So last night I bawled like a big baby when Becky left for New York.
Becky, my dear friend who I met in the program, is beginning a new job and needed to actually be a responsible adult and cut her time here short. We all crammed (and I really mean that) into a van and waited in 2 hour traffic to say a quick goodbye in where i proceeded to cause a flood with my tears.
Ahh, I miss her.
Today is an eventful day, even without her. It's our graduation day! That means the lectures and workshops are over and we celebrate this evening with family, friends, and folks we've met along the way. Then, tomorrow morning, at the hideous hour of 3am, we will leave for the airport for our VACATION! We're going to white powder sand beach, Boracay, where I will proceed to throw a towel on the sand and sleep for 3 days straight. I have asked my friends to periodically roll me over so my tan is even and hose me down if I look dehydrated. I don't think I'll move at all for three days.
We return to Manila Monday evening, have one enormous assessment on Tuesday of our entire experience, and then check out Wednesday at noon.
The program is nearly over and I believe I am shell shocked that it sped by so quickly.
I have about three weeks of my journey left.
WHERE IS THE TIME GOING?
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
This is Annoying
NEW VIDEO LINK - CLICK HERE!
There's a link to the newest video, now it's a bit dated since I've been trying for several days to upload it. Now that it's uploaded, it won't post. Errrrr....Blogger and YouTube are annoying the heck out of me these days, so this is the best I can do.
There's a link to the newest video, now it's a bit dated since I've been trying for several days to upload it. Now that it's uploaded, it won't post. Errrrr....Blogger and YouTube are annoying the heck out of me these days, so this is the best I can do.
Aggravating YouTube
I have a video that I have been trying to upload for three days now. Errr, it's not posting and won't go up on YouTube.
FRUSTRATING.
I'll keep trying.
In sum: I've been a busy bee since this is the last week of the program.
I can't believe it's flown by so quickly.
FRUSTRATING.
I'll keep trying.
In sum: I've been a busy bee since this is the last week of the program.
I can't believe it's flown by so quickly.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Doing Awesome
This week has been jammed with lectures and trips and art museums in addition to three nights of running errands so, consequently, blog and writing time has been decreased.
I'm doing great and my stomach is 100% better. I'm getting over bronchitis after a night in a smoky bar (I will have words with whomever says that second hand smoke is not a big deal). Other than that, my last two weeks of the program are going by sooooo (TOO) quickly.
I'm beginning to plan my travels once the program is over that will take me to various islands and parts of the Philippines I haven't been so hopefully I will know soon where I will be.
In other news, Nick got stung by four bees. On one hand that's completely not funny, but it's also absolutely hilarious in another vein of perspective. Imagine big Nick running away from the landscaping after getting attacked by the bees. Poor guy! If you see him, congratulate him on tackling the monstrosity that is our landscaping and give sympathies to his war wounds.
I stay with safe things, like curtains and dusting shelves.
Thanks, Nick! Can't wait to see everything you've worked on :)
I'm doing great and my stomach is 100% better. I'm getting over bronchitis after a night in a smoky bar (I will have words with whomever says that second hand smoke is not a big deal). Other than that, my last two weeks of the program are going by sooooo (TOO) quickly.
I'm beginning to plan my travels once the program is over that will take me to various islands and parts of the Philippines I haven't been so hopefully I will know soon where I will be.
In other news, Nick got stung by four bees. On one hand that's completely not funny, but it's also absolutely hilarious in another vein of perspective. Imagine big Nick running away from the landscaping after getting attacked by the bees. Poor guy! If you see him, congratulate him on tackling the monstrosity that is our landscaping and give sympathies to his war wounds.
I stay with safe things, like curtains and dusting shelves.
Thanks, Nick! Can't wait to see everything you've worked on :)
Monday, July 21, 2008
Soundtrack of Life
Sometimes music says it all. Here's where I am at right now...
On Interpersonal Growth: Everything's Changing by Avril Lavigne
On Spirituality: Stranded by Plum
On Life: Stronger by Kanye West
On Nick: Groovy Kind of Love by Phil Collins
On the Philippine Government: Mama Said Knock You Out by LL Cool J
What I'm dancing to in the morning: Murder, She Wrote by Chaka Demus
On Interpersonal Growth: Everything's Changing by Avril Lavigne
On Spirituality: Stranded by Plum
On Life: Stronger by Kanye West
On Nick: Groovy Kind of Love by Phil Collins
On the Philippine Government: Mama Said Knock You Out by LL Cool J
What I'm dancing to in the morning: Murder, She Wrote by Chaka Demus
Saturday, July 19, 2008
You Can Run, but You Can't Hide
It has slowly dawned on me (and others in the group) that we only have two weeks left of our program. I find myself consistently checking a calendar to make sure that is accurate because it feels like we should have about a month left, but NO, I am almost finished with my program and halfway through my journey.
To put it lightly, that is whack.
And with the reality check of a timeline, small things of my former life have also been laying eggs in my happy nest of a Philippine utopia - I need to find a job.
The nice thing about craigslist is that I can check for jobs across the globe just as easily as if I were in Cleveland.
Job market isn't looking too good.
I don't think I want to process my unemployment status for another month. Come, say, August 25 when I have another 14 hour flight into Chicago, I'll begin brainstorming a plan of survival.
Until then, utopia it is...
To put it lightly, that is whack.
And with the reality check of a timeline, small things of my former life have also been laying eggs in my happy nest of a Philippine utopia - I need to find a job.
The nice thing about craigslist is that I can check for jobs across the globe just as easily as if I were in Cleveland.
Job market isn't looking too good.
I don't think I want to process my unemployment status for another month. Come, say, August 25 when I have another 14 hour flight into Chicago, I'll begin brainstorming a plan of survival.
Until then, utopia it is...
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Time to Learn Filipino
SIANG: //adj.// [SIGH - YAH - NG]
A reactionary phrase to describe a situation that is "too bad," "unfortunate," or "a pity."
Example:
Josie was telling me she is a doctoral student in the midwest. I was delighted that we would have much to talk about in terms of academia. I spotted a tag on her luggage that looked like a college emblem. When I peered closer it said UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN.
I said, "Siang..." and shook my head.
A reactionary phrase to describe a situation that is "too bad," "unfortunate," or "a pity."
Example:
Josie was telling me she is a doctoral student in the midwest. I was delighted that we would have much to talk about in terms of academia. I spotted a tag on her luggage that looked like a college emblem. When I peered closer it said UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN.
I said, "Siang..." and shook my head.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
It's All About the Scenery, I Tell You
The past two days have been quite eventful.
Part of my independent research is studying the services and history of GABRIELA, non-profit women's organization here in the Philippines who take up every issue from legal sexual abuse cases to helping women organize for rallies and empowering women to run in public office.
On Friday, I went to a Public Forum which featured the mother of a sexually assaulted teenager speak about her experiences and the struggle of the family since the incident. The young Filipina, working in Okinawa, Japan, was assaulted by a US American solider and Gabriela is putting pressure on all three governments (US, Japan, and the Philippines) to bring justice to this young girl who was 17 at the time of the assault.
To listen to the weeping mother was, to put it lightly, heart-wrenching. The face of a mother, in so much pain, truly reflects the trauma of her daughter or son, i observed. Most of it was in Tagalog, so I recorded much of it and had it translated later. That took up my Friday afternoon.
Friday evening, Josie and I went an "Italian" sort of restaurant where I ordered a vegetarian pizza. This says a lot for me when I write that I didn't eat a lot of it because it was too greasy. That for me is like saying I turned down the cup of rice because it was too white. It just doesn't happen, but alas, anything is possible these days and the pizza was just too much to handle. I missed good ol' US thick crust pizza with just enough grease to make you feel guilty but not enough to make you hurl. Ahh, the comforts of home.
Saturday morning Josie and I decided to check out a sports complex that we had heard about. A five pesos fee, we entered to find an outdoor track that looked pretty decent for light jogging. When I saw that Josie was wearing pants, I offhandedly asked her if she had lost her mind. It was so hot out and it was not yet the afternoon. We got in approximately 10 minutes of walking and another 7 minutes of straight running before we sought shelter. My forearms looked like I dunked them in a bucket of water. I spied a man jogging in the stands and at first guffawed over his decision, but the more I studied his technique - running the stairs in the shade, the more I came to appreciate his genius.
So, I ran the stairs instead. While the heat was still crazy, it makes a critical difference to not be in the path of the sun's rage. Even a custodial staff member commented to me to not wear tank tops to avoid being burned. Oh, foolish me.
After our morning of unusual exercise, we were picked up by my cousin Paolo, a litigation lawyer, who wanted to show me my Dad's old stomping undergrad grounds. My eyes were tearing up as I walked the campus of the University of Santo Tomas as I imagined my Dad walking as a young man. I was not yet a thought in his brain as he walked the pathways and ate the street vendor's food.
One of Paolo's best friends is a faculty member in Philosophy, Carl. A kind and soft-spoken man, Carl was intent on showing us around. We waited for him for nearly two hours for his class to end, a detail that Paolo kindly forget to tell me. In the non-AC hallways, I nearly laid down on the ground, I was so tired. Instead, I found an empty classroom with AC and fell into the chair, resting my head on the desk and wondering how my Dad survived the heat here. If he could do it, so can I.
We went to dinner and ate some Philippine cuisine which was washed down with pineapple soda, a first for me. As we ate our feast and I declined a San Miguel beer, the Philippine beer of choice, Carl asked how we were adjusting to the temperature. I offered a weak smile and said, "It's been...ok." I decided to skip the whole tearful wimpy confession that I have problems with prolonged exposure to non-AC conditions. He told us that even for native Filipinos it's too hot during the summer months. He explained that one of his students collapsed that day in class because of the heat and another got a bloody nose.
As horrific as this sounds, I felt relieved that I was not the only one facing struggle with the climate.
As I fought for the bill and was defeated, Carl asks one of the most odd questions, "Do you like movies?"
Who doesn't?
He explained the piracy culture of Southeast Asia and was eager to show us where we could get cheap movies. Josie and I thought it sounded like an adventure so we decided to give it a whirl.
We take a jeepney and Paolo begins his advisory speech on keeping all my bags in front of me. Sometimes I feel like I'm going into a battle ground when people speak so seriously about guarding your possessions. As we jump off the back of the jeepney, I feel like a soldier jumping from a plane and into unknown terrain.
We are in Quiapo [kee-yah-po].
It is night time - about 9pm, misting, and dark. There are vendors covering every corner and people running in between them carrying and selling every imaginable item the earth has to offer. I saw fruits I could not identify or name, wheelbarrows of cooking fire, MP3 players, and fans. There are hundreds of people pushing, shoving, selling, MOVING in every direction. Carl holds onto my elbow and gently guides wide-eyed me through the allies and streets.
We enter a building that looks unoccupied and I wonder if I am in a Lethal Weapon movie. The escalator isn't working and as we climb the stairs I look at Josie as if I were saying, "We're getting DVDs, right?!" It looked like the shadiest operation every.
We turn a few narrow corners and as I am convincing myself that everything is fine and there is no DVD/Drug Lord of the Philippines waiting for me. Suddenly, a mass of colorful DVDs fills my eyesight.
From Grey's Anatomy seasons to movies that I swore are not even RELEASED yet, every imagineable cinematic and televised event was represented. They offer three DVDs for 100 pesos, a little over $2. One of the workers is asking me what I want and I keep saying the same, "Hinde ko po alam." I DON'T KNOW. I DON'T KNOW. I must have looked the biggest sweating, nervous, indecisive freak to hit this joint.
As I stand there, I make one decision, Ok, I'm foregoing my speech on piracy laws. They might find that a bit offensive.
I run my hands over the movies and wonder if I should maybe buy something for my parents. I ask Carl if he can suggest a nice Filipino movie. He asks what kind of movies my folks prefer and I tell him what my mom always says about Filipino movies, "The story doesn't matter, as long as it has good scenery. It's just nice to see glimpses of home."
So I tell him that.
He hands me a movie, Green Paradise and says the scenery is amazing with waterfalls, beaches, and panoramic landscape shots. Great, I'll buy that one. He looks a bit timid in giving it to me and turns a little red (from the heat, I wonder, but no, from embarrassment). He says, "Like any movies there are some objectionable racy scenes with...you know....I don't want your parents to get the wrong idea that I suggested this movie."
Nice thought, i tell him, but we're grown-ups. I say, I think they'll be able to handle it as long as I tell them beforehand there's some R-ratedness thrown in there.
He hands it to me, satisfied with his warning.
I look at the casing with a woman's face on the cover. Mhm, looks harmless enough. I flip it over and there are three images, all of them the same woman, all in lingerie or in bikini wear and in submissive positions.
Oh dear.
Paolo, unaware of my uneasy dilemma, does his usual overgenerous gesture and grabs it from me to pay for it. I try to grab it back and he sticks it in the saleswoman's hands and states, "She wants this one."
The bikini and lingerie images seem like they are glowing in neon green in her hands and I try to look nonchalantly at the ceiling. It's a normal movie, but you certainly wouldn't guess that from the cover.
She takes one look at it and looks at me. She's probably thinking that this indecisive, weird, sweating customer is even more questionable now. In a store full of Disney, Fox series shows, and Gossip Girl Season One options, I am purchasing the shadiest movie in the history of Philippine cinema.
Hey, I'm getting it for the scenery.
That sounds convincing.
Appropriately, they show me the church right afterward and insists on taking my picture by every stature of Jesus Christ there is. Jesus on the cross, Jesus carrying the cross, Jesus resurrecting - "Lisa! Let's take your picture by this Jesus!" While I am a woman of faith and spirituality, it was getting a bit much for me, especially with so many other people kneeling, praying fervently, whispering at the feet of Jesus their troubles and gratitude and I am there with my family and SLR, taking pictures with Jesus like it's graduation day.
We pray for a little while and then step out of the church.
It is dark, but there are people milling everywhere, and Paolo says he wants to show me everything and everyone outside. He points out the fortune tellers and herbalists and the Mosque across the street from the Catholic church. Oh, well then, I say, I'm glad we're all getting along as I pass the women with cards, candles, and voodoo sticks and strain my neck to see the Mosque.
Carl asks if I want anything - flowers, candles, food, drink, spells, or good fortune.
I kindly decline and watch a little boy play in the puddles of rain.
Carl explains that much of the people there are homeless and sleep right where they sell. As we descend the steps into another part of Quiapo, I see a family eating rice off of a piece of plastic laid out on the concrete. Another elderly woman sleeping on the stairs and countless vendors simply lying down to sleep for the night.
Paolo explodes, "Pick your numbers!" and directs me to another store.
Whhhaaatt?
They rush me to a lottery store and explain I could win millions by tomorrow. I wonder what Nick would think if I returned home with millions in the bank. I choose my numbers 41, 32, 27, 28, 13. They give me my receipt back. It reads I chose 41, 27, 28, 29, 32. Uh, ok.
Carl is excited, "Let's go to a casino!"
An image of Nick shaking his head at me and my compulsive ways flashes in my mind, along with an image of the home we just bought, along with a red flag the size of Montana glowing above those two images.
Again, I kindly decline and site my compulsive personality and sheer love of winning.
We look for a taxi and as it takes forever, Paolo confesses his contempt for Quiapo, "You know who Nick Joaquin is?"
Sure, I say, he's one of the most prolific Philippine writers and is one of the gems, if not the crowning jewel, of the literary scene in this country.
Paolo spits out, "Nick Joaquin said that Quiapo is the armpit of the Philippines."
Oh, awesome! I say, at least I can say I've been to the armpit!
Suddenly, Paolo breaks out into a run directly into traffic and I briefly wonder if his Quiapo loathing drove him to suicide because of the madness of the city proved too much. No, I notice he is in a footrace with another man for one of the few empty taxies. I am open-mouth, gaping at the site at two grown men racing down the street in full traffic and they arrive at the same time. Paolo opens the driver side door and whatever he said convinced him to choose him as he waved us over in victory.
Resting my head in the taxi and needing for the day to end, Paolo yells, "We need a better end to the night than Quiapo. Let's go to Starbucks!"
So my night ended with a vanilla steamer made all wrong, but I sipped it slowly, thankful for another eventful day in the Philippines.
Part of my independent research is studying the services and history of GABRIELA, non-profit women's organization here in the Philippines who take up every issue from legal sexual abuse cases to helping women organize for rallies and empowering women to run in public office.
On Friday, I went to a Public Forum which featured the mother of a sexually assaulted teenager speak about her experiences and the struggle of the family since the incident. The young Filipina, working in Okinawa, Japan, was assaulted by a US American solider and Gabriela is putting pressure on all three governments (US, Japan, and the Philippines) to bring justice to this young girl who was 17 at the time of the assault.
To listen to the weeping mother was, to put it lightly, heart-wrenching. The face of a mother, in so much pain, truly reflects the trauma of her daughter or son, i observed. Most of it was in Tagalog, so I recorded much of it and had it translated later. That took up my Friday afternoon.
Friday evening, Josie and I went an "Italian" sort of restaurant where I ordered a vegetarian pizza. This says a lot for me when I write that I didn't eat a lot of it because it was too greasy. That for me is like saying I turned down the cup of rice because it was too white. It just doesn't happen, but alas, anything is possible these days and the pizza was just too much to handle. I missed good ol' US thick crust pizza with just enough grease to make you feel guilty but not enough to make you hurl. Ahh, the comforts of home.
Saturday morning Josie and I decided to check out a sports complex that we had heard about. A five pesos fee, we entered to find an outdoor track that looked pretty decent for light jogging. When I saw that Josie was wearing pants, I offhandedly asked her if she had lost her mind. It was so hot out and it was not yet the afternoon. We got in approximately 10 minutes of walking and another 7 minutes of straight running before we sought shelter. My forearms looked like I dunked them in a bucket of water. I spied a man jogging in the stands and at first guffawed over his decision, but the more I studied his technique - running the stairs in the shade, the more I came to appreciate his genius.
So, I ran the stairs instead. While the heat was still crazy, it makes a critical difference to not be in the path of the sun's rage. Even a custodial staff member commented to me to not wear tank tops to avoid being burned. Oh, foolish me.
After our morning of unusual exercise, we were picked up by my cousin Paolo, a litigation lawyer, who wanted to show me my Dad's old stomping undergrad grounds. My eyes were tearing up as I walked the campus of the University of Santo Tomas as I imagined my Dad walking as a young man. I was not yet a thought in his brain as he walked the pathways and ate the street vendor's food.
One of Paolo's best friends is a faculty member in Philosophy, Carl. A kind and soft-spoken man, Carl was intent on showing us around. We waited for him for nearly two hours for his class to end, a detail that Paolo kindly forget to tell me. In the non-AC hallways, I nearly laid down on the ground, I was so tired. Instead, I found an empty classroom with AC and fell into the chair, resting my head on the desk and wondering how my Dad survived the heat here. If he could do it, so can I.
We went to dinner and ate some Philippine cuisine which was washed down with pineapple soda, a first for me. As we ate our feast and I declined a San Miguel beer, the Philippine beer of choice, Carl asked how we were adjusting to the temperature. I offered a weak smile and said, "It's been...ok." I decided to skip the whole tearful wimpy confession that I have problems with prolonged exposure to non-AC conditions. He told us that even for native Filipinos it's too hot during the summer months. He explained that one of his students collapsed that day in class because of the heat and another got a bloody nose.
As horrific as this sounds, I felt relieved that I was not the only one facing struggle with the climate.
As I fought for the bill and was defeated, Carl asks one of the most odd questions, "Do you like movies?"
Who doesn't?
He explained the piracy culture of Southeast Asia and was eager to show us where we could get cheap movies. Josie and I thought it sounded like an adventure so we decided to give it a whirl.
We take a jeepney and Paolo begins his advisory speech on keeping all my bags in front of me. Sometimes I feel like I'm going into a battle ground when people speak so seriously about guarding your possessions. As we jump off the back of the jeepney, I feel like a soldier jumping from a plane and into unknown terrain.
We are in Quiapo [kee-yah-po].
It is night time - about 9pm, misting, and dark. There are vendors covering every corner and people running in between them carrying and selling every imaginable item the earth has to offer. I saw fruits I could not identify or name, wheelbarrows of cooking fire, MP3 players, and fans. There are hundreds of people pushing, shoving, selling, MOVING in every direction. Carl holds onto my elbow and gently guides wide-eyed me through the allies and streets.
We enter a building that looks unoccupied and I wonder if I am in a Lethal Weapon movie. The escalator isn't working and as we climb the stairs I look at Josie as if I were saying, "We're getting DVDs, right?!" It looked like the shadiest operation every.
We turn a few narrow corners and as I am convincing myself that everything is fine and there is no DVD/Drug Lord of the Philippines waiting for me. Suddenly, a mass of colorful DVDs fills my eyesight.
From Grey's Anatomy seasons to movies that I swore are not even RELEASED yet, every imagineable cinematic and televised event was represented. They offer three DVDs for 100 pesos, a little over $2. One of the workers is asking me what I want and I keep saying the same, "Hinde ko po alam." I DON'T KNOW. I DON'T KNOW. I must have looked the biggest sweating, nervous, indecisive freak to hit this joint.
As I stand there, I make one decision, Ok, I'm foregoing my speech on piracy laws. They might find that a bit offensive.
I run my hands over the movies and wonder if I should maybe buy something for my parents. I ask Carl if he can suggest a nice Filipino movie. He asks what kind of movies my folks prefer and I tell him what my mom always says about Filipino movies, "The story doesn't matter, as long as it has good scenery. It's just nice to see glimpses of home."
So I tell him that.
He hands me a movie, Green Paradise and says the scenery is amazing with waterfalls, beaches, and panoramic landscape shots. Great, I'll buy that one. He looks a bit timid in giving it to me and turns a little red (from the heat, I wonder, but no, from embarrassment). He says, "Like any movies there are some objectionable racy scenes with...you know....I don't want your parents to get the wrong idea that I suggested this movie."
Nice thought, i tell him, but we're grown-ups. I say, I think they'll be able to handle it as long as I tell them beforehand there's some R-ratedness thrown in there.
He hands it to me, satisfied with his warning.
I look at the casing with a woman's face on the cover. Mhm, looks harmless enough. I flip it over and there are three images, all of them the same woman, all in lingerie or in bikini wear and in submissive positions.
Oh dear.
Paolo, unaware of my uneasy dilemma, does his usual overgenerous gesture and grabs it from me to pay for it. I try to grab it back and he sticks it in the saleswoman's hands and states, "She wants this one."
The bikini and lingerie images seem like they are glowing in neon green in her hands and I try to look nonchalantly at the ceiling. It's a normal movie, but you certainly wouldn't guess that from the cover.
She takes one look at it and looks at me. She's probably thinking that this indecisive, weird, sweating customer is even more questionable now. In a store full of Disney, Fox series shows, and Gossip Girl Season One options, I am purchasing the shadiest movie in the history of Philippine cinema.
Hey, I'm getting it for the scenery.
That sounds convincing.
Appropriately, they show me the church right afterward and insists on taking my picture by every stature of Jesus Christ there is. Jesus on the cross, Jesus carrying the cross, Jesus resurrecting - "Lisa! Let's take your picture by this Jesus!" While I am a woman of faith and spirituality, it was getting a bit much for me, especially with so many other people kneeling, praying fervently, whispering at the feet of Jesus their troubles and gratitude and I am there with my family and SLR, taking pictures with Jesus like it's graduation day.
We pray for a little while and then step out of the church.
It is dark, but there are people milling everywhere, and Paolo says he wants to show me everything and everyone outside. He points out the fortune tellers and herbalists and the Mosque across the street from the Catholic church. Oh, well then, I say, I'm glad we're all getting along as I pass the women with cards, candles, and voodoo sticks and strain my neck to see the Mosque.
Carl asks if I want anything - flowers, candles, food, drink, spells, or good fortune.
I kindly decline and watch a little boy play in the puddles of rain.
Carl explains that much of the people there are homeless and sleep right where they sell. As we descend the steps into another part of Quiapo, I see a family eating rice off of a piece of plastic laid out on the concrete. Another elderly woman sleeping on the stairs and countless vendors simply lying down to sleep for the night.
Paolo explodes, "Pick your numbers!" and directs me to another store.
Whhhaaatt?
They rush me to a lottery store and explain I could win millions by tomorrow. I wonder what Nick would think if I returned home with millions in the bank. I choose my numbers 41, 32, 27, 28, 13. They give me my receipt back. It reads I chose 41, 27, 28, 29, 32. Uh, ok.
Carl is excited, "Let's go to a casino!"
An image of Nick shaking his head at me and my compulsive ways flashes in my mind, along with an image of the home we just bought, along with a red flag the size of Montana glowing above those two images.
Again, I kindly decline and site my compulsive personality and sheer love of winning.
We look for a taxi and as it takes forever, Paolo confesses his contempt for Quiapo, "You know who Nick Joaquin is?"
Sure, I say, he's one of the most prolific Philippine writers and is one of the gems, if not the crowning jewel, of the literary scene in this country.
Paolo spits out, "Nick Joaquin said that Quiapo is the armpit of the Philippines."
Oh, awesome! I say, at least I can say I've been to the armpit!
Suddenly, Paolo breaks out into a run directly into traffic and I briefly wonder if his Quiapo loathing drove him to suicide because of the madness of the city proved too much. No, I notice he is in a footrace with another man for one of the few empty taxies. I am open-mouth, gaping at the site at two grown men racing down the street in full traffic and they arrive at the same time. Paolo opens the driver side door and whatever he said convinced him to choose him as he waved us over in victory.
Resting my head in the taxi and needing for the day to end, Paolo yells, "We need a better end to the night than Quiapo. Let's go to Starbucks!"
So my night ended with a vanilla steamer made all wrong, but I sipped it slowly, thankful for another eventful day in the Philippines.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Two Decisions
I did not go to Baguio.
Last night we are talking about the trip's logistics. And it dawns on me as I make my 8175th trip to the bathroom for that day, it's quite a possibly that I may be uncomfortable because I'll be in an area I've never been with food prepared in unknown areas with extended periods of time with no bathroom access and staying with people I don't know.
All of this spelled out very clearly: LISA: STOP GAMBLING WITH YOUR EXISTENCE.
Mhm. I still had to think about it.
Kim, who was ready to lasso me onto the bus, is convincing me to shoot up enough Immodium to plug me up for the next 5 months. As appealing as THAT sounded, I told the group leaders that I just don't think it was going to work out for me during this trip. I felt like I was at a crossroads. Baguio is GORGEOUS, full of mountains, rice fields, and COOL (talking temps here). That oh-so-attractive combination made it difficult to make my decision. As the accommodations were explained: sleeping on mats on floors and meandering about in mining fields with no access to bathrooms, my stomach began turning and I had to go to the bathroom again.
While the group was, literally, leaving, I call Nick to double check my decision. Our conversation went something like this:
ME: Sorry - do you have a quick second?
N: Yeah - what's up?
ME: I don't think I'm going to Baguio because there is no bathroom on the bus, the trip is going to be about 6-7 hours, we maybe sleeping on a floor with a mat. I'll be walking around a mining community with no bathroom and staying with families who may cook me something I can't eat and will feel bad if I don't eat it and will end up eating it and then my stomach will surely hate me and then I'll collapse again into a heap, this time the garbage mountain will be optional.
N: Do you realize anything about yourself?
SILENCE
N: You get sick when you are stressed and do not sleep well. You need to sleep and get well and RELAX. This trip is the exact opposite.
ME: You always know exactly what to say.
N: Well, it's not hard when it's kind of obvious that you're not well and you keep pushing yourself to do things you're not well enough to do.
ME: You're right. I feel better about my decision. I was just wondering if this is one of those times you're supposed to suck it up and go for it. Like, this is a once in a lifetime trip, you know?
N: Right, but you'll be miserable the whole time. What are you going to do if your stomach starts feeling like needles again? Die?
ME: Well, the last time I pushed myself I lost my vision and hearing, so I think I'll play it safe this time.
N: Good choice.
ME: Agreed.
See why we make such a great team?
So that was decision one.
The other decision was to use this blog as my daily writings of my day, to document what I am doing. I have numerous journals and writing spots, but it's getting to be too much and I'm losing days when I'm not writing. So, this blog is my designated documentation spot and more writing here means it will really be a lot of more casual in style and a bit more random. Posts will be less organized because frequency will be increasing. Just FYI.
Hope your weekends are as good as mine :)
Last night we are talking about the trip's logistics. And it dawns on me as I make my 8175th trip to the bathroom for that day, it's quite a possibly that I may be uncomfortable because I'll be in an area I've never been with food prepared in unknown areas with extended periods of time with no bathroom access and staying with people I don't know.
All of this spelled out very clearly: LISA: STOP GAMBLING WITH YOUR EXISTENCE.
Mhm. I still had to think about it.
Kim, who was ready to lasso me onto the bus, is convincing me to shoot up enough Immodium to plug me up for the next 5 months. As appealing as THAT sounded, I told the group leaders that I just don't think it was going to work out for me during this trip. I felt like I was at a crossroads. Baguio is GORGEOUS, full of mountains, rice fields, and COOL (talking temps here). That oh-so-attractive combination made it difficult to make my decision. As the accommodations were explained: sleeping on mats on floors and meandering about in mining fields with no access to bathrooms, my stomach began turning and I had to go to the bathroom again.
While the group was, literally, leaving, I call Nick to double check my decision. Our conversation went something like this:
ME: Sorry - do you have a quick second?
N: Yeah - what's up?
ME: I don't think I'm going to Baguio because there is no bathroom on the bus, the trip is going to be about 6-7 hours, we maybe sleeping on a floor with a mat. I'll be walking around a mining community with no bathroom and staying with families who may cook me something I can't eat and will feel bad if I don't eat it and will end up eating it and then my stomach will surely hate me and then I'll collapse again into a heap, this time the garbage mountain will be optional.
N: Do you realize anything about yourself?
SILENCE
N: You get sick when you are stressed and do not sleep well. You need to sleep and get well and RELAX. This trip is the exact opposite.
ME: You always know exactly what to say.
N: Well, it's not hard when it's kind of obvious that you're not well and you keep pushing yourself to do things you're not well enough to do.
ME: You're right. I feel better about my decision. I was just wondering if this is one of those times you're supposed to suck it up and go for it. Like, this is a once in a lifetime trip, you know?
N: Right, but you'll be miserable the whole time. What are you going to do if your stomach starts feeling like needles again? Die?
ME: Well, the last time I pushed myself I lost my vision and hearing, so I think I'll play it safe this time.
N: Good choice.
ME: Agreed.
See why we make such a great team?
So that was decision one.
The other decision was to use this blog as my daily writings of my day, to document what I am doing. I have numerous journals and writing spots, but it's getting to be too much and I'm losing days when I'm not writing. So, this blog is my designated documentation spot and more writing here means it will really be a lot of more casual in style and a bit more random. Posts will be less organized because frequency will be increasing. Just FYI.
Hope your weekends are as good as mine :)
Thursday, July 10, 2008
I Am New Jersey and Other Random Musings
SO
I wake up this morning from a deep sleep and thank the good Lord I was able to rest for several uninterrupted hours of sleepy time. My stomach is not entirely resolved itself, but the army has weakened to a few person revolt and while they are feisty in spirit, I sense a defeat of the rebels on the horizon of the weekend. Intestines win again. YAY for my immune system gathering itself from such a destructive and intense battle with an unknown opponent. I never doubted victory.
Another language class in which I feel like an utter fool. There's a lot of HUH WHAT CAN YOU REPEAT THAT going on on my side of the room. Plenty of times I glance at the person next to me for help. Today we were going over verbs and I was trying to say that I was born in (or from originally) New Jersey. Correctly, I would say, "Taga-New Jersey ako." I forgot the "Taga" and sputtered out, "New Jersey ako."
Asses on the ground laughter.
I join in not knowing what in the hell we're laughing at.
Kim relays the truth, "Dude, you just said, 'I AM NEW JERSEY.'"
Simple mistakes like that offer great entertainment for the group.
After class, I was happily walking to a bookstore with two other group members when I felt my bag being pressed up against me. I thought it might be Theresa reaching for my wallet and pulling my purse in a weird direction. Uh, no.
It's a truck sliding into me.
I start screaming.
Does this country WANT me dead or what?
Theresa yells at the driver and I walk on, my heart racing. What a jackass, backing up without looking? I mean, three people right behind you and you don't even notice?
I roll my eyes at Theresa, "He is lucky that I am in a good mood because I would have yelled at him in English and it wouldn't have been pretty. I'm sure some profane gesture might have slipped out too. That wouldn't have been good for anyone."
We agree.
To make myself feel better, I buy all kinds of great books at the bookstore and my bookworm butt is happy once again.
We had the rest of the day to pack for our next trip and of course, we are leaving in 2 hours and I haven't packed a thing. It was just too tempting to take naps, drink more Gatorade, call Nick, read, and try garlic peanuts as a snack. All wonderful things, but I really need to get a moving on my packing.
We are heading up north, to a great area of the Philippines called BAGUIO [bah-gu-yoh], which is known as the summer vacation spot because of its cooler temps, mountains, and general awesomeness. Rock on, you don't need to convince me any more when you say two magic words: COOLER TEMPERATURES. What's even more incredible is that is where my mom is from and some of my family is up there too, on my mother's side. I have been in contact over the phone with one of my cousins on my mom's side and he encouraged me to call or text the family up there. I was like, how do you text that? "Hi, I'm your cousin Lisa from the other side of the world. I know we've never met and I'm not entirely sure how we'd get along, but what are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?"
But, that's the beauty of the Philippines and the people - they are hospitable, family-centered, and treat visitors like royalty. I texted my cousin who is a surgeon and runs an eye clinic in the area. He texted me within 10 minutes with, "GREAT! Really? Where are you staying?" I mean, seriously, can he be any more nice? If that happened to me - that one random night, without warning, I received a message from a supposed long lost cousin from another ocean, i'd be like, "Who in the world is trying to buy me dinner?"
But, they are wayyyy better at friendliness here than in the US, apparently.
Anyhoo, Bagiuo is also pretty up there in the northern region where there are still indigenous cultures and folks living in a world that will make my head spin. I'm pumped.
My internet access will not be steady until Tuesday when we return to Manila, so consider this a command to flood my inbox with heartfelt messages of how you spent your 4th of July, what horrific summer TV shows are you addicted to, how the July/August weddings are going, and what vacations have been like.
It's impossible for me to gratefully convey how important your support has been through these past few weeks.
Much love from Manila.
I wake up this morning from a deep sleep and thank the good Lord I was able to rest for several uninterrupted hours of sleepy time. My stomach is not entirely resolved itself, but the army has weakened to a few person revolt and while they are feisty in spirit, I sense a defeat of the rebels on the horizon of the weekend. Intestines win again. YAY for my immune system gathering itself from such a destructive and intense battle with an unknown opponent. I never doubted victory.
Another language class in which I feel like an utter fool. There's a lot of HUH WHAT CAN YOU REPEAT THAT going on on my side of the room. Plenty of times I glance at the person next to me for help. Today we were going over verbs and I was trying to say that I was born in (or from originally) New Jersey. Correctly, I would say, "Taga-New Jersey ako." I forgot the "Taga" and sputtered out, "New Jersey ako."
Asses on the ground laughter.
I join in not knowing what in the hell we're laughing at.
Kim relays the truth, "Dude, you just said, 'I AM NEW JERSEY.'"
Simple mistakes like that offer great entertainment for the group.
After class, I was happily walking to a bookstore with two other group members when I felt my bag being pressed up against me. I thought it might be Theresa reaching for my wallet and pulling my purse in a weird direction. Uh, no.
It's a truck sliding into me.
I start screaming.
Does this country WANT me dead or what?
Theresa yells at the driver and I walk on, my heart racing. What a jackass, backing up without looking? I mean, three people right behind you and you don't even notice?
I roll my eyes at Theresa, "He is lucky that I am in a good mood because I would have yelled at him in English and it wouldn't have been pretty. I'm sure some profane gesture might have slipped out too. That wouldn't have been good for anyone."
We agree.
To make myself feel better, I buy all kinds of great books at the bookstore and my bookworm butt is happy once again.
We had the rest of the day to pack for our next trip and of course, we are leaving in 2 hours and I haven't packed a thing. It was just too tempting to take naps, drink more Gatorade, call Nick, read, and try garlic peanuts as a snack. All wonderful things, but I really need to get a moving on my packing.
We are heading up north, to a great area of the Philippines called BAGUIO [bah-gu-yoh], which is known as the summer vacation spot because of its cooler temps, mountains, and general awesomeness. Rock on, you don't need to convince me any more when you say two magic words: COOLER TEMPERATURES. What's even more incredible is that is where my mom is from and some of my family is up there too, on my mother's side. I have been in contact over the phone with one of my cousins on my mom's side and he encouraged me to call or text the family up there. I was like, how do you text that? "Hi, I'm your cousin Lisa from the other side of the world. I know we've never met and I'm not entirely sure how we'd get along, but what are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?"
But, that's the beauty of the Philippines and the people - they are hospitable, family-centered, and treat visitors like royalty. I texted my cousin who is a surgeon and runs an eye clinic in the area. He texted me within 10 minutes with, "GREAT! Really? Where are you staying?" I mean, seriously, can he be any more nice? If that happened to me - that one random night, without warning, I received a message from a supposed long lost cousin from another ocean, i'd be like, "Who in the world is trying to buy me dinner?"
But, they are wayyyy better at friendliness here than in the US, apparently.
Anyhoo, Bagiuo is also pretty up there in the northern region where there are still indigenous cultures and folks living in a world that will make my head spin. I'm pumped.
My internet access will not be steady until Tuesday when we return to Manila, so consider this a command to flood my inbox with heartfelt messages of how you spent your 4th of July, what horrific summer TV shows are you addicted to, how the July/August weddings are going, and what vacations have been like.
It's impossible for me to gratefully convey how important your support has been through these past few weeks.
Much love from Manila.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Pictures of Urban Poor Communities
Our leaders take us to where they keep a truckload of trash for which they purchase for survival.
The garbage that they search through.
More Urban Community Pics
Hanging clothes outside to dry outside an urban community.
Shy children in a doorway.
A shot of the community based at the bottom of a garbage mountain.
Pictures of Urban Poor Communities
Community members search and collect items through a mountain of garbage.
They resell usable items to junk yards and re-cook what they can for food.
A few hundred families live in the village by this particular mountain.
I Was Careful, But Not Enough
As some of you know, my genre of writing practice is creative non-fiction. I am working on compiling essays and poems from my experience here on this trip for a collective personal project. This essay will be part of that project. It is based on my experience today.
Before you read this essay, know that I am well, happy, and am running at high energy levels once again.
I Was Careful, But Not Enough
8:00am
The morning was strong, as I. And my stomach made noises as it did yesterday, but they were weakened, I observed. I tested it with crackers. Waited.
Bathroom.
I tested it again, water.
Bathroom.
I was determined to go on this immersion daytrip to see the urban living conditions, but worried about whatever had invaded my stomach yesterday. Avoiding dehydration was my number one priority. I said a prayer to an Almighty in the heated sky above and swallowed two Immodium pills, asking for strength for whatever lay ahead of me.
We took a taxi and I was grateful for the air-conditioning. With only a few clouds in the sky, Manila heat can be unforgiving and dangerous. Becky looks my way, knowing I am not well. Her eyes ask if I am ok. I smile thinly and nod.
We change to a jeepney and the driver is aggressive in speed and rough with stops. My eyes upward, I summon all strength to at least get to 12pm, just enough time to be exposed to the life of so many urban poor. I want to understand. Somewhere inside, a voice asked, “At what expense?” I answer, “Even if it kills me, I want to understand. Even just a little, I want to see this.”
The group gets off and I do not know where we are. There are vendors, cars, taxis, and jeepneys. Crowded, but I do not notice anything but the stench. It smells of rotting everything. The odor is so sharp my mouth opens in reflex, but closes quickly when I see flies heading toward my gaping face. My eyes cannot hide, I am terrified. I am disgusted. I want to leave.
Press onward.
We board another jeepney and I hear the weakened army in my stomach begin another rebellion. I bargain that they can do whatever they like later in the day, just not now. They obey in agreement.
The jeepney takes us to a small community surrounded by garbage. I hear someone mutter, “How am I going to do this?”
I turn quickly and meet her eyes, “Mind over matter. Don’t think.”
The earth smells of decay and my soul darkens in misery, sorrow, and disbelief.
Without pants or underwear, I see the children wailing. Someone is soulfully singing into a karaoke machine. I recognize another Journey song. The new lead singer is Filipino. Another source of pride for the people. The narrow walkway crosses makeshift bridges over green and white water with flies attacking something I cannot see, something I refuse to see. I quickly walk further, wanting to escape the smell, the dirt, but it is everywhere.
We stop at a house and enter the room. I feel stupid because we wear our shoes inside and we are covered in dirt and they leave their tsinelas (sandals) at the door. They bring us broken dirty chairs to sit in and I sit by the couch, my mind is numb from the situation.
They tell us the story of their lives.
They pay 3000 pesos (roughly $66.00) for a whole truckload of garbage from which they sift through for things to resell and also PAGPAG, leftover food they pick up and they shake free of dirt and then re-cook to eat. They scour for plastic utensils, metal, soda bottles, plastic bags, and anything edible.
The prices change depending on where the garbage comes come. If it comes from condos, the price is high. If it comes from a construction site, it’s even higher because you will find good wood and metal, which can be sold at a junk yard. The least expensive garbage is from chain fast food stores and restaurants which throw out perishable foods and unused ingredients.
We survive off the garbage, they tell us.
And they pay for the scraps.
I turn my head in disbelief.
I look into the face of the woman talking and smile even though I don’t understand her words until they are translated after she is finished speaking. My eyes gloss her home and become fixated with the staircase. Uneven wood blocks. The last step is incredibly steep. The stairs look like something for a tree house. Some of the climbing ladders in the children’s playgrounds in the US are sturdier and better built than this house.
I close my eyes.
9:30am
They open a door to show us one truckload of garbage they keep next to their homes. Coughing, someone is gagging. Steps backward. The smell is indescribeable. I want to cry for a hundred reasons and apologize a thousand times and give everything to them and kill whomever breaks their promises to these people. All those feelings, all in one moment once he opened that door.
Another moment, they show me a bag of organized food they have put together. It is full of leftover bread, stuffed in a bag and left on the ground near the garbage. I take a picture of it and walk away. I wonder if I’m in an alternate universe.
Actually, I am.
Across the street there are shirtless men watching us. They are not leering or glaring, just watching us take out our cameras and document what we see. Tourists at a garbage community, their home. I feel wrong. My camera is worth more than 30 truckloads of garbage, but I don’t want to give them 30 truckloads of garbage. I want to give them homes, clothes, healthcare, clean water, fresh food, education, chances, changes, life, more.
We move on.
We go to another community.
Our leader, who is wearing a shirt that reads, “Real Men Wear Pink,” warns us to keep our bags in front of us and do not take pictures because they will be, basically, stolen right out of our hands. Kim nudges me, “I know he doesn’t have to tell you that. You already guard that thing with your life,” she nods toward my Nikon SLR. I smile mischievously and do a karate high-kick in the air, “I feel bad for anyone that even tries.” She laughs.
We crawl into a trike (motorcyle with extra seating on the sides) and take off.
We walk through the town and I move my brain into turbo strength.
Mind over matter. Mind over matter.
The smell of the vendors makes me want to hurl. Fish, hanging meat, a salad with a village of flies sitting on it. I tuck my bag closer to me and walk straight ahead.
Stares.
Blend right in, we were instructed.
Right.
10:15am
We stop at the top of a hill and our guide says it’s safe to take pictures here, but not when we go back to town. A few hundred yards away is a mountain of garbage. At the base of it is the village we are standing in. I pull my camera out but cannot take a picture yet. My mental pictures are always better than Nikon, anyway. Theresa whispers to me, “The children are asking you to take their picture.” I look to my right into a doorway. The darkness cloaks them but I see small feet and hear young giggles.
Images of my niece and nephews cross my mind. I swallow hard, missing them.
I start snapping shots of the doorway and they peak out with the whites of their eyes. Reviewing their pictures on the screen, I check the exposure of the shots. Their shyness comes alive in my photos.
I hear a movie playing in someone’s house. The sound amplifies and carries so far that the entire group can hear a hundred feet away. We can’t identify the movie but it’s in English and the gunshot sounds reveal an action movie. I hear tires squealing and screaming.
Why more violence? Why more death, even if it’s fictional? Is that entertaining?
We navigate a narrow pathway and find ourselves at the base of the basura (garbage) mountain. The heat is bearing down on my skin. The smell comes in waves, my nausea as well.
An unfamiliar man begins asking if we are students. Someone explains we are from the US taking an immersion trip. He explains their community.
Many of them were displaced from the homes and placed here by the government. Now that foreign development companies want to develop the land, they are trying to move them out of their homes. Some of the families take the small amount of money they offer because they do not know what else to do and the government moves them again with promises of stable homes and better conditions. Instead, they are put in flooding areas with tents. No water, no electricity. Their promise of a better life is unfulfilled.
Not too long ago, one of the garbage mountains grew too high and collapsed from the weight. Three hundred people were buried alive in the garbage and left there to die. Many of them were husbands and fathers looking through the trash for survival. When the story broke, billions were raised and donated to the families for aid. The families have not yet seen one peso of that money. Strangely, any money that passes through the government never sees its intended destination.
The government of the Philippines, the man said, asks for assistance of other countries for arms. The government uses the language that the US military will understand: “terrorists” and foreign countries donate arms for the military to use against the civilians.
So they ask other countries for arms to use against its own people? Yes.
The military is used against the people here. The weak, the small, the helpless communities are threatened, harassed, and bullied with arms when they do not want to move, refuse the development companies, or voice their concerns over their living conditions. Their organizing for rights is considered “terrorism.”
His voice becomes louder, “I am not a terrorist!” He is nearly screaming.
There are undercover military all around. They are used as a frightening tactic to prevent people from organizing. “Organizing” means fighting for their basic right to live with decent living conditions and surroundings. The government blankets their surveillance of the people as “anti-terrorist.”
I look down at the ground while absorbing his words.
Much later, one of the leaders later tells a story of how he left for a few months to get out of town. To travel, experience, get away. When he returned, in the late hours of the morning, he was taken from his home by the government. They put military guns in front of him asking him to assemble them, if he knew how, and what he was doing for four months away from home. They thought he might be in terrorist training.
He went away for travel. To live his life.
They have no rights here. They have nothing.
“I am not a terrorist!!” The man is proclaiming.
He tells the military, “You can kill me! I will not move!” He retells his convictions to us.
My translation skills slow…I feel lightheaded and I see the man’s mouth forming words, “…Bush and Cheney…” but I cannot process it anymore. The mountain stands before me. The smell is in my body. The sun beats on my skin. I walk to Theresa, “Something is happening to me.”
I wander to a fallen tree and use the trunk as a seat.
I put my head between my legs.
Breathe, Lisa, breathe.
I cannot breathe, though, from the smell.
Relax, I’ll be fine.
I’m not fine.
Kim. I call out.
Kim. I call again.
KIM. She turns around. I wave her over.
I look at the mountain of garbage and my brain is turning fuzzy. I’m becoming so disoriented I wonder if I’m looking through the lens of my camera because everything looks fluorescent white and overexposed; similar as to when I don’t put the right settings on my camera. To my left, my camera sits.
Oh God, it’s me. Something is wrong with me. It’s not my camera I’m looking through. It’s my eyes.
I look up and Kim’s face is blotched with circles. I blink slowly to make them go away. They scatter, small circles all over her face, her body, even the garbage behind her.
Her hands touch my forehead. “Oh God….” Sweat is dripping off me like a faucet.
“I can’t see anymore.” I’m terrified.
“When did you eat?”
I slump forward, “Crackers.”
“No, WHEN did you eat?”
“This morning, crackers.”
She blows air out of her lips, worried. She knows I barely ate yesterday because of my stomach.
She grabs everything out of my hands. She’s talking but I don’t hear her.
“Help me, please. What’s happening?”
A cracker goes into my mouth. I crunch once, but there’s no saliva in my mouth. The crumbs are pebbles in my mouth.
My ears are slowly filling with jelly and my vision is dimming. My head begins gaining weight and needs to touch the ground. I cannot hold it up any longer.
“I AM NOT A TERRORIST.” He’s still talking.
Images come through my mind as someone forces a straw in my mouth loudly commanding me to drink soda.
My brain neurons are everywhere.
Far away, I see Nick working in his office and hear my mother’s voice telling me to be careful in my travels.
I’m sorry, Mom, I wasn’t careful enough.
The mountain is now nearly pure white and the faces are almost gone. My hearing is underwater.
Theresa pulls out small packets of sweetened jello candy and slides it into my mouth.
Another bottle is shoved in my face. “Sip this!”
I sip with whatever strength I have left. Warm, red Gatorade goes down my throat.
Gatorade. The taste conjures images of the Borchers, Voisard Street, and Russia and how I almost never drink Gatorade unless I am in Russia. I hope I drink Gatorade there again.
Am I dying?
I panic and wonder if the light I’m seeing is “The Light” and if this is the end for me, to die at the base of a garbage dump surrounded by people who’ve known me for three weeks of my life. Everyone and everything most precious to me is on the other side of the world.
I can’t be dying. They say when you die, it’s a peaceful process. I’m scared as hell.
Wait. Maybe this is hell.
A small, rough, and unfamiliar hand touches the nape of my neck. It’s soaking and cold. “Malamig!” The women’s voice rang with worry that I was cold despite the sun beating down on us. Her worry heightened my panic.
I am nearly blind and deaf and cannot speak.
Becky forces her way to be in front of me and lets me rest my head on her, “We’re taking care of you. Close your eyes.”
I’m afraid if I close my eyes, I will fully pass out and never regain consciousness. I open them and see a dog looking at me curiously. The ground is covered in garbage. The smell is enveloping my last thoughts.
I am almost crying, “Please help me. Please help me.”
Three people are wiping me down with cloths while the town women fan me down.
Kim is nearly exploding, “She needs to get out of this heat. She needs to get out of here.”
I hear voices, all muffled.
“The stretcher can’t make it down the pathway. It’s too narrow. Can she walk?”
“Look at her! She can’t walk!”
“We’re too far from the clinic.”
“Can she eat ice cream?”
“She can’t! Her stomach…”
“Is she diabetic?”
“I am not a terrorist!”
“Where’s the medic?”
“I’m an artist, I use art to bring peace in the world.” Philippe is explaining himself to a local. He doesn’t care that I’m slipping away.
Out of nowhere, I miss my sister and want to talk to her. My heart squeezes with love. My eyes close to listen to my body.
I realize my heart is racing and my breathing is labored. I want to lie down, even if it’s covered with the most horrendous garbage, my body feels like it weighs a ton and I cannot hold it up any longer. I am slipping off the tree I was sitting on.
Pray. I hear my Mom.
Dear God, if you get me through this, I’ll…I’ll…I can’t think of anything at this moment, God, but whatever it is, I’ll do. I’ll be better or more loving or more forgiving or less selfish. Just get me through this. Whatever is happening to me, just give me enough strength to get me through this. Please help me.
I remember that was my prayer this morning.
I pushed myself too hard. I’m so foolish.
More soda in my mouth. Theresa pops open more cherry flavored jello candy.
I hear Lexie in the background saying she has chocolate. Someone opens my hand and places a melting candy bar in it. I don’t have enough mental strength to explain that I don’t like chocolate. The wrapper is too strong for me.
“Keep drinking the soda!” Whoever is talking to me is talking loud because I can hear it through the pillow stuffed between my ears. The cool sweetness coats my tongue in sugar.
I hear Kim, “It’ll take effect in a little while.” She’s talking about the sugar I just ingested. Her parents are doctors. It shows. I love her in that moment.
Behind her a man has a machete and slams it toward a coconut. It splits open and they gather the juices in a glass for me. I close my eyes.
When I reopen them, the glass is in front of me, “You need potassium.”
There’s a long hair on the glass and I feel like I will vomit if it comes near me. I shake my head, refusing the glass of Buko (coconut) juice. I feel awful that I am not drinking it after they opened a coconut for me, but the chances that the glass has been properly cleaned are relatively low. I think of the bacteria already in my stomach and know the last thing I need is to build that army in my digestive system.
“Lisa?”
I shake my head again. I am not drinking it.
I can’t win.
I need the juice to recover, but I’ll probably get sick again from whatever’s floating in it from the glass. I detest my odds and whimper, “I want to go home.” Not sure which home I meant. Home means so many things. It means Nick, family, familiarity, clean, fresh water, and safety. Geographically, the last home I remember is Boston, but I no longer live there. Cleveland was my home for three days before I left. “Home,” though, at that moment had limitations. It meant somewhere familiar, somewhere cool where I can lie down and cry alone. Some place that made sense. Home, at that moment was Casa Clementina on Timog Avenue, Metro Manila. That is my home for now, where my flip flops are, where my notebooks and pens lie, and where my laptop is stored. I sadly reflect, “home,” is where my “things” are, not people.
“Should we call someone? Nick? Your Dad?”
I shake my head. “They’ll just worry.” I am not dying on this mountain of garbage, I decide.
“What about your Uncle here in the Philippines?” Becky pushes.
“No, he’ll call my Dad.”
I open my eyes. The mountain has some color. That brings me relief.
“What happened?”
Kim peers into my face, “You’re better,” she diagnoses, “your face doesn’t look green anymore and I can see that your lips are a normal shade.”
“What happened?” My brain is moving toward orientation.
“Dude,” Kim explains with experience, “this happens to me, too, sometimes. It’s hypoglycemia. You barely ate yesterday because you were sick and you only had some crackers this morning. You’re out in this heat, walking around, and, well, we’re here…” she gestures to our surroundings, “your blood sugar just dropped.” Her hands fly from above her head to low near the ground.
“Am I diabetic?” I scream.
“No. It’s just you only had crackers this morning.” She looks at me as if I did heroine for breakfast.
“Oh. I drank a lot of water because I was afraid of dehydration.” Suddenly, I feel embarrassed that I had forgotten about such a simple task as eating. I turn and see everyone milling around my emergency.
“You need to go home and rest. I’ll go with you.” Becky is still holding on to me. I look into my friends' faces. They are my family now, I realize, while I am here.
A feeling of loving gratitude spills over me. I want to cry again, but this time it’s because I'm so overwhelmed by everything and everyone; all the good, all the evil.
My body still feels like it is a pendulum between hot and cold and it’s dripping with sweat, but my senses have returned. Shakily, I stand.
Hands hold me up as I make my way to town where Becky, Gibo (one of our trusted group leaders), and I ride a trike and then a taxi back home.
My head clears in the taxi as I rest my head on the door. The experience inundates my memory.
I return to the apartment and shower, eat rice with soy sauce and drink ice tea.I google “hypoglycemia” and absorb the website explaining the symptoms. My worry deescalates as I read that it is common to experience it after the stomach empties itself from illness. This never happened to me before, but I learned a hard lesson about self-care, limitations, and eating breakfast for goodness sakes. I snuggle into my bed and turn the air-conditioner on low.
The clock reads 12:31pm.
What a morning.
I thought about how simple the problem was: not enough food, not enough sugar. And yet, truthfully, I felt like I was possibly dying. Shit, when all your senses are disappearing and everything around you is reminding you of death and survival is on a thumbnail, it's easy to conclude that death is the next step. Even with what happened, in which I had never been so frightened in all my life, I am glad that I saw what I did. I am grateful for the opportunity to learn, even if it took everything out of me.
It is a privilege to be able to visit, because to visit means I am free to leave. I was free to go home to Timog Avenue. Eventually, I will return home to Nick, to the US, to Cleveland.
No one there had that same choice.
Before you read this essay, know that I am well, happy, and am running at high energy levels once again.
I Was Careful, But Not Enough
8:00am
The morning was strong, as I. And my stomach made noises as it did yesterday, but they were weakened, I observed. I tested it with crackers. Waited.
Bathroom.
I tested it again, water.
Bathroom.
I was determined to go on this immersion daytrip to see the urban living conditions, but worried about whatever had invaded my stomach yesterday. Avoiding dehydration was my number one priority. I said a prayer to an Almighty in the heated sky above and swallowed two Immodium pills, asking for strength for whatever lay ahead of me.
We took a taxi and I was grateful for the air-conditioning. With only a few clouds in the sky, Manila heat can be unforgiving and dangerous. Becky looks my way, knowing I am not well. Her eyes ask if I am ok. I smile thinly and nod.
We change to a jeepney and the driver is aggressive in speed and rough with stops. My eyes upward, I summon all strength to at least get to 12pm, just enough time to be exposed to the life of so many urban poor. I want to understand. Somewhere inside, a voice asked, “At what expense?” I answer, “Even if it kills me, I want to understand. Even just a little, I want to see this.”
The group gets off and I do not know where we are. There are vendors, cars, taxis, and jeepneys. Crowded, but I do not notice anything but the stench. It smells of rotting everything. The odor is so sharp my mouth opens in reflex, but closes quickly when I see flies heading toward my gaping face. My eyes cannot hide, I am terrified. I am disgusted. I want to leave.
Press onward.
We board another jeepney and I hear the weakened army in my stomach begin another rebellion. I bargain that they can do whatever they like later in the day, just not now. They obey in agreement.
The jeepney takes us to a small community surrounded by garbage. I hear someone mutter, “How am I going to do this?”
I turn quickly and meet her eyes, “Mind over matter. Don’t think.”
The earth smells of decay and my soul darkens in misery, sorrow, and disbelief.
Without pants or underwear, I see the children wailing. Someone is soulfully singing into a karaoke machine. I recognize another Journey song. The new lead singer is Filipino. Another source of pride for the people. The narrow walkway crosses makeshift bridges over green and white water with flies attacking something I cannot see, something I refuse to see. I quickly walk further, wanting to escape the smell, the dirt, but it is everywhere.
We stop at a house and enter the room. I feel stupid because we wear our shoes inside and we are covered in dirt and they leave their tsinelas (sandals) at the door. They bring us broken dirty chairs to sit in and I sit by the couch, my mind is numb from the situation.
They tell us the story of their lives.
They pay 3000 pesos (roughly $66.00) for a whole truckload of garbage from which they sift through for things to resell and also PAGPAG, leftover food they pick up and they shake free of dirt and then re-cook to eat. They scour for plastic utensils, metal, soda bottles, plastic bags, and anything edible.
The prices change depending on where the garbage comes come. If it comes from condos, the price is high. If it comes from a construction site, it’s even higher because you will find good wood and metal, which can be sold at a junk yard. The least expensive garbage is from chain fast food stores and restaurants which throw out perishable foods and unused ingredients.
We survive off the garbage, they tell us.
And they pay for the scraps.
I turn my head in disbelief.
I look into the face of the woman talking and smile even though I don’t understand her words until they are translated after she is finished speaking. My eyes gloss her home and become fixated with the staircase. Uneven wood blocks. The last step is incredibly steep. The stairs look like something for a tree house. Some of the climbing ladders in the children’s playgrounds in the US are sturdier and better built than this house.
I close my eyes.
9:30am
They open a door to show us one truckload of garbage they keep next to their homes. Coughing, someone is gagging. Steps backward. The smell is indescribeable. I want to cry for a hundred reasons and apologize a thousand times and give everything to them and kill whomever breaks their promises to these people. All those feelings, all in one moment once he opened that door.
Another moment, they show me a bag of organized food they have put together. It is full of leftover bread, stuffed in a bag and left on the ground near the garbage. I take a picture of it and walk away. I wonder if I’m in an alternate universe.
Actually, I am.
Across the street there are shirtless men watching us. They are not leering or glaring, just watching us take out our cameras and document what we see. Tourists at a garbage community, their home. I feel wrong. My camera is worth more than 30 truckloads of garbage, but I don’t want to give them 30 truckloads of garbage. I want to give them homes, clothes, healthcare, clean water, fresh food, education, chances, changes, life, more.
We move on.
We go to another community.
Our leader, who is wearing a shirt that reads, “Real Men Wear Pink,” warns us to keep our bags in front of us and do not take pictures because they will be, basically, stolen right out of our hands. Kim nudges me, “I know he doesn’t have to tell you that. You already guard that thing with your life,” she nods toward my Nikon SLR. I smile mischievously and do a karate high-kick in the air, “I feel bad for anyone that even tries.” She laughs.
We crawl into a trike (motorcyle with extra seating on the sides) and take off.
We walk through the town and I move my brain into turbo strength.
Mind over matter. Mind over matter.
The smell of the vendors makes me want to hurl. Fish, hanging meat, a salad with a village of flies sitting on it. I tuck my bag closer to me and walk straight ahead.
Stares.
Blend right in, we were instructed.
Right.
10:15am
We stop at the top of a hill and our guide says it’s safe to take pictures here, but not when we go back to town. A few hundred yards away is a mountain of garbage. At the base of it is the village we are standing in. I pull my camera out but cannot take a picture yet. My mental pictures are always better than Nikon, anyway. Theresa whispers to me, “The children are asking you to take their picture.” I look to my right into a doorway. The darkness cloaks them but I see small feet and hear young giggles.
Images of my niece and nephews cross my mind. I swallow hard, missing them.
I start snapping shots of the doorway and they peak out with the whites of their eyes. Reviewing their pictures on the screen, I check the exposure of the shots. Their shyness comes alive in my photos.
I hear a movie playing in someone’s house. The sound amplifies and carries so far that the entire group can hear a hundred feet away. We can’t identify the movie but it’s in English and the gunshot sounds reveal an action movie. I hear tires squealing and screaming.
Why more violence? Why more death, even if it’s fictional? Is that entertaining?
We navigate a narrow pathway and find ourselves at the base of the basura (garbage) mountain. The heat is bearing down on my skin. The smell comes in waves, my nausea as well.
An unfamiliar man begins asking if we are students. Someone explains we are from the US taking an immersion trip. He explains their community.
Many of them were displaced from the homes and placed here by the government. Now that foreign development companies want to develop the land, they are trying to move them out of their homes. Some of the families take the small amount of money they offer because they do not know what else to do and the government moves them again with promises of stable homes and better conditions. Instead, they are put in flooding areas with tents. No water, no electricity. Their promise of a better life is unfulfilled.
Not too long ago, one of the garbage mountains grew too high and collapsed from the weight. Three hundred people were buried alive in the garbage and left there to die. Many of them were husbands and fathers looking through the trash for survival. When the story broke, billions were raised and donated to the families for aid. The families have not yet seen one peso of that money. Strangely, any money that passes through the government never sees its intended destination.
The government of the Philippines, the man said, asks for assistance of other countries for arms. The government uses the language that the US military will understand: “terrorists” and foreign countries donate arms for the military to use against the civilians.
So they ask other countries for arms to use against its own people? Yes.
The military is used against the people here. The weak, the small, the helpless communities are threatened, harassed, and bullied with arms when they do not want to move, refuse the development companies, or voice their concerns over their living conditions. Their organizing for rights is considered “terrorism.”
His voice becomes louder, “I am not a terrorist!” He is nearly screaming.
There are undercover military all around. They are used as a frightening tactic to prevent people from organizing. “Organizing” means fighting for their basic right to live with decent living conditions and surroundings. The government blankets their surveillance of the people as “anti-terrorist.”
I look down at the ground while absorbing his words.
Much later, one of the leaders later tells a story of how he left for a few months to get out of town. To travel, experience, get away. When he returned, in the late hours of the morning, he was taken from his home by the government. They put military guns in front of him asking him to assemble them, if he knew how, and what he was doing for four months away from home. They thought he might be in terrorist training.
He went away for travel. To live his life.
They have no rights here. They have nothing.
“I am not a terrorist!!” The man is proclaiming.
He tells the military, “You can kill me! I will not move!” He retells his convictions to us.
My translation skills slow…I feel lightheaded and I see the man’s mouth forming words, “…Bush and Cheney…” but I cannot process it anymore. The mountain stands before me. The smell is in my body. The sun beats on my skin. I walk to Theresa, “Something is happening to me.”
I wander to a fallen tree and use the trunk as a seat.
I put my head between my legs.
Breathe, Lisa, breathe.
I cannot breathe, though, from the smell.
Relax, I’ll be fine.
I’m not fine.
Kim. I call out.
Kim. I call again.
KIM. She turns around. I wave her over.
I look at the mountain of garbage and my brain is turning fuzzy. I’m becoming so disoriented I wonder if I’m looking through the lens of my camera because everything looks fluorescent white and overexposed; similar as to when I don’t put the right settings on my camera. To my left, my camera sits.
Oh God, it’s me. Something is wrong with me. It’s not my camera I’m looking through. It’s my eyes.
I look up and Kim’s face is blotched with circles. I blink slowly to make them go away. They scatter, small circles all over her face, her body, even the garbage behind her.
Her hands touch my forehead. “Oh God….” Sweat is dripping off me like a faucet.
“I can’t see anymore.” I’m terrified.
“When did you eat?”
I slump forward, “Crackers.”
“No, WHEN did you eat?”
“This morning, crackers.”
She blows air out of her lips, worried. She knows I barely ate yesterday because of my stomach.
She grabs everything out of my hands. She’s talking but I don’t hear her.
“Help me, please. What’s happening?”
A cracker goes into my mouth. I crunch once, but there’s no saliva in my mouth. The crumbs are pebbles in my mouth.
My ears are slowly filling with jelly and my vision is dimming. My head begins gaining weight and needs to touch the ground. I cannot hold it up any longer.
“I AM NOT A TERRORIST.” He’s still talking.
Images come through my mind as someone forces a straw in my mouth loudly commanding me to drink soda.
My brain neurons are everywhere.
Far away, I see Nick working in his office and hear my mother’s voice telling me to be careful in my travels.
I’m sorry, Mom, I wasn’t careful enough.
The mountain is now nearly pure white and the faces are almost gone. My hearing is underwater.
Theresa pulls out small packets of sweetened jello candy and slides it into my mouth.
Another bottle is shoved in my face. “Sip this!”
I sip with whatever strength I have left. Warm, red Gatorade goes down my throat.
Gatorade. The taste conjures images of the Borchers, Voisard Street, and Russia and how I almost never drink Gatorade unless I am in Russia. I hope I drink Gatorade there again.
Am I dying?
I panic and wonder if the light I’m seeing is “The Light” and if this is the end for me, to die at the base of a garbage dump surrounded by people who’ve known me for three weeks of my life. Everyone and everything most precious to me is on the other side of the world.
I can’t be dying. They say when you die, it’s a peaceful process. I’m scared as hell.
Wait. Maybe this is hell.
A small, rough, and unfamiliar hand touches the nape of my neck. It’s soaking and cold. “Malamig!” The women’s voice rang with worry that I was cold despite the sun beating down on us. Her worry heightened my panic.
I am nearly blind and deaf and cannot speak.
Becky forces her way to be in front of me and lets me rest my head on her, “We’re taking care of you. Close your eyes.”
I’m afraid if I close my eyes, I will fully pass out and never regain consciousness. I open them and see a dog looking at me curiously. The ground is covered in garbage. The smell is enveloping my last thoughts.
I am almost crying, “Please help me. Please help me.”
Three people are wiping me down with cloths while the town women fan me down.
Kim is nearly exploding, “She needs to get out of this heat. She needs to get out of here.”
I hear voices, all muffled.
“The stretcher can’t make it down the pathway. It’s too narrow. Can she walk?”
“Look at her! She can’t walk!”
“We’re too far from the clinic.”
“Can she eat ice cream?”
“She can’t! Her stomach…”
“Is she diabetic?”
“I am not a terrorist!”
“Where’s the medic?”
“I’m an artist, I use art to bring peace in the world.” Philippe is explaining himself to a local. He doesn’t care that I’m slipping away.
Out of nowhere, I miss my sister and want to talk to her. My heart squeezes with love. My eyes close to listen to my body.
I realize my heart is racing and my breathing is labored. I want to lie down, even if it’s covered with the most horrendous garbage, my body feels like it weighs a ton and I cannot hold it up any longer. I am slipping off the tree I was sitting on.
Pray. I hear my Mom.
Dear God, if you get me through this, I’ll…I’ll…I can’t think of anything at this moment, God, but whatever it is, I’ll do. I’ll be better or more loving or more forgiving or less selfish. Just get me through this. Whatever is happening to me, just give me enough strength to get me through this. Please help me.
I remember that was my prayer this morning.
I pushed myself too hard. I’m so foolish.
More soda in my mouth. Theresa pops open more cherry flavored jello candy.
I hear Lexie in the background saying she has chocolate. Someone opens my hand and places a melting candy bar in it. I don’t have enough mental strength to explain that I don’t like chocolate. The wrapper is too strong for me.
“Keep drinking the soda!” Whoever is talking to me is talking loud because I can hear it through the pillow stuffed between my ears. The cool sweetness coats my tongue in sugar.
I hear Kim, “It’ll take effect in a little while.” She’s talking about the sugar I just ingested. Her parents are doctors. It shows. I love her in that moment.
Behind her a man has a machete and slams it toward a coconut. It splits open and they gather the juices in a glass for me. I close my eyes.
When I reopen them, the glass is in front of me, “You need potassium.”
There’s a long hair on the glass and I feel like I will vomit if it comes near me. I shake my head, refusing the glass of Buko (coconut) juice. I feel awful that I am not drinking it after they opened a coconut for me, but the chances that the glass has been properly cleaned are relatively low. I think of the bacteria already in my stomach and know the last thing I need is to build that army in my digestive system.
“Lisa?”
I shake my head again. I am not drinking it.
I can’t win.
I need the juice to recover, but I’ll probably get sick again from whatever’s floating in it from the glass. I detest my odds and whimper, “I want to go home.” Not sure which home I meant. Home means so many things. It means Nick, family, familiarity, clean, fresh water, and safety. Geographically, the last home I remember is Boston, but I no longer live there. Cleveland was my home for three days before I left. “Home,” though, at that moment had limitations. It meant somewhere familiar, somewhere cool where I can lie down and cry alone. Some place that made sense. Home, at that moment was Casa Clementina on Timog Avenue, Metro Manila. That is my home for now, where my flip flops are, where my notebooks and pens lie, and where my laptop is stored. I sadly reflect, “home,” is where my “things” are, not people.
“Should we call someone? Nick? Your Dad?”
I shake my head. “They’ll just worry.” I am not dying on this mountain of garbage, I decide.
“What about your Uncle here in the Philippines?” Becky pushes.
“No, he’ll call my Dad.”
I open my eyes. The mountain has some color. That brings me relief.
“What happened?”
Kim peers into my face, “You’re better,” she diagnoses, “your face doesn’t look green anymore and I can see that your lips are a normal shade.”
“What happened?” My brain is moving toward orientation.
“Dude,” Kim explains with experience, “this happens to me, too, sometimes. It’s hypoglycemia. You barely ate yesterday because you were sick and you only had some crackers this morning. You’re out in this heat, walking around, and, well, we’re here…” she gestures to our surroundings, “your blood sugar just dropped.” Her hands fly from above her head to low near the ground.
“Am I diabetic?” I scream.
“No. It’s just you only had crackers this morning.” She looks at me as if I did heroine for breakfast.
“Oh. I drank a lot of water because I was afraid of dehydration.” Suddenly, I feel embarrassed that I had forgotten about such a simple task as eating. I turn and see everyone milling around my emergency.
“You need to go home and rest. I’ll go with you.” Becky is still holding on to me. I look into my friends' faces. They are my family now, I realize, while I am here.
A feeling of loving gratitude spills over me. I want to cry again, but this time it’s because I'm so overwhelmed by everything and everyone; all the good, all the evil.
My body still feels like it is a pendulum between hot and cold and it’s dripping with sweat, but my senses have returned. Shakily, I stand.
Hands hold me up as I make my way to town where Becky, Gibo (one of our trusted group leaders), and I ride a trike and then a taxi back home.
My head clears in the taxi as I rest my head on the door. The experience inundates my memory.
I return to the apartment and shower, eat rice with soy sauce and drink ice tea.I google “hypoglycemia” and absorb the website explaining the symptoms. My worry deescalates as I read that it is common to experience it after the stomach empties itself from illness. This never happened to me before, but I learned a hard lesson about self-care, limitations, and eating breakfast for goodness sakes. I snuggle into my bed and turn the air-conditioner on low.
The clock reads 12:31pm.
What a morning.
I thought about how simple the problem was: not enough food, not enough sugar. And yet, truthfully, I felt like I was possibly dying. Shit, when all your senses are disappearing and everything around you is reminding you of death and survival is on a thumbnail, it's easy to conclude that death is the next step. Even with what happened, in which I had never been so frightened in all my life, I am glad that I saw what I did. I am grateful for the opportunity to learn, even if it took everything out of me.
It is a privilege to be able to visit, because to visit means I am free to leave. I was free to go home to Timog Avenue. Eventually, I will return home to Nick, to the US, to Cleveland.
No one there had that same choice.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Philippines Story: Week II
Quick story from Week 2. I'm now into my third week and halfway through the program -- where IS the time going? Holy cow...
Friday, July 4, 2008
Time to Learn Filipino
Phrase of the Day:
KITA KEETS:// [kee-tah keets]// Slang. Colloquiam.
See you later or Talk to you later.
KITA KEETS:// [kee-tah keets]// Slang. Colloquiam.
See you later or Talk to you later.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Peasant Community
On Monday, July 1 we visited a peasant agricultural community. The logistics and traveling were, uh, interesting. From jeepney (public transit) to bus, from motorcyle rides to a long hike at 12noon, I can say that Monday was probably one of the most difficult days of my life - physically, psychologically, and even spiritually. The hike we took at noon drained any form of energy we had. I don't know if I've experienced heat like that before. We traveled the hillside by foot. The pictures show a lovely grassy area, but don't be fooled. It was a HIKE. Not a walk. The sun was at its zenith and yours truly ran out of water by 12:01pm.
We helped till the soil, both by hand, and yes, you see the picture, by caribou. The caribou is roped by some farming tool that when it walks forward, it pulls the tool along, driven by the farmer. I was the farmer for about 5 minutes. Five minutes in which the caribou listened intently to me, more than any other driver! It returned when I yelled, "Balik!" And I was able to turn that monstrous beast around to turn direction. I was very proud.
A not so proud moment was when the caribou relieved itself and we were front row for the unbelievable opening of its rear end and the release of whatever it most recently ate. Another not so great moment was when it released whatever it most recently drank. I've never seen a caribou's butt before and I don't think I ever will again. This is not a bad thing. I may have nightmares for several months. It opened to the size of a well before it pooped right in our faces. My gosh, I was in a trance, I barely reacted.
It was difficult to face rural poverty and see the children without underwear or clothes. Some of them had lice and it was a hard day to face the reality of so many Filipinos whose land has been stolen from them, are out of work, and cannot provide the most basic needs for their children.
A lot of us in the group are still processing it two days later.
I am one of them.
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