Manila bar employs dwarfs by John M. Glionna of Los Angeles Times

Every night without fail, Jim Turner is there at the far corner of the bar, chain-smoking his Marlboros and sipping ice-cold San Miguel from the bottle, watching over the Little Ones.

 

He considers them family, but they’re not his children. They’re the dwarfs and other little people the 70-year-old Iowa native has rescued from the heartless streets of this capital city to offer them friendship and honest work.

 

For 35 years, the former Peace Corps volunteer has operated the Hobbit House, a bar themed on J.R.R. Tolkien’s fantasy novels, a realm marked by all things miniature.

 

Under his care, hundreds of dwarfs have adopted new cultural identities. They’re no longer shunned or even feared as supposed evil spirits, but have become popular characters called hobbits — merry figures who serve drinks, crack ribald jokes and even entertain onstage.

 

At Turner’s bar, on a dingy block of strip clubs and speak-easies in central Manila, the dwarfs draw a loyal crowd. They’re entertainers who get the joke, always ready to use their small size for a few good-natured laughs.

 

The Hobbit House features what may be the world’s smallest Elvis impersonator. There have been hobbit jugglers, comics, dancers, flame-eaters and a singer who sounded eerily like Frank Sinatra.

 

Many of the waiters and bartenders are the grandchildren of the dwarfs who helped Turner launch the bar. There’s now even a second location, at a tourist resort in the central Philippines.

 

Yet critics have accused Turner of exploiting his workers. Stubbing out a Marlboro, he frowns.

 

“We took many from the worst slums in Manila, where they were mocked and ridiculed,” he says. “Now they’re no longer carnival freaks. They’re respected entertainers and businesspeople.”

 

And Turner is their godfather. Workers tell of the night when two drunken Australians began playing catch with terrified little people; Turner stepped between two ruffians nearly twice his size and threw them out of the bar.

 

He has provided many of his workers with loans and housing and has paid tuitions. Several years ago, he gave them something perhaps even more precious: the Hobbit House itself.

 

He founded a corporation, naming seven of his employees the main stockholders. Now they make the decisions and call the shots. From his perch at the bar, Turner watches over the business as a consultant and takes only enough salary to pay his bills.

 

The dwarfs call him tito and kuya, “uncle” and “older brother.”

 

Pidoy Fetalino, a 35-year veteran of the bar, likes to stroll into business meetings, raise his hand to greet average-sized clients and proudly announce that he’s the establishment’s general manager.

 

Over drinks after the bar closes, he gets emotional about Turner, who has helped him put two children through college and discover self-respect.

 

“He’s our protector, a big man with a big heart,” Fetalino says. “One day he said to us: ‘This Hobbit House belongs to all of you. You earned it.’ A lot of us cried that day.”

 

One afternoon, Turner sits on the street-side patio as colourful jeepneys race past, their horns blaring, seats filled with passengers.

 

An elderly dwarf limps in with two small men. Naida Morehon retired from the Hobbit House two years ago when her knees gave out. Her husband died last year and she needed money.

 

As always, Turner took care of things.

 

“Hi, Naida,” he says, lighting a cigarette. “Did you get the check?” – ?