Few may know this, but my Lola is a pyromaniac.

Everyday, many locals burn piles of compost in the late afternoon. Sometimes the smoke from my neighbor’s burn pile drifts into my living room window and chokes me out of the house. I once asked a local why they burn their piles instead of letting them decompose, and she just kind of shrugged her shoulders and said that they like to burn the compost to ashes before they put it on the rice paddies. This method results in smoky, acrid skies almost every evening and—as with all air pollution—hauntingly beautiful sunsets.

One of those hauntingly beautiful sunsets that I just mentioned

But I think the Ifugao passion for compost burning goes deeper. I often find Lola (my host grandmother) crouched along the road side starting little fires almost every evening. I don’t think there’s any reason for her to start a fire; I just think she enjoys it. But sometimes even she can get out of hand.

The other day as I walked up from the market, I noticed a compost fire next to the road that seemed bigger than usual. The flames had caught a small patch of the hillside on fire; the small shrub tree and dry plants above the burn pile cracked and smoldered. My first thought was: Someone needs to put out that fire before it spreads. My second thought was: Who started this fire? They should be the one to put it out.

And then I saw Lola. She stood over next to a friend’s house pointing at the fire and talking to a neighbor with an expression of concern. I walked up to her and she looked at me with dismay.

“It’s all my fault!” she said, her face drawn, and then she started laughing.

“You started that fire?” I said, laughing with her. “Can I take a picture with you in it?”

“No,” she said, still laughing, “because then maybe they’ll send me to prison!” After a pause she added, “We need to put the fire out before it catches the electric wire near the church.”

This picture doesn't quite capture the potential devastation...

Suddenly, everything became a lot more urgent. We ran up a set of stairs on the hillside to get a better look at the fire from above. She pointed out an electric wire that ran near her Evangelical church, and we realized we needed to put out the fire—fast. I thought about running back to the house, but she said we should go up to the pastor’s house and see if he had water there. Lola amazed me as she ran up those stairs—she’s 82 and more fit than most elders I’ve ever seen in the U.S.

We got to the top of the staircase, walked around back, and found the pastor reading the paper. He got up, surprised to see my unfamiliar (white) face, and shook my hand. He asked why Lola had never brought her to meet him before and I knew that this could turn into a “let’s get Jennie to come to church” moment real fast if we weren’t careful.

“The hillside’s on fire,” I blurted. The pastor nodded his head, as if this were to be expected.

“No, I mean, really on fire. We need water!” He nodded his head again, smiled, and invited us in for coffee.

Finally Lola shouted in Ifugao and I made some expression that finally conveyed the urgency of the matter. He finally got it and ran out the room to the bathroom behind the building. Seconds later he ran back carrying a large red plastic bucket.

“Where is it?” he said, panting with effort. We ran down the steps and stood over the fire. Fortunately, it had burned itself out mostly by the time we arrived.

“I thought there was a really big fire!” The pastor said, “You had me so afraid!” He scooped out the water from his plastic bucket and poured it onto the remaining flames, engulfing us in a billow of smoke and ashes. Lola and I looked over at what remained of our emergency.

“Well, it was big before,” Lola, said with a smile. “I was very afraid it would catch the church on fire,” she said.

The three of us stood on the steps in silence for a moment. Then the pastor turned to me and asked why he’d never met me before, and why I’d never been to church. I smiled at him and began to back down the steps, telling him it was a pleasure to meet him, but that I actually had to go.

“Can I take a picture of you two?” I asked. The two of them smiled and nodded. I ran down the steps and took my camera out, grateful for the change of subject. I stood below, aiming my camera, and laughed as Lola the pyro waved to me from above.

Lola and the pastor