve actually had a lovely day, swimming in the sea, flying down slides and soaking up the sun. Lynne told me I looked radioactive this evening. Despite reapplying the factor 30 over and over again, my shoulders and neck are feeling the effects this evening. Hopefully it won’t cause too much pain for too long.

Tuesday 30th March

There’s something extremely powerful about men singing in union. The strength of their words is magnified and purposeful. On both today’s trips into jail I felt a tingle of pins and needles down my back as groups of prisoners counted their blessings and sang to their God.

We set off early, taking the bus from Subic through the city of San Fernando and onto Angeles. Once inside, Mandy and Ian joined a group headed for the women’s area while mum and I went to visit the men. The worship group was made up of one guy with a deep voice, a guitarist who kept getting the chords wrong and two other rather camp prisoners who shared a third microphone. Once again, the service took place in the shade of a videoke machine. We sat on thin backless planks of wood under a tarpaulin cover that protected us from the heavy sunshine.

The singing got started. “This is the day that the Lord has made”. Two verses, second verse, “This is the place that the Lord has made, We will rejoice and be glad in it.” If it was a joke, no one was laughing. And although the song wasn’t punched out, mum and I agreed there was meaning in those voices. A man stood up to give his testimony. He was new to jail, a pastor himself. He’d tried to report several troublemakers to the authorities, but the gang had started rounding on his family. His wife was killed and his son was left fighting for his life. The pastor welled up as he described the situation he had faced. He continued pushing for a prosecution against the men, even though he was the only witness. But he said the men came after him. So he armed himself with a gun and killed them first. Now he was figuring out his new life in prison.

The men sang again, “I’ve got spirit in my head and it’s keeping me alive, keeping me alive, keeping me alive. Jesus is keeping me alive.”

Later in the day, we visited a second prison in San Fernando, the Pampanga County Jail. A well-dressed man with modern looking glasses led the service. He had charisma and style and a large audience. “God is good,” he cried, “All the time,” they roared back. “God is good.” “All the time.” “All the time.” “God is good.” The applause seemed to be carried by the majority of the jail. Hundreds of men watched the man lead a worship group through a string of well rehearsed songs. Wifes and girlfriends of the inmates had been allowed in for the service and many had brought their children with them. Some of the female prisoners from the women’s area had also been given permission to go and they sat on plastic chairs just behind us. There must have been 400 people watching the service. And although the majority didn’t have a choice, most seemed willing to take part.

I hadn’t seen the man in charge before, unlike the other worship leaders who usually travelled to the jails with us. This guy was so confident, I wondered whether he was from another prison ministry, or some kind of guest speaker. After the service, he invited us on a tour of the prison and I wondered whether he might be the prison governor. But it turns out Pastor Gerry is himself a reformed prisoner.

Around 18 years ago, Gerry was involved in a fraud for which he was caught and sent to Pampanga County Jail. At that stage, he wasn’t a Christian. But he was converted whilst in jail and began to preach to the other prisoners. Years later and his case is still to make it through the Philippines’ congested and problematic justice system. He told us that the papers have sat on the desks of various judges but have continued to move as the justices themselves have retired or moved on. His case is so minor that it never reaches the top. So he still shares a cramped cell around the size of an ordinary British living room with around a forty other men. He’s lucky. After a year, he was given use of one of the box-sized sleeping quarters. Others have to make-do with the floor. The cell next door is a similar size. That one sleeps more than a hundred.

Gerry gave the impression that he ran the jail - real-life Red in a real-life Shawshank. Spiritually, he has played a part in its redemption. Chrissie told us around 80 percent of the inmates have converted to faith since entering. Even the prison governor turned to Christ after coming through a near-death experience. Gerry says he’s happy doing God’s work but he wishes his case would be resolved. He wants to be free.

On the way home, Alan was choked up by his situation. He asked me what I thought as a journalist. Who would run Gerry’s story? What else could Alan do to help him go free? It was the forth time that he had been into the jail. Each time he left feeling helpless for a man who’d touched so many people’s lives but whose own situation seems needlessly untouchable. Gerry’s just another prisoner serving endless unforgiving years for a crime for which he’s never been convicted. And until the day he’s able to plead ‘guilty’, he won’t even begin the process of being set free.

Monday 29th March

Just before the sun went down, I got on a bus loaded with kids to make the short journey from the boy’s home to a basketball court down the road. The children were excited, anticipating the game ahead. We stopped on the hill to pick up the girls, who overfilled the vehicle. Half a dozen of them crammed together at the front, chatting to each other in their local dialect, peppered with p’s, b’s and d’s. The driver didn’t bother shutting the door until we were on the main street; so two of the boys spent much of the journey leaning out to wave at people passing by.

We pulled up and the bus quickly emptied onto the street. Once we’d crossed over we passed behind the roadside buildings to the court, where an announcer was interjecting over hip-hop music every few moments. The setting was amazing. The venue was pushed right up against a beach where several boats had been pulled into the shore. Beyond the water the sun was going down over the mountains. Ian and I had just discovered a panoramic feature on my camera while we were waiting for the bus, so I set to work taking pictures before the light disappeared behind the rocks. Meanwhile the two teams were warming up on the court. The opposition looked more organised than our lads, although both were suitably dressed in kits emblazoned with their names and numbers across the back. The boys from the home were playing under the name ‘Ablaze’.

The game got underway, with every move described by the announcer and punctuated by squeals from the player’s friends on the sidelines. A surprising number of people had turned out to watch. There must have been around a hundred before counting the hoard of noise that had travelled with me on the bus. Our boys were good and ran into a 6-0 lead very quickly. But the opposition had some strong talent too. Over the following minutes I watched the scoreline swing one way, then the other. Ablaze were keeping their noses just ahead until the start of the forth quarter when the opposition scored several quick, unanswered points. Suddenly the squeals of delight turned into nervous tension. The crowd edged forward, prompting one of the umpires to have a word with the coach to move us back. With 1 minute 26 remaining, scores were level but both teams were tired. A timeout was called. The coaches called their boys round to pass out instructions. A boy just infront of me jumped up onto his seat and started clinging onto a pole that was just next-door. The announcer’s tone sounded sharper as the game got back underway. Ablaze were next to score. 50 seconds, 40. Ablaze scored another point. 30 seconds, 25. Even timeouts and penalty breaks weren’t making events slow down. The opposition scored again. Just one score would determine the outcome. Both looked hungry and eager. The crowd squealed one more time for one more effort. And it came. Ablaze scored two more points. And although the last 18.4 seconds took an eternity, it was going to be a happy bus travelling home.

The journey home did have a sense of summer about it. Once again we all had to cross the busy road. Once it was assumed we were all on board, the driver three-point-turned into the traffic to get us out. It felt fun and carefree and had no knowledge of all the red tape that would surround a similar trip back in the UK. Randy wanted to know what I’d made of the match. I said I enjoyed it very much and he said there was another one tomorrow. For much of the day, he’s been wearing my Manchester United top. I gave it to him after he turned up wearing a Leeds shirt. I told him it was a loan but I doubt I’ll get it back. If I do, I’ll present it to him before I leave. I won’t get more enjoyment out of that shirt than seeing him wear it. Before watching the basketball, Ian and I had been invited to play a game with some of the adults and the older boys. All of us ran up a big sweat in a big hall on the other side of town. Randy was still wearing the shirt then so it must have been humming by the time he took it off this evening. Assuming he isn’t sleeping in it.

Earlier in the day a group of us visited a local remand prison, where Chrissie lead a service for a group of female inmates. I wanted to go to see what sort of condition the prisoners were living in. We were told that no phones were allowed and I almost didn’t take my camera because I assumed the same would apply to that. Thankfully, that turned out not to be the case. Infact the staff seemed more interested in finding out why such a large group of visitors was interested in watching a church service in their jail. One of the female officers kept walking past taking photos on her mobile. The prison itself felt far more open than I expected with women walking past us doing their laundry at a well just next to us. There was a large videoke machine at the front and we had to leave quite quickly at the end because some of the inmates wanted a go.

There were about 20 prisoners who took part in the service. There were a range of ages although almost all had some of their teeth missing. They wore bright yellow tops. Most of them had the jail’s branding across the back, but some of the inmates had substituted theirs for similarly coloured yellow vests. Here and there, some women were wearing entirely different coloured clothes. The singing was raucous and possibly a bit too happy. Just infront of me, a woman who I later learnt was called Oli enthusiastically clapped along to the singer at the front, encouraging the others to do the same. She was one of two prisoners who volunteered to come forward to give testimonies. Both were full of emotion with positive messages but eyes that shone heavily. I remembered that these women had had their freedom taken away.

Mum gave another sermon and I thought this one was better than yesterday’s, focussing more on the scripture and less on her own situation. She seemed to have tailored it to the women. Her talk finished with a story about her time in Bangladesh. She’d been woken in the night to help delivery a baby. When she reached the house, the child had already been born but the after birth was still stuck inside the woman. As my mum told the story, the man translating struggled to find the word for the placenta. The women realised what it was before he did and the translation came from the floor, complete with an ‘oww’ sound. My mother said that she tried repeatedly but couldn’t remove the after birth. So she and her nurses prayed and the after birth came out easily. It was the first time I’ve heard my mother speak about her faith in Bangladesh. The only story I can remember her telling is about being fed 5 meals at Eid. It was good to hear her saying a bit more.

Tonight I feel as though I’ve had several days rolled into one. I even managed to squeeze in a little bit of painting in between visiting the jail and playing basketball. My luck with paint pots isn’t getting any better though. Ian and I left our pots on a wall outside while we got some lunch. Shortly afterwards, mum came in and told me mine had been knocked over by one of the kids, causing another spillage on the floor. I asked what had happened to Ian’s and she said that wasn’t there. He hadn’t moved it, so I don’t know why mine had been left where it was. I’m not having much luck with paint.

Sunday 28th March

Definitely a day of rest. I’ve hardly spent any time with the kids today, although they were at both services that I attended. Mum gave the sermon at the first. In the second I sat with Randy and we spent much of the sermon comparing different body tricks – twitching eyebrows, hand clicks, impossible arm movements etc. The illusions he was showing me were good but John’s talk was actually rather interesting and he kept trying to show me stuff as stories approached their punch-lines.

It was mum’s 60th birthday today. She celebrated in her beautifully graceful if slightly understated style. Apparently dad forgot to mention it in his email this morning, so she sent him one back talking about all the cards she’d received. I’m not sure letters and notes play the same role in our family that they do in others. Valarie and Becky spent more than an hour sorting through piles of letters for the children earlier today, which they’d commissioned a local Guide group to write for them back in Manchester. Becky’s also been sent a series of notes and cards from her mum and close friends and relatives. Her family seems to exist under a tsunami of nicknames. At 16, this is her first major trip abroad. It’s the same for 15-year-old Saskia who was particularly quiet this evening. She’s pretty considered anyway but for the first time tonight, I wondered whether she was missing the normalities of home.

Today was the first time I caught myself thinking about normal life since I arrived. I hardly knew any of the songs that the teenagers in the praise band were thumping out, so I let my mind wander a little. I haven’t read a thing since Wednesday morning, so I’ve missed the entire budget and the fallout. It’s the first time I’ve gone completely without news since I arrived at 5 live. I’ve gone so native, I’ve taken my watch off. The heat is causing an irritation to my skin. It’s really weird wandering around not knowing what the time is. I’m taking my entire lead from others.


Early this afternoon we went for a drink at a coastal resort just down the road. Chrissie and Rachel are hoping to take the children for a day out there later in our stay but as it stands, the managers won’t reduce the price to a level they’re happy with. Something that’s surprised me about this project is the amount of money that continues to be invested in it. The set up is not swilling in cash but it doesn’t appear to be as third world as I imagined it might be. On the one hand, Chrissie is clothed in hand-me-downs and the project’s bus sounds like it’s about to stall every few minutes; but on the other the church is kitted out with a full drum-kit, sound-system and PC-based projection system. Money is obviously a major and ongoing concern but it doesn’t stop the children getting a fair standard of living, considering the converted pigsties that their neighbours are housed in just down the road. Part of that must be due to the project’s longevity. Chrissie and her husband have been working at this for more than a quarter of a century. She told me earlier that the long-term plan is for her daughter to take over as its administrator.

This evening my mother was given pride of place at the dinner table. Her advanced protestations against receiving a cake inevitably fell on deaf ears but there was a feast of strange and wonderful fruits alongside the three sweeter deserts. Mandy was late for the meal because she was consoling a girl called Alexia upstairs. By the time the pair of them came down both appeared to be in a bit of a state. Mandy eventually managed to eat some of the food but she and Ian disappeared off to bed soon afterwards. The rest of us stayed together at the table into the evening – for the first time since we arrived. We played ‘Who’s in the hat’. Inevitably there were 3 Gordon Browns but Winston Churchill proved to be the most common name (appearing 5 times) and George Washington also appeared three times. My team won quite comfortably in the end. For the first time, I felt our group was starting to bond.

Saturday 27th March

The problem with painting pink paint on pink walls in bright sunlight is that it’s difficult to spot the bits you’ve missed. But that’s the colour of the girl’s house, so we found ourselves dipping our rollers into trays of the stuff first thing this morning. Some of the children joined in and made a mess of the floor next to one of the staircases. I managed to surpass their clumsy accidents by tilting my tray at the wrong angle. By the time I’d seen it, half my paint had trickled along a walkway. I tried to mop it up but there was so much of it, the cloth was just pushing the liquid further down the path so I decided to leave it where it was. So there’s now a small part of the Philippines that’s pink thanks to me.

This afternoon Ian and I played games with the boys. Having heaved a cricket bat a third of the way around the world in my suitcase, I managed to knacker it out without it ever hitting a ball as I used it as a hammer to pin down the stumps. Then the red tennis ball that came with the kit burst within a couple of minutes of us starting playing. So although we struggled on with our game for a few more minutes, it was obvious that the kids were looking to do something else. They wanted to play football, so we marched down the hill to pick up a new ball.

We played in the small playing area next to the boy’s house. As I’d suspected, it was a little small to have any kind of real game. We started by playing with the older boys. By far the most confident is a 15-year-old lad called Randy. He was one of the first to start chatting up Saskia and Becky yesterday. Today he was making fun of Ian from early on and predictably during the game, he was the child who thought he could dribble round everyone. Most of the boys played in bare feet or sandals but Randy was different. As we kicked off, I noticed that he’d put a screw-studded football boot on his left foot. I assumed he’d been slow finding the other one but as the game continued, I realised that one was all he’d got. But he was proud enough of that one wet-weather boot to wear it on a hard rocky surface. One of the helpers told Ian that the younger boys are among the best in their local league. But none of them had any kind of kit and although there was a Leeds United shirt hanging up to dry, it dawned on me that none of the hand-me-downs that the children are given provide them with the kind of sports kit that would help them play. Ian and I both came away from the game wondering how much the boys had got out of it. The older ones especially are far quieter than I’d expected. They only celebrated one of the goals. The rest of the time they just seemed to be getting on with it. The younger boys were a little more excitable, although they were far more interested in the two of us picking them up and throwing them over our shoulders.

This evening we switched camps and went to play with the girls. I brought ten numbered pads that connect together to form a game of hopscotch. The younger kids were falling over each other to rearrange the squares by putting different numbers in different places. Then they launched themselves from one pad to the next with huge leaps and big thumps as they came crashing down. One girl had a moody, concentrated look on her face the entire time she was playing. She had big innocent eyes and a bobbed haircut that kept falling across her eyes. As she landed she’d squeal with delight, then look hard for the next number before repeating the exercise. Their energy gradually weakened as the evening wore on. By the end younger ones especially were more interested in cuddling or colouring in. We packed up and said goodnight.

Friday 26th March

Subic is flush with posters of politicians. The presidential election is on May 10th. Rachel says the result’s likely to be fixed. She reckons during the last campaign, one candidate attracted 4 million people to a single raleigh but only managed 1 million votes. But it hasn’t stopped every tubby round-faced Philippino from printing up a poster complete with their face and their surname in big letters through the middle. Ed Piano was my favourite. But Ian preferred James ‘Bong’ Gordon, who’s running for re-election as mayor for an area just up the road from here alongside Anne Gordon (who – from the photos – could be his wife or his daughter), who’s trying to keep her seat in Congress. On sheer numbers alone, Anne is definitely winning. He picture is looking at me from virtually every corner of Subic. Jay Khonghun is another vociferous campaigner. He’s mayor of this district and judging from the mountains of campaign material on walls, basketball hoops, jeepneys and sidecars, he’s keen to have another stab. Subtlety apparently isn’t seen as a virtue in this year’s run for the poles. All of which made for a colourful journey into the city earlier today.

By the time we got back, I still hadn’t found a hat. After changing $30, I toured the local area to find a couple for 130 pesos, then a few more for 150. I decided to keep trying, but the third shop was selling for 250 and the forth 350. There was no time to return to the first place, so I had to do without. It gave me a chance to sneak off into the centre of our town during the afternoon with Mandy and Ian. There we found a busy market full of clothes, rice and meat that had caught the heat. We wondered through an empty fish where two puppies wrestled each other with their mother looking on. A skinny woman with few teeth and little English came over to say hello as we watched some fishermen coming into shore. Life seemed painless but joyless. We were a passing interest for the afternoon. Back in the clothes section, I took to bartering some of the stallholders for a baseball cap. Initially getting the price down was easy but as it became clear that I was actually prepared to buy something, the prices started going back up. I finally bought a hat for 100 pesos, down from 150 and then a more resolute 120. I’d successfully saved myself about 60p.


This evening was the children’s graduation. Most of the kids were wearing expensive looking clothes. The girls especially wouldn’t have looked out of place on a night out in Britain. The ceremony took place in the square outside the school where we’d watched the practices yesterday. A large banner had been put up across the front of the school to create a staging area. Chrissie told us the event would last for around three-and-a-half hours but that bunking off mid-way through would be acceptable. By turning up an hour later than the advertised start (apparently 4pm in the Philippines actually means 5pm), I assumed we’d find a seat back and side from which we could slip out of part-way through. Instead we were invited to bypass the mass of parents congregating at the back to take up several reserved rows right at the front. The seats had ‘J Khonghum’ in large letters across the back. For once my protests didn’t work. We had to sit in them.

Twenty minutes into the ceremony, it became clear why we’d been seated so prominently. My name was called out. I was asked up to the stage to help present the awards.

As underwhelmed as the children must have been, the handful of us who’d been chosen made it to the front and found ourselves shaking hands with a succession of 6 year olds and their equally small parents and minders. Most of the adults seemed unable to look as far up as my face (which was no bad thing as I doubt Id have been able to look them in the eye), preferring instead to stare at a space somewhere just above my belly button. I tried bending down to speak to the kids but most of them didn’t seem to get the point of shaking hands, let alone talking to the strange white man on the stage. And anyway, what do you say to a small child who speaks a different language to you and has just received an award for being ‘most flexible’ pupil? I gave up and made faces at my sister, who was shaking violently with laughter as she videoed my failings. ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ played on constant repeat over the loudspeaker.


Four hours later, we’d all had a go up front. Elgar’s Prom finisher had played more times than I could count, punctuated by a couple of power cuts and several dances from the children. Mandy and Ian had been attacked by a swarm of bees as they gave out more rosettes and certificates. All kinds of bugs began taking to the stage as the sunlight disappeared, bouncing around people’s heads as the ceremony continued. The children gradually lost interest, despite the introduction of a handyman with a stepladder, who wandered on change the lightbulbs. Soon the kids from the home surrounded us. They wanted to pose for pictures or borrow our cameras to take their own shots. The two teenage girls in our party – Becky and Saskia – came in for particular attention as three well dressed teenage boys asked whether they fancied a chat on Facebook sometime.

Most of the parents stayed right until the end, although even they had started drifting off by the time the teachers had started presenting themselves with attendance records for the last year. The final award went to the compare, who announced it then shook hand with all of us wearing a broad grin across his face. It had been a long 4 hours 20 minutes but one that’ll be difficult to forget. And definitely worthwhile.

Thursday 25th March

Began with a jolt as my mum woke me from the depths of sleep at 12. I blundered into a lovely cool shower, which partially woke me up before dressing and joining the others for a brunch of hotdogs and salad.

Chrissie arrived just after 1.30 and apologised for being late. She’s been running this project since the 1980’s. She’s a slim curly haired woman who struck me as both friendly and determined. She took us up to the local school, where we met the children for the first time. Pulling into the entrance, we parked in a square next to a nicely cleaned silver jeepney. Some children were playing basketball in their blue and white uniforms in the shadow of a multi-storey wreck of a hospital. The headteacher greeted us and instantly got into a conversation about her age. She’s 74.

As we passed from room to room, class after class got to their feet and rhythmically greeted us, “Good afternoon visitors (pron: veesetooors). Have a nice day, God bless you.” There were about 12 children to each class and while the building felt basic, it was neatly kept with maps and displays on every wall. A religious motto looked down us from behind every teacher. There was no question that God was at the centre of the school’s ethos.

It turned out the children probably wouldn’t have been in at all today if it wasn’t for us. Graduation day is tomorrow before a two-month summer holiday. If we hadn’t been coming to visit Chrissie explained that they probably wouldn’t have bothered with lessons. As it was, the lessons had a distinctly end-or-term feel. Many classes were preparing colourful wreaths or costumes for the event. By the time we got back to the headteacher’s office, several classes were practicing dance routines in the square. The CD they were dancing to kept jamming, so the kids kept having to stop, then try to catch up as the music suddenly restarted.

Later in the afternoon we met many of the children again at the building where we were staying. It turns out that our rooms are usually used to house the girls. We’re on the ground floor and for the time being, they’ve all been asked to share the rooms upstairs. As soon as they’d returned from school they were out of their uniforms and peering round the doorways to say hello. One gave me some small purple flowers.



We stepped back outside to do a proper tour of the various buildings that make up the project. The boy’s house seemed most chaotic and although I’d been told there was a field for the children to play in, all I could find was a tiny 3-on-3 sized playing area, which doubled up as a basketball court and a football pitch. The 5-aside goals looked a little beaten up but by the look of the pile of scuffed up shoes in the entrance, they’re well used. Upstairs a boy of around 8 was playing dominoes with some building bricks. At first the others were so excited around us that they kept knocking the stack over before he’d finished. He’d glare at them before wrestling back the pieces of wood and starting again. Eventually they left him alone.

This evening we discussed the work we’ll be doing during the project. I’ve been asked to look after the sport and my mum is looking after the crafts. We’re going shopping tomorrow and I’ve realised I need to buy a hat. I’ve packed far too many clothes but as always I’ve forgotten something important.

Wednesday 24th March into Thursday 25th March

Arrived. Tired, sticky and ready to get out of these clothes. But pleased to be out of the airport system. Passing through Manila airport was an effort in itself. First the forms, then the queues and finally the tired looking men in suits with the stamps. Mum nearly forgot that she’s acting as guardian for 15 year old Saskia. She walked through immigration without her and had to turn back. Then we had to wait for the big games box we’d put in the hold. The bag carousel went round and round and although every other bag came out, this one was being kept back. Finally the men who were unloading the luggage climbed up the baggage ramp to hand out the vulnerable remains. A guitar, a DVD player, several strangely shaped boxes then finally ours.

Out into the late night humidity of Manila. We’d set off on Tuesday evening but changing timezones meant Wednesday was a write off. There was half an hour left of it and still four hours left to drive.

In the car park, a surprise. She noticed me first. Rachel Hailes from school. I assumed she’d been on our flight but it turns out she works at the project where we’re going to be helping out. I hadn’t seen her for 10 years. It turns out she’s spent the whole of that time working out here. Her daughter Chloe-May was on her shoulder. A beautiful little girl who hardly made a sound on the journey. She played games on a mobile before cuddling up to mum and going to sleep. And we all slept. Despite the bumpy ride.

So now we’ve arrived and found our dormitories. The heat’s as bad as I remember - considering it’s 4.20am and the sun’s not up yet. I’m sharing a room with John. His bed’s got two huge pictures of Mickey Mouse above it and mine’s got one of Minnie. I think this is usually the girl’s block. They’ve been kicked out to make room for the visitors. I hope we’re not a disappointment.

Wednesday 24th March

Knackered. Like every trip to a different timezone, this one’s already pushed me into a state of mildly hazy alertness. Sitting here as I am, writing at what would be 3:45am. Instead it’s almost 8 o’clock in the morning and the desert sun’s lighting up the busy waiting room in Abu Dhabi. The man behind me is playing hick rock slightly too loudly so that it invades my thoughts. The rest of the team have just caught us up and they’re looking for somewhere to sit. Infront of me, a mother’s clutching her daughter to her chest. They’re not the only ones trying to sleep.

So we’re half way there. Half way to a project I’ve been told could be shocking and life-changing and humbling. And for the last couple of weeks I’ve been trying to decide what I’m expecting. Because I doubt I’ll be any of those things. Not to the core anyway. Yes, I’m expecting poverty and I imagine the people we’re going to see will be pleased we’ve gone. But I don’t imagine it’ll change my life. I’ll still go back to the ice cream and the 12 varieties of toothpaste and the over-priced restaurants. Because that’s my life.

And so far, it’s been very nice. Take the last 7-and-a-half hours. My in-flight entertainment choices included 24 movies that have recently been released. I opted for ‘The Blind Side’, which doesn’t come out in England until this Friday. It the one where Sandra Bullock plays a God-fearing Republican voting Mississippian who takes an oversized black teenager under her wing. It’s feel good and it won her an Oscar. As it played, I selected the lamb bhuna from a choice of three on the menu and sipped on a vodka and orange juice followed by red wine. Movie over, I read for a while before unfolding the free blanket, reclining the chair and turning off the personalised light to catch a short knap. I concurred with Lynne who stood over me to protest to John sitting next to me that the seats were a bit too small. My neck hurt slightly by the time I stood up. But this was economy class and you get what you pay for. I was slightly irritated when big group behind me got too chattery as we came into land. The ironic applause when we landed wasn’t as funny as they thought. But they’re young.

I’m sure the man behind me has turned up his headphones. It’s bearing out ‘Save the last dance’. He likes rubbish music.

So now we fly on to Manila and from there I’m expecting a drive of between 2 and 3 hours on to our destination. It means we pretty-much write off Wednesday altogether. There’s still another 12 hours of travelling ahead and with the time-differences, we probably won’t arrive until the early hours of Thursday. Frankly, I’m happy to write it off already. I’m grouchy and tired and fed up of the automated messages about keeping your luggage with you at all times. On the way to this waiting room, we passed the smoking area. It’s a small glass box in the middle of a hallway. The excitement of smelling something that isn’t hygienic or coffee was too much. I wanted to run around shouting ‘danger, danger’ ‘look at me, I’m a terrorist threat’ or run up to someone and kiss them. But my mildly hazy alertness and general sense of Britishness meant I just walked on.