Thinking Through the Beer

Dec. 24, 2011

I just had a beer at Millenium Park, by the sea wall, in the market area. A gay guy I know came up to me and asked how many beers I was buying. "Just one." I replied. He was with about 12 other guys and I was thinking that he wanted me to buy for the whole group. Though many people here think I am rich and can afford whatever they ask for, I spend money judiciously and I definitely don't contribute to something as useless as a bunch of guys getting drunk together while their families are home with nothing to eat but rice. It happens, all-to frequently. And I use my money for our family, not for pleasing those who want to capitalize on the "rich" guy. I took my beer and walked away, toward the sea. When I walked back a little while later, he said something else and then I heard him say, to the group of guys he was drinking with, "... or else I will tell your wife" and then he let out  a chuckle.

I think he had a few more than was good for him. I was a little pissed at his "joke", and was tempted to call him on it. I said nothing and walked away. If I see him by himself on a sober afternoon, I will pull him aside and ask about the substance of his threat.

My wife would tell me that I should not do such things and that I should just let it drop. I might. Probably not, though.

Confrontations are rare here and when one does occur, drinking usually plays a part, as it often does in the United States (and probably the world over). However, I feel much safer here, day or night, than I have ever felt in the places I've lived or frequented in the U.S.

Poop Hits the Diaper Here; Shit Hits the Fan in Mindanao

It's Saturday evening, the seventeenth of December. Shane is sitting in my lap and we are watching children's videos: Barney, Sesame Street, the ABC song, Old Macdonald, etc. I'm kind of burned out on it myself. Shane makes no complaint. In fact, she asks for the same ones over and over. I suppose kids are programmed that way, to facilitate learning. It's funny, even though the videos and songs have worn an all-to-familiar groove in my grey matter, I still enjoy Shane's delight over them. And she loves to get me involved. She takes my hands and makes them clap or  wraps my arms around her tummy or hugs my arms. She loves to have that sort of contact, many times a day.

We just got back from Millennium Park, which sits next to the sea wall, on the other side of the market. I took her there so she could run and play. I bought a beer at one of the outdoor shops and talked with the owner for while.

Today started on the tail end of a typhoon which hit Mindanao, the big island south of us, pretty hard. A subdivision was wiped out and all it's occupants were killed when a river overflowed its banks. The homes were built on low ground. Over 100 died.

We are very fortunate here. Although we get lots of rain and a fair amount of wind, during a typhoon, we get much less than the brunt of the storm has to offer, as we are protected on the east side by the mountains in the center of the island, and on the west by the island of Negros, which has mountains up to 10,000 feet.

The diminutive waves slam against the seawall: nothing more than a reminder of what could be and what others suffer through.

Ahem. Excuse me. I zoned out for a minute. I was watching India Arie sing the alphabet song with Elmo, on a Sesame Street video. That lady has class and beauty and a great voice and she moves like silk in a soft breeze. Elmo's eyes were bugging out the whole time. It's the way he is made: eyeballs sewn on the outside of his furry head. My eyes returned to their sockets shortly after the video ended. But then Nora Jones sang about the letter "Y" and.... Never mind.

I just brought Shane back from the bathroom and changed her diaper. She had said, "Libang, hon", which means she pooped. She is very good about letting us know. "Elmo's Potty Time", was the video playing when we got back.What timing. I think it's a cute video, but then, my sense of humor sits close to the bottom of the barrel. Here's the link, in case it's something that interests you.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PqLMcyUFrSA&feature=BFa&list=PL411188CB5E494C57&lf=rellist

Late Night Rambler

Its 2:45AM. Long past midnight. Emelie came back from the disco about an hour ago. She's the secretary of the organization to raise money for the upkeep of the chapel in her little citio, Combalbag. Once a year, they hold the disco. I was there last year. I danced until my lungs hurt, charged with the heady excitement of mood, music and movement, until my wife pulled the plug. "You danced like a cow that just broke free of its chains" she told me. She brought me back to myself with that one! We laughed all the way down the hill to her house.

There is nothing unusual about my time spent here in the Philippines but every day feels like a special event. I wonder if this is because I am in a foreign country or because of the life style I've chosen to live. There is irony in the fact that I have always thought of settling down and having kids as a very boring way to live your life. Next to being dead; just passing the time until that final moment.

And now? Well, life is damn exciting having two teenage boys and a two year-old girl to watch after. I enjoy it to the same degree that I dreaded the thought of it for all those years of my life. Interesting how my perceptions got in the way of experiencing a part of life so wonderful. Got any more misconceptions, Mr. Schroeder? I'm sure I do. Ha!

I spent the evening, with the little one, in our internet cafe. On a thin pad designed for one, the two of us huddled close together between the money table and the wall. Shane wrapped herself around one leg of the table as if it was a life preserver. We listened to smooth jazz on our office computer. I'd had enough of Barney, Old MacDonald, The ABC song and such. (I can't seem to get kid's songs out of my head these days.)

Emelie left us 'on the sneak'. She didn't want Shane to know she was leaving. Since her mother left, over a month ago now, Shane clings to Emelie, the real life preserver in her little life. My wife is wonderful with her. She knows just what to do in almost every situation - in contrast to me.

I have a myopic view of raising kids: make'em laugh, keep them entertained for about 20 years, and let them fill in the gaps when they get old enough to figure out how much I left out. Having never had kids before, I can't say that its a tried and true method. It's just a way I developed and perfected years ago for passing the time with kids until their parents come to pick them up, after I've gotten them wound up tight, silly and bouncing off the walls. Now I get to hang around them long enough to see the results of the mess I created. It ain't pretty. But Emelie steps in and cleans up after me. She gets the kids' heads out of the silly gases that float through the clouds, where I left them. I get a little scolding or just a stern look for it, but it's a small price for bringing order and sanity back to our family.

Well, time for me to return to the mat. I'm tired. Maybe Shane won't do one of her violent, mid-sleep rolls on me tonight. Last night I got slapped in the face with both hands and kicked with one of those little feet that is attached to a tiny, but powerful leg.

Good Night All..

Our Girl

I just read the last three or four posts of mine and realized that I haven't touched on the most important subject in the lives of Emelie and Mark: our girl.

She has lived with us almost a year now. As I've mentioned in one or two previous posts, she and her mother moved in with us after a bout of sickness that resulted in critical weight loss in a tiny, underweight, half-pint with a one year history on this planet, at that time.

Now she's two. Her mom left her. It happened about three weeks ago. The 18 year-old Stefhanie dressed for school, went to town and then took a bus (we suppose) to Cebu City. She never said anything to us. She didn't call or leave a note. I have words that I am keeping to myself. It would do no good for them to appear here in print. All I will say is this: the bitch left. Its good that she is not here for her neck to be the testing ground of my hand strength. Ahem. Nuff about that.

There's a flip side; a brighter side; a side with love and happiness written all over it: Shane is ours. Thanks. We will do our best.

Slavery or Saving Grace?

There is a store across from our internet cafe that sells livestock supplies, bulk rice and corn grits in wooden bins, a few plumbing, electrical and painting supplies, and food and sundries for the comforts of daily life. The store is owned by the most prominent family in town. The same family also owns a couple of other stores here.

I know the owners of the stores and I pass the time of day with them once in a while. They are pleasant and unassuming folks, all. Quiet and with a humble demeanor and ways. I guess I would say they are decent folk and there is nothing in what I see in them that resembles anything close to a controlling or superior attitude.

The store across from our shop employs 4 or 5 girls in their late teens or early twenties. They also have several young men working for them, who do the heavy lifting, make deliveries and pump the gas at the store's station. I am going to focus on the situation of the girls, since it is the one with which I am more familiar.

The store and the family home are all one building, with a separate warehouse next to it for LP gas, 50 kilo sacks of rice and grits, and big bags of feed. Above the store is the living quarters of the girls who work as sales girls. "Work" is a general description of a day spent standing around and chatting and occasionally waiting on customers. The sales girls are not overworked.

However, their living and working conditions are very different than anything allowable in the United States. They work a 7 day week from 6:30 or 7AM to 7PM. When they get off work, they are free to roam around  the town, for one hour. They are required to be in their dormitory, atop the family home, by 8PM each and every evening.

The employees make a very small wage: the equivalent of about $45 per month. All of their meals, and a place to sleep, are provided at no charge. Other employees of the family do the cleaning and cooking, shopping, etc. 

The employment situation of these young ladies could be seen as something akin to slavery, I suppose. But in a country where poverty is the norm - a poverty that all but the most destitute in the U.S.A. would know about - these girls could be considered lucky. They eat regularly and have a roof over their heads. There is no social life, other than the socializing between fellow employees. There is no time or money for hobbies and activities that we Americans take for granted.

Questions come into my mind: What are human beings entitled to? Should a difference in a person's financial status be a determining factor of entitlement? Are the employers, in this case, well-intentioned benefactors or greedy capitalist slave drivers? How do we fairly determine the boundaries of our responsibilities to others?

Ordinary Love

It's November 1st and All Saints Day here in the Philippines. Tomorrow is All Souls Day. I dropped Clyde and Jan Mark off at the cemetery before heading here to the internet shop, with Gab, the six year-old. They will buy candles and put them at the grave of their grandmother: Emelie's mother. The cemetery is very crowded on this day. The peaceful dead have to make room for the hustle-bustle of the living. Since tomorrow is a working day, most people visit the graves of their ancestors today.

People from all over the province come here to pay respect to their dead relatives. The town is full of folks shopping, walking around and visiting. The carenderias will sell out early. The road in front of the cemetery is a mass of people and parked vehicles. Visitors contemplating those who have passed on are not thinking about traffic as they walk in groups down the center of the road.

Vendors selling candles, hot food, snacks and flowers line the street on both sides. Food for the living. Tribute to the dead. A small profit for the locals, living near the cemetery.

Today or early tomorrow, most visitors will head back to their homes in Cebu City or other parts of Cebu Province. Most will be back here at Christmas time and then again in March, for the town fiesta and the two-week-long Hinatdan Festival. Expat Filipinos come from all over the world to enjoy their town and visit their relatives at this time. And many foreigners visit as well, most of whom are men married to Filipinas from the Ginatilan area.

Celebrating is in the culture and in the blood of the Philippine people. Birthdays, weddings, holidays and the feast days of saints - especially the feast days of saints - are celebrated at great expense. Pigs are bought and raised for the occasions and butchered a day ahead of time for the big feed. The pig is either roasted whole, over a hot, wood fire reduced to coals, or placed in huge pots and woks, and also cooked over a fire of wood. Native chickens, maybe ten or so, are also part of the menu. They are tough and lean and the meat is dark. But the flavor is worth the extra chewing required.

It is evening now, about 7:30. I've been writing this in spurts. In and out of the shop all day, there has been no chance to sit quietly for a length of time. It has been my day to shop and do errands. I took the kids home about an hour ago. They were here playing games on the internet for an hour or so. Tomorrow is the first day of school in 12 days. Semester break. I'm glad it's over. Not that I don't enjoy the kids, its just that our time together (Emelie's and mine) is much more relaxed when it is just the three of us: Emelie, Shane and me.

In keeping with the native spirit (and spirits) I'm drinking Tanduay rum and Sprite in celebration of the end of semester break; all souls day; all saints day and good rum. In fact, it strikes me that life is worth celebrating in appreciation of the happiness it brings. Here's to you, life! Thanks for keeping me interested! Thanks for the family who bring out the best in me. Thanks for my friends and acquaintances who add love and spice to my ordinary routine. And thanks for the beauty that stands tall on trunks, walks on two legs, and sways in the breeze and the ripples of the sea. Daghang salamat kaayo!!

Fish Soup and Clyde Weaves a Fateful Tale

Tinola Isda or Fish Soup

Fish soup is a common dish here in Cebu Province. It starts off with the catch of the day. To this is added some onions and garlic. Emelie used green onions for today's soup. Then she added the round, green leaves pictured - molonggay, or kalamungay. When it was done cooking, I put the soup over rice. Many people eat the rice on a separate plate from the bowl of soup, but I like to combine them.

The variety of fish and other seafood seems endless. It is all delicious and healthful. The molonggay leaves add a power-packed lot of vitamins and minerals to the food, and it is tasty, to boot. The leaves come from a tree of the same name. The tree grows everywhere here and can be started by plucking a small branch from an existing tree and stuffing it in the soil.

We consume seafood from a few times a week to a few times a day. In the year and a half that I've been here, I have never seen a fish fillet, other than the ones I filleted myself. The fish is always served whole or cut into sections, if it is a larger fish. I filleted fish at home a couple of times and showed my wife how to do it. The next time she served fish, one side of the fish was filleted and the other side was cut into sections, with the bone. The fillet was for me and the sections for her. She thought I would prefer the fillet, but steaks are just fine with me, so, after a couple more times of serving the fish half one way and half the other, I suggested she just cut it the traditional way.

I have gutted and scaled fish a few times but I am slow at it, compared to Emelie. She can have ten fish done in the time it takes me to do two of them. I'm pretty sure this is an aptitude shared by most Filipinos. They are experts with most any kind of knife. Today, I watched Clyde take a dried branch from a guava tree that was cut off several weeks ago, and make it into a knife handle, using nothing more than his bolo, the machete of the Philippines.

I am eating a banana as I type this blog. We recently bought about 150 bananas, in two bunches, from the man who rents us his house. The bananas were growing in the yard. We paid a little over two bucks for the whole lot of them. You might be wondering what on earth we will do with 150 ripe bananas. We have three teenagers. Eating thirty bananas a day is no great feat for our crowd. Even the two year-old can devour several a day, between meals. The bananas we have now are about half the size of a large Chiquita banana, but the flavor makes a Chiquita seem tasteless.

Peanuts, anyone? I bought a large coffee can full of them at the market yesterday, intent on making lugaw today, which I did, but almost didn't because the boys ate most of the peanuts. I gave the boys and their sister each a handful, in the shell, after I boiled them last night. I told them I wanted to save the rest for the logaw, which is sweet rice cooked in lots of water so the consistency is mushy and soupy. Meat, fruit, veggies or anything edible can be added to the rice. I like mine with peanuts and I decided to add some bananas as well.

The boys got into the pot when I was in town doing errands  today. By the time I got home, they had eaten most of peanuts that I was saving for the lugaw.

I had a premonition. Last night before we went to bed, Clyde was telling us all a story about how he was born on a Sunday and on Monday he was given one apple to eat but it didn't fill him up. On Tuesday, he at one orange, but he wasn't full. On Wednesday he ate one apple and one orange; on Thursday it was one bag of rice. As the days went on, the gist of the story became apparent: nothing could fill Clyde's belly. A bag of rice, an apple, an orange, the combination of all of them - same result. The wrap-up to the story was this: only peanuts could fill Clyde up. He laughed and laughed at his own storytelling and we all laughed along with him. But I already had a suspicion about the fate of the peanuts.

Bagio, Typhoon, Hurricane. Same windy and wet animal.

October 11, 2011

 After washing my clothes yesterday in the late morning, my wife informed me that a "bagio", typhoon, was on the way. A couple of hours later, the relentless rain came with a furry. It has rained for the past two days straight. A couple of times it petered out to nothing more than a mist, but it never quit completely, and mist turned to heavy rain once again.

The Philippines gets an average of 25 typhoons a year. Our island of Cebu is sandwiched between bigger islands on either side of us. Most of the weather comes from the West, where Negros Island shoots skyward with its mountainous interior, keeping us safe from the kind of waves that would otherwise pound our coast and wash away the bamboo houses that stand on the sea wall or tempt fate by hanging out over the ocean, on pilings of wood or concrete.

In the cities, rain flows into garbage-clogged sewers, backing up into the concrete and tarmac streets, where it can't be absorbed by the ground. Overflowing rivers add to the melee. People are stranded. Some drown. Many are homeless. Not a pretty sight.

But here "in the Province", meaning anywhere outside the city, the water simply flows out to the sea.

My clothes are still hanging - and still wet - in various places around the outside of the house, under the shelter of the overhanging roof. If the rain doesn't let up soon, my clothes will grow mold. We don't own a dryer and there isn't a commercial laundry anywhere in town. If you own clothes, you dry them on a line. It's part of living here. If mold and mildew take up quarters on your shirts and undies, you just wash them again and pray for sunshine.

Two years ago, seven typhoons piled up on the backs of each other. The rain was extremely heavy and the wind blew hard... for two weeks solid. Trees were knocked down. A couple of houses got washed out to sea. Emelie and I were renting a place a couple miles south of here, right on the ocean. We didn't have a problem.

Typhoons might seem like something that occupies a spot near the top of a list of "cons" for living here. Not so, really. Since we don't get flooded, the typhoon spits and blows like a toothless old man who can't bite.

A Visit to the LTO

09/23/2011

The Land Transportation Office is where you get your driver's license and vehicle registration renewed. There are only two offices in the Province of Cebu. One is in Cebu City, and the other, in Carcar, a suburb of Cebu City. The island (and Province) of Cebu is long and narrow, like a  cigar. It would make perfect sense to put one LTO at one end of the island, and the other office at the other end. But the two offices are practically on top of each other. That is why we had to drive 215 kilometers, round trip, to get our registration renewed for our Rusi motor scooter. Six hours of sitting on a 125cc motor scooter. There is a consolation. A big one, in fact. The scenery is absolutely gorgeous, traveling through colorful little towns, along the coastal highway, then up, down and around the mountain roads as we cross the province from west to east.

So, we got there. We were escorted into a small office that served as the registration renewal office and the drug testing center for those getting their driver's license. The registration part of it had two desks and one young woman at each desk. The two ladies shared a typewriter which they passed back and forth. Yes, a real typewriter, a portable, in fact, I suppose to make it easier to pass back and forth.

Both ladies hunted and pecked with their middle fingers of one hand, reserving the middle finger on the other hand for a frenzy of taps on the space bar. The lady on the right, the one typing up our application, was the slower of the two. She could probably bang out four to six words a minute if her mouth wasn't spewing out a couple of paragraphs between each peck.

She was a very pleasant woman. Both of them were. At one point, the drug testing lady and a woman from another office came in and the four ladies had a five minute chat about the one woman's gray shoes with the big flowers on them. Ahem. Really, these ladies were all so very nice I never had a negative thought about them or the way they do business. After all, it's an integral part of Philippine life to cool your jets and enjoy your life and not get caught up in thoughts about wasting your valuable time.

In truth, the American viewpoint of self-importance begins to seem rather foolish and silly, as I am gradually discovering, after 16 months of living here.

Well, the ladies' pleasant little chat gave their middle fingers a chance to cool down from their race across the keyboard. Now it was time to let the lips cool and get back to the business of filling in ten pages of forms in order to justify collecting a heavy toll for the privilege of owning a motor cycle.

With the trip to the emissions testing facility, and standing in line to pay, included, we were done in just under two hours, a dizzying speed compared to last year's two days to get the same scooter registered. (No joke. We had to get a motel room for the night and then go back in the morning because the person who hands out the plate stickers was in the city for the day. Apparently there was only one person qualified to pick up a sticker and hand it through the window. I didn't ask.)

And then we had a very nice ride home. And this kind of sums up life in the Philippines: No matter what befalls you in your daily adventures, there is always the beautiful sea, the lush tropical trees, plants and flowers, and most of all, the wonderful people who inhabit these islands half a world away from my mother land.

6 + 2 = 12

During the week, there are six of us at the house. On the weekends, 8, with the addition of Frederick and Gabriel. But the additional two kids more than doubles the noise, commotion and confusion. I have often told Emelie that I would like to change that, but I haven't made a move in that direction because I just don't know what to do. I don't have the heart to tell Frederick and Gabriel that they  can't come to our house on the weekends. They really look forward to it, and it is an opportunity for them to eat almost as much as they want, perhaps making up, to some degree, for the deficit in their daily diet, Monday through Friday.

Those two youngest boys were spending weekends with us long before the other kids came to live with us. A couple of years ago, they stayed in a house we rented right on the water. It was a big house, where the kids could play in the upstairs common room. They slept on mattresses there during the night, and slid on them, across the polished wood floor, during the day. They wrestled, did yoga with me and engaged in the kinds of things boys love to do, which almost always ended in tickling and fits of laughter.

But now they don't get near the attention that they did then. Besides sharing our attention with their two older brothers, their sister and her baby, we have immersed ourselves in a lifestyle that squeezes activity into the hours until they bulge, what with preparing to build a house, moving our internet business to a new location, and starting a business of selling used bicycles.

What a stupid American I am! I came to paradise to become part of a laid-back culture, so I could truly enjoy my time here. What happened? Old habits and new situations, that's what. The worst of the habits is a result of the American way of thinking that creates a direct relationship between doing and self-worth. That thinking persists despite the idyllic vision I had of relaxing peacefully on my front porch, watching the ocean waves lap the shore and tumble the grains of sand.

New situations? Well, taking on a family of kids would qualify.The added financial responsibility tugs at our income, in all directions, making it thinner than a gnat's ass stretched across a barrel head. So, we eat at home, ration food, and shop for clothes where the second-hand attire is in wrinkled heaps on the bamboo tables, on market day.

It's not fair, but Emelie and I often buy one food for the kids and after they go to school, we get something better at a carenderia for her and me and Shane. We can't afford to feed them the more expensive foods but I am not willing to live on sardines, noodles, eggs and dried fish, which is what they often eat, along with their rice. I admit to being a spoiled American. But the kids are still far better off with us than they were at home. Many times there was only corn grits for them to eat, and sometimes they had to go hungry because there was absolutely no food at all. It is a common occurrence here in the Philippines, especially among the mountain people who rely on farming for their existence. Many of the farmers cannot afford a carabaw, a water buffalo, to plow their fields. So, the size of their farms is limited by what they can till by hand. And their small farms do not always grow enough food to feed them from one harvest to the next.

This life is so much different than what I am used to. In the U.S.A., it is a certainty that I would never be raising a family of four kids - an instantaneous family with 3 teens and a baby. Back home, if I came across destitute or abused children, I would simply report it to the proper authorities whose job it is to see that they are taken care of. I would easily avoid any involvement which would require a personal commitment to their welfare.

Pleasant Government Employees

Yesterday, Emelie, Clyde and I took a boat to Sibulan, Negros Island, then a jeepney to Dumaguete City. I needed to get an extension on my visa and Dumaguete has the closest Immigration Office. It's a necessary process every two months and costs about 3500 pisos ($80 U.S. currency, at the current exchange rate). While there, I found out that I can avoid the hassle and expense by getting a "balik bayan" visa. If Emelie and I travel out of the country, we can get the balik bayan upon request. That particular visa is free for a year and can be renewed yearly. That is almost unbelievable here, where the foreigner is charged heavily for the privilege of being where the water, weather and women are beautiful beyond compare and the cost of daily living turns a U.S. pauper into a Philippine prince.

 Then I asked the lady who works for Immigration - who is so pleasant, accommodating and informative, by the way, that it seems impossible she is a government employee - about a Permanent Residency. She referred me to the head honcho who was sitting in the office behind her. She told me to just walk in, which I did, with a little trepidation - a carry-over from my years of dealing with officious and important-in-their-own-eyes government employees of Uncle Sam.

He was just as pleasant and helpful. The listed rules concerning PR of foreigners state that the person must have the equivalent of $10,000 U.S.D. in the bank in order to be considered for permanent residency. He asked me if I had that much. I said no. He told me that if I had property or a business or regular government checks coming in, those could be used as part of the requirement for proof of financial support. I had all three. I was relieved to know it. After getting a copy of the application for permanent residency, we left and went shopping.

M R Pigs. (O S A R!)

There were two or three, fat-and-skin-encased pigs feet in a bowl on the table, the entire morning. I went to do some errands: getting food for En En at the carenderia; buying some ice for our cooler. When I returned home, the same bowl with the same contents was sitting on the same kitchen table. Emelie was sweeping up the bamboo leaves in the yard and asked me if I would start preparations for lunch by cutting up some garlic, onions and the meat. "Meat" was obviously a catch-all phrase, a euphemism for that combination of gristle, fat, hide and bone resting itself on the table.

Emelie knows I don't eat that kind of stuff and I haven't a clue about how to slice it or get it ready for anything other than the garbage, which is what I had in mind, sans garlic and onions. For a moment, I pictured myself hovering over the bowl of pork by-products, knife in hand, wondering what to cut away and what to save: The  table stays. Maybe the bowl.

Wouldn't it be be better to lay it in the road and run over it with a truck until it has the consistency of something that would digest in the stomach of the neighbor's dog?

 Pig fat probably has some use, maybe in protecting the pig from the severe cold of equatorial winters, or maybe as a lubricant. I watched Bobby Cinco use it for bearing grease on his tricycle recently. The wheel developed a squeal after that, hinting of the pig's bellowing in it's final moments, just before being hacked into ham, chops, and - oh, yes - pig's feet.

No, I wasn't going to prepare lunch and I answered my wife's question with silence. "You should know better than to ask." was the unspoken meaning, underscored by the vacuum of quiet. Later, I was to find out that she was talking about a bag of real pork meat and the feet were for her sister, Jane, who was there at the house with us. Never mind.

Just Another Episode

Jan’s actions tickle me. Bursting with personality and joi de vivre, his gusto and originality seem to be internally motivated by his delight with life.

When he first joined us, I braced myself for trouble. Only 13, he had left home and was living in empty shacks or sleeping for a few hours at Jude Momo’s all-night internet café. During the week, he would go to school and hang out without attending class or, if he went to a class, would sleep through most of it.

He enjoyed fist-fighting with the other kids and his attitude reflected a self-image of toughness and independence. But I suspected an aching loneliness and desire to fit in. Why else would he hang out around the school, on the fringe of his peer group, refusing to participate but showing an obvious desire to be part of the that group?

The situation grew worse. He was suspected of breaking into two different homes and stealing money and food. I felt a sinking feeling about his future, with a strong possibility of drug and alcohol involvement, aimless shifting, and the future prospect of jail time, all in a downward spiral with not much hope for good outcomes, and a chronic loneliness and confusion about life and how to live it.

I thought about all of this for a couple of weeks or so, toying with the idea of taking him to live with us. But I wasn’t sure if I had the patience or energy to deal with what I saw as his personality and problems.

Then, his brother Clyde, older by two years, joined Jan in his lifestyle of “catch-as-catch-can”, sleeping wherever; eating what they could get their hands on.

One night, shortly after, on the way home from our internet shop, I stopped the tricycle in front of Jude’s place, on a hunch that the two boys would be there. I went in and saw Clyde and Jan watching another boy playing a computer game. I told Clyde, in a firm, authoritative tone, to come outside so we could talk. (I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to give him a chance to refuse.)

The street was dark. I couldn’t see Clyde’s face. I wondered what he was thinking. There was no clue in the blackness there at the side of the road. I made my speech short and to-the-point, telling him that he was coming home with us. I told him to go back in and get his brother. When Jan Mark came out, I told him that he and Clyde were coming home with us.

It brings tears to my eyes as I write this. Two boys at a deceptively simple fork in the road. There was no fanfare; no sign of the importance of their decision to walk quietly to our vehicle and get in.

We laid down some rules that first night, but the overall message was one of hope: You boys have a home here. We’ll take care of you. You are safe with us.

They were now part of our growing family: Emelie and I, the boys’ older sister, Stefhanie, and Stefhanie’s baby, Shane, a fifteen month-old girl.

I love them all – probably Shane the most. After all, babies are set up that way: to engender love from the family that surrounds them.

As for Jan Mark, I’ve changed my opinion about him. Drastically so. Whatever toughness and attitude I think I saw, is not there at all now. Only an openness from a loving boy whose orneriness can be a pain in the ass at times. But his caring nature is always apparent.

When I was a kid, my father induced fear as a way of controlling the behavior of his children and wife. I knew how that affected me, the night that Jan and Clyde came to live with us. And I knew how their father used the same tactics. Something inside of me made itself known. I couldn’t ignore the overwhelming desire to provide a different atmosphere for the boys. I made a conscious choice to provide a loving and safe environment for them and the other two. It was a transformational decision for me.

I found that making a commitment to providing a loving environment for the kids, brought some surprising changes as well. Like magic, the kids responded in like kind: with love and respect. And the most amazing, and ironic change is this: a healing of old wounds started to take place inside of me. I feel it. I feel its positive nature. Promise springs from this, and a steady-state of feeling safe and secure – the other end of the spectrum from living in fear for my safety – like being cradled in the womb, for all time.

I didn’t say much about Emelie in this version of this episode of our life. But she plays a central role in everything that took place and continues to take place. Emelie is the pillar of loving strength in our home. The kids have all known this for their entire lives. Almost all of them have asked to live with her at some time or another. She has taken in both Frederick, the second-to-the-youngest of the family, and Stepfanie. Frederick lived with Emelie for a time while I was still in the U.S. and Stefhanie lived with her years ago.

My wife’s sometimes-stern, but always solid and unwavering love, is the foundation of our lives together. Her heart guides her every decision concerning our family. I sometimes feel at a loss as to how she comes to a conclusion about what to do. But I have learned to trust whatever quiet process takes place inside of her and leads her to make decisions that are magical and effective in bringing out the best in us.

Random Ramblings

Not much going on here at the internet café. Six of us are using the computers but not one is a paying customer. The internet is down in all the cafés in town. It happens. There is only one internet provider in this area of the province. In fact, it is the only provider in most of the province, with the exception of “the city” (Cebu City).

I just took a walk with my grand niece, Shane. We walked to the convenience store for a pack of medium diapers. She was wet, so I didn’t carry her until we were on our way back to the shop: when she grew tired of walking and slowed down, I picked her up. Then we talked to the moon for a minute. She stares at the moon for a long time, as if it is something fascinating to see. I agree with that assessment.

One evening, about two months ago, she was out in the front yard with her mom, watching the moon. Shane extended her arm and opened and closed her hand, making a “come here” gesture to the moon, saying “Peso, moon. Peso, moon!” as if requesting the moon for money. I would never have thought of such a thing, myself. I like her ingenuity and it’s a no-lose situation. If a peso falls out of the sky, so be it; if not, nothing lost.

It’s times like this that make me wonder what she thinks. Does she really think the moon can give her a peso? And what ever inspired her, a 1 and one half year-old, to put peso and moon together in a request?

The same six of us, Jan Mark, Clyde, Stefhanie, Frederick and Gabriel, went for a late-afternoon swim. The water was clear and smooth and a perfect sea-green. Jumps and dives off the jetty filled the air with children’s laughter. Splashing, swimming, diving down for rocks and coral, and chasing fish and each other were all on the full agenda for fun.

Jan Mark and Clyde made a game out of picking up a huge chunk of dead coral from the bottom of the ocean, taking it to another location, dropping it, and swimming down to pick it up again. They are both very good swimmers and can stay under water much longer than I can.

All the kids, including Shane, just love the sea – the “dagat” in Cebuano. Each visit to the ocean is as fresh and new as the first; never taken for granted. My greatest joy is watching their never-ending pleasure. I am grateful for the opportunity to witness it, and be a part of it.

A Virus, an Emancipation, Some Pigs

It's Philippine cold season, the kind of cold that starts with a virus and ends a month or two later when the fever, chills, cough, and runny nose have run their course. Luckily, it can only happen in any month that starts  with a letter between A and S. That's how I remember it. I figured that out during the peak of one of my feverish periods two years ago.

I caught my present cold yesterday. A half hour after I felt the scratchiness in my throat, my wife complained of a soreness in hers. I've heard that women who have lived together for a while, have their periodic cycles in sync with one another. (Is there something that links the last two sentences together? I'm not sure.)

Here is a true story about the island of Negros, just a stone's throw and about 10 miles across Tanon Straight, from where we are on Cebu Island. The Spanish invaded the Philippines in the 1500's and possessed it for about 450 years.

The inhabitants of Negros Island had a unique and ingenious way of ousting their captors. Since they had no money for weapons, they made fake ones carved from wood - rifles, canons, etc. They painted their wooden weapons and marched on the capital. When the Spanish saw them marching their way, from a distance, they immediately laid down their arms and surrendered.

How about that? I wish I could get rid of my cold that easily. I would take a placebo, label it "virus killer", swallow it with a glass of water and then wait in front of the toilet with the expectation of hearing the screams and yells of the viruses as they fled my body in a stream of pee.

Never mind.

A ritual started about two weeks ago, at our house. I'm sure it's one of those family-bonding things that the two teenage boys will remember when they are old. One evening I told them the story of the three little pigs.

The wolf, whose name was Justice, was bigger and meaner than the original, and had an awful breath from former pig-eating forays. Because of my growing, age-related confusion, other characters entered the story. Little Red Riding Hood was there, sliding in on her silver skates. The White Rabbit, dressed for tea, booked wagers at 2-to-1 odds, against the wolf, and Johnny Carson, as Carnak the Magnificent, prophesied the fate of the pigs.

B.S. flowed. The lie got bigger.

Stopping just long enough to lubricate the parch in my throat with rum and water, we finally got to the end, the part where Bilbo Baggins carved up a ham sandwich for himself in the house made of bamboo, old Chevy parts, and carabaw dung. But I had forgotten, until the boys reminded me, that the wolf was still hanging around the front door, dreaming and drooling over the possibility of a share in the ham booty. So, the wizard sent in the witch and her flying monkeys, who skewered the wolf and cooked him, live, over an open pit of charcoal designed for roasting pigs. Justice was served.

Every day since the first, the boys ask for stories. Their engrossed faces tell of the magical fascination that is a gift reserved for the young.

It makes me very happy to cater to that fascination.

Newly-Discovered Sexual Position: A Promise of Heavenly Delight!

A new post is an imposing obstacle when all I have in mind is a "sense" of what I want to write. That "sense" contains a lot of sentiment and, as such, is as far away from the construction of words as the brain will allow. But,  that's where the gift of writing comes into play. Somewhere there is an intersection between thought and feeling. For me, it is not direct observation that puts thought and feeling together, at that intersection. What works for me is diving in, swimming around the arena of feelings, then surfacing into thought, looking around for landmarks, and going back under, then, repeating this process until the light comes on in my head that is attached to my typing fingers. Voila! Thoughts come, "stuff" happens and words are formed.

But tonight is different. I don't have a "sense" about anything. I am sitting in front of this computer at our internet cafe, because I feel like writing, but the desire alone doesn't carry much punch. My fingers are ready. The blank screen is waiting for the little black symbols to fill the page. Nothing comes to mind. Kind of like going out for target practice without ammunition. At least there are no bears to contend with. Not that life lacks anything noteworthy: Jane, Emelie's sister and the mother of the kids we take care of, just had another baby. Look. Don't spread it around, but I hope she quits having kids.

It is ant season here. You won't hear about ant season on the weather channel. Sure, there is rainy season and dry season and hot and "cold" season (when the temp drops to a shivering 75 degrees), but it is all a tactic of the Department of Tourism, in cooperation with the media, to avoid talking about ant season, the meanest season of the year.

Fifteen minutes after rainy season, when the earth is dry and hot, the ants surface en-mass, in search of food. Grain, meat, sweets, oil - depending on the kind of ant - are all on the list but your foot is a more-than-adequate substitute for any of these.

 I found out, recently, that ants don't bite, they sting. Well, actually, they drill. That's right. They drill a hole into you and then squirt a bunch of chemicals in that are manufactured in the meanest part of the ant, probably very close to the asshole (excuse my French), since the whole business stinks.

Okay. This isn't science, but you can throw science out the window when you have just been stung on your big toe by an ant. Feels like a nail has been driven through your foot. I got stung three times this past friday, which just happened to have been Good Friday. It was a near-religious experience. Probably would have been the real thing if I hadn't said "Holy Shit!" In this case, "holy" modifies the word the shit, as any English major would tell you, but it don't modify it enough to render it pure and clear. At least, not pure and clear enough to open the gates of heavenly bliss and allow for even a fraction of a second of religious experience. Damn! I screwed up!

Most of the ants that sting are red, but there are exceptions to the rule: notably, a very large black ant, about a half inch long, called the nigerus antus maximus mf. I named it myself. All is in latin except for the "mf", which are the first letters of the two words that I yell out whenever I get pierced by one of these babies!

Okay, that's all I have to say about that.

Well, were you expecting something else? 

From Skepticism to Appreciation

The chosen coconuts must be hanging alone, not in a bunch, and they must come from the east side of the tree and be harvested on Good Friday, only. This is part of the recipe for concocting the special oil that heals many ills and also protects from bad spirits, witches and those with evil intent. If someone touches you and you are not carrying a small bottle of the oil on your person, you must touch them back to keep any evil from settling on you and causing you harm or even death.

A woman should never let her panties hang on the line to dry overnight, outdoors. If she does, she risks becoming impregnated by a non-human being of the night. And if that happens, she will conceive a white child with white hair, not a typical Filipino child. And the child will not be wholly human.

                                                                                                             

A certain movement of the fingers, pointed at oncoming rain, can prevent the rain from coming further.

Evil beings can inhabit trees and take on human form and if angered can cause a person’s life to become a nightmare for them and their generations to follow.

The Philippine culture is rich with beliefs in magic, other-worldly beings, witches, the power of concoctions, healers and more. A woman in northern Cebu comes from a long line of healers. Eating her deceased brother’s teeth and using his skull in rituals helped enable her healing powers.

Uncle Placido has the third eye. He has the ability to see spirit beings. So did his mother before him – Emelie’s grandmother.  

These are just a few of things I’ve heard since living here the past 10 months. There are some things I just plain don’t believe, like the woman’s underwear on the clothesline being responsible for pregnancy. No way. Some woman must have invented that one when she became pregnant as the result of an affair. And the excuse was kept alive through the generations by other women caught in the same predicament. “Oh my gosh honey! Must have been those panties I left on the line overnight!”

I can attest to the healing power of the special coconut oil: two drops of it cured, almost instantly, nausea I had had for several hours. Emelie borrowed a bottle of the oil from her cousin, Nilo, who got it from Placido. Emelie didn’t tell me much about the oil. She just said, “Take this. You won’t believe in it, but take it anyhow.” I did. It worked.

I try to keep an open mind about things that are beyond my experience and knowledge. Emelie was right, I didn’t believe in the curative powers of the oil. But neither did I disbelieve. Why form an opinion at all if there isn’t enough information on which to base it?

The Philippine people have been here long enough to have a rich cultural history. This is foreign to our American experience, since our ancestors came from many different countries and have only been in America for a few centuries at most.

I thought about what it must be like to grow up in this area of the world, where traditions and beliefs have been passed down through the centuries, by word of mouth, from one generation to the next. The Spanish oppressed the Philippines for almost 500 years, but failed to erase the beliefs and traditions of the people, even when those beliefs ran counter to Catholicism, the religion forced upon the Filipinos. What a testament to the lasting-power of their traditional culture.  

Both the differences and the similarities between Filipinos and Americans are a source of fascination for me. The differences point out the diversity which adds color and variety to our lives, and enables us, of a different culture, to look at life from another point of view. 

For me, this creates an opportunity to not only  consider different beliefs but to reconsider my own, in light of the new perspective. In doing so, something happens which I never expected: I begin to see that what I assumed to be a fact - to be reality - is often just a belief; just another point of view. This is a humbling awareness and it leads me to a greater respect for the culture and its people, in which I am immersed.

Ahhhhhh!!!!!

Today flowed along like warm honey in the sunshine: sparkling gold, smooth and sweet. Before the gang got here, I decided to make an effort to pay more attention to the boys. The last time they were here, Gab about drove me nuts trying to get my attention. So, when Emelie announced that they were walking on the road, just about to the house, I put on a happy face and prepared myself to speak in joyous tones.

It wasn't necessary. When I saw Frederick, then Gab, come through the door, a genuine happiness rode roughshod over my fake one. I was glad to see them. We played, went swimming, studied, sang, ate, swam again, played some more and just generally enjoyed each other's company immensely. Stephanie was singing up a storm while dividing her time between cooking, cleaning and watching the kid. Shane peed twice on the floor and made us all laugh with her baby antics. Once, when I was singing, she sang out in accompaniment with all the strength her little lungs could muster.

The day was filled with happy noises, laughter and music. Plumb wore me out, so I took a long nap in the middle of it all. When I awoke, I found the two boys sacked out, unconscious to the world, in the other bedroom. Emelie had threatened them: no nap, no coming with us to the shop - our internet cafe - to play games on the computers. A punishment to rival the medieval rack.

Boyish delights. Young woman's dreams. A baby's innocent explorations. And behind it all, my wife's quiet and strong presence, watching her flock like a seasoned shepherdess while taking care of household business.

So it went.And here I am,basking in the satisfied feeling that comes when a near-perfect day announces itself, in retrospect, during a quiet evening's reflection.

I think. I thank. I thunk.

I can still conjugate!

Breakfast was oatmeal. Chocolate oatmeal. That's how we like it. Nice and dark. When Emelie was half finished, she remembered that there was still some rice in the pot from last night. She piled a huge scoop of it on top of her remaining oatmeal. With my glasses off and through a hard squint, it looked pretty good; like a mound of marshmallow fluff on top of double chocolate-fudge ice cream. Sometimes its better to distort reality just a little. It's not like a lie. It's more like the use of creative license.

Don't tell a Filipino that rice is a side dish. Every meal starts and ends with rice. Pork, beef, fish, goat, and dog (just kidding, for the most part) all come on a small plate to accompany a large serving of rice. If my wife runs out of rice part way through a meal, she has to stop eating until another plate of it comes to the table. This is no exaggeration, and Emelie is not unique in this. Rice is the fuel of the Asian world.

The kids are coming this weekend: Emelie's sister's kids. We haven't had them with us for almost three weeks. It has been a quiet and uneventful three weeks. Salamat sa Dios! Stephanie and her 16 month-old daughter, Shane, will be moving back in with us. Frederick and Gabriel will be here until we drop them off at school on Monday morning, with their backpacks of untouched paper and pencils and a lunch purchased that morning at Rose's Carenderia.

Life seems to always put me in situations which point out my errors in thinking. For example: I thought I had boundless love for children and that any obstacle or challenge in caring for them would easily be overcome by that boundless love. I was wrong. I'm more selfish than that. Without going into details about the particulars of my brand of selfishness, or how it clashes with the needs and desires of the kids, I can tell you that I am okay with my limitations, in that regard. And it would be only truth to tell you that investing myself in being who I really am is much more important to the well-being of all of us - including the kids - than trying to live up to who I thought I was. So be it.

When the kids come tomorrow, I won't suggest any changes to our routine or our living and visiting arrangements. I will just see what transpires as each situation is approached from the perspective of my new awareness and resulting priorities.

Hoping to Catch a Health Contagion

I have been sick for the past 10 days. I'm tired of it and ready to move on to health. So what is holding me down and back? I've been wishing for a grilled, Velveeta cheese sandwich and a can of cream-of-tomato soup.Ahhhh!!! I still believe in magic and the healing power of imagining the right foods.

When I was a kid, mom would bring to my sick bed anything I wanted and could hold onto without upchucking. Egg nog, ice cream, homemade potato soup made with onions and celery, and with cheese floating on the top and saltines on the side. And my absolute, all-time favorite: jelly bread! No skimping on the corners and one slice should be an end piece. Thank you.

My choices here are rice, corn grits, fish, chicken and pork. I'm losing weight for lack of grilled cheese and jelly bread, hot soup and a one pound bag of Pennsylvania Dutch, sour-dough pretzels. How can life be so unfair? I miss my mommy.

Leapin' Lizards Livonia! What's goin' on here?!

It's been raining off and on, all day today. The sea is restless, slamming against the seawall and exploding into a salt spray. Stephanie's brother, Clyde, and I, spent a long hour silently watching the wave action from the shelter of the porch on the guard shack of the fish sanctuary. The shack sits on stilts over the beach that forms the land boundary of the ocean sanctuary.

Once in a while I would say a few words and Clyde would smile or nod, conserving energy for the more-important business of being hypnotized by the moving ocean. We simply watched the powerful waves churn themselves into foam, while tumbling rocks, shells and sand in the deep rumble of the surf.

Earlier this morning, Clyde helped me shovel rocks and shells into an empty feed sack and carry loads of it across the street to the house, where they were dumped in the grassy space between the corn field and the fence around the yard, creating a parking space for the tricycle. In the hour and half we worked at it, I wore my sweaty self out and my lungs and ticker were calling for a reprieve.

As we stood at the railing of the guard shack, looking out to sea and at the beach below us, I noticed that each wave, in its second or two of washing over the shore, moved more rocks than we moved in the hour and half of toting the heavy sacks across the street. The waves quickly changed the arrangement of rocks back to the way it was before we meddled in nature's affairs with our shovel.

I am sitting at the kitchen table, writing with a ball pen, on a school tablet. No spacebar. No Enter key. Man, this old-fashion! I love it! I can hear the steady rain on the roof and street and the waves pounding out a beat on the shore. The light is subdued. A quiet light. A hint of twilight and the coming darkness. A glance at the watch tells me it's 4:30PM. The sun is retiring early because of rain.

Wow! What in tarnation?! A 2 1/2 foot-long lizard - black and with a mile-long, pink tongue that darted in and out, tasting the air - just slithered under the space between the bottom of the back door and the floor. He jumped and clawed and wiggled here and there, around the house, trying to get back out. (I can sympathize. I get into things all the time without an exit plan.) Knocking bottles down, moving boxes, his commotion stirred us into a lethargy bordering on sleep.

Not hardly! Clyde grabbed a club. I grabbed a broom. Stephanie grabbed the baby - a useless tool against a giant lizard, but there was no time for argument. After we helped Mr. Lizard find the front door and our adrenaline rush was given vent in the form of chatter, Emelie told me that that kind of lizard is harmless unless it bites you. Hmmmm.....

Tykes and Trikes

Shane posing as a sleeping child

Shane was released from the hospital nine days ago. She left with a wheelbarrow load of medicines – double her measly 5 kilograms of body weight - and a regimen that included vitamins three times a day, antibiotics four times daily starting at 6AM, and an aerosolized medication for opening the airways, thrice daily.

Tricyle - The Philippine taxi.

Shane and her mom, Stephanie, moved in with us. It was our idea. They are both very thin. Maybe we can help put some meat on their bones.

 It’s nice having them there. Shane is cute and loveable, stumbling her little self around the rooms; practicing her version of walking: a wide-stance, sumo-like, diaper-straddling forward ambulation, with the staggering gate of an over-indulged inebriant. Her mom  is easy-going and pleasant, singing her way through the hours of the day. She laughs easily and is a great help around the house.

 The little tyke is still getting used to Uncle Mark. I have three strikes against me, from her point of view. I'm a foreigner. "Alien" is a better word. A human being, to a one year-old Filipino, has black hair, brown skin, a short nose and Asian eyes.  A bald, blue-eyed white dude is too far outside the bell curve of what constitutes homo sapiens. I also use a strange language - more proof of my alien status. And my glasses are just plain strange. People she knows don't wear 'em.

Family size

We had our motor scooter converted to a tricycle. Making it big enough for the four of us, the sidecar is attached to the bike with bolts and welds. The third wheel is a 13" car wheel. I had the headlights installed but they aren't hooked up yet. I thought about a sound system, but most of our travel is by the sea, and the sound of the ocean is the best background music for vistas of white-capped, aquamarine waves and swaying palm trees. 

A trip to the hospital

January 12,  2010

Yesterday, I went for an early bike ride. When I came home, Emelie and I got ready to scooter down to Besa’s carenderia for breakfast. Before we left, Emelie’s sister Jane, Jane’s daughter Stephanie, and grand daughter Shane pulled up in front of the house in a tricycle-taxi.

Shane had been sick for the past few days, with vomiting and diarrhea. The three of them were on their way to the hospital in Malabuyoc, 8 kilometers north of us. After they left, Emelie and I went to the shop to take care of some business. Then we headed for the hospital but stopped in a carenderia in Malabuyoc for breakfast first.

Our three relatives were sitting on a cot in the hallway, in front of the nurses’ station, when we entered the hospital. Shane already had an I.V. port in her hand. A bottle of sugar water, hanging from a pole, fed the vein where the needle entered her hand. The three of them were waiting for the doctor and an empty hospital bed so Shane could be admitted.

The human body is a living skin-sack of watery fluids. When the water leaks out faster than it is being replaced – as with the double-whammy of diarrhea and vomiting – all sorts of things go awry, and in short order, the person who is dehydrating can be on the dividing line between life and death. And Shane was especially vulnerable, having lost two and a half pounds of her meager body weight of 13.5 pounds, in the last two days. At 11 pounds, she was less than half the normal weight of a girl her age.

The hospital was full of children. Every one of them had an I.V. going. There were a dozen boxes of liquid Ampicillin, for injection, sitting on the counter at the nurses’ station. After the doctor examined Shane, I asked him why the hospital was full of children and why they all had I.V.s. He said they were all suffering from diarrhea and vomiting, caused by the bacteria Salmonella typhi and contracted through contamination with human feces. It was Typhoid fever! In Alegria, the next town north, the public water supply was contaminated and the hospital was overflowing with infected children. The contamination came on the heels of flooding from very heavy rains a week ago. The flooding waters must have come in contact with human feces and then entered the public water supply.

In our town, Ginatilan, the water was heavily chlorinated after the rains. But it wasn’t enough. Over the course of the next couple of days, we would discover that Emelie’s God-son, another niece and a nephew were all at the Malabuyoc hospital being treated for the same symptoms. All came from Ginatilan. A compounding factor, in the spread of contagious disease, is the eating habits of many Filipinos. Fingers were made before forks, and many families use them, in lieu of forks, knives and spoons, to eat their meals. In combination with inadequate or non-existent hand-washing and sharing food from a common bowl, infectious agents are also shared and disease is spread throughout the family.

Shane was admitted. She would sleep a while, wake up, nurse or drink water, then lay and stare, wide-eyed. Her heart was beating fast. She cried sometimes, but it was a weak and tearless cry. I was afraid for her. She was so small and skinny and very, very sick. The doctor started her on Ampicillin, vitamins and something for her fever and cough.

We were sitting in the pediatric ward of the hospital. Jane, Stephanie and Shane were on the bed. In the hall outside the doorway to the ward, there was a group of people sitting before a candle-lit altar, singing religious songs - slow and sad, but beautiful - in Cebuano. A big man with a guitar accompanied them.

I looked around the room we were in. A sleepy ceiling fan twirled. Light coming through the jalousie windows filtered through green curtains, giving a sickly caste to life in the ward and accentuating the cold loneliness of the melancholy music.

Emelie, Jane and Stephanie were all singing. The baby slept peacefully on Grandma Jane’s lap. The other four families in the ward – women and their young daughters – were quiet. Maybe they were listening. Maybe they were keeping company with their private thoughts. Everyone looked far away, but intense in their self-absorption, as if performing a silent soliloquy. It was like a Tennessee Williams play: subtly surreal.

 The music was everything. In contrast to the wistful tune, there was a palpable message of hope, or maybe a longing for hope, in the strong and clear voices of the believers. It filled the silent crevices of unspoken fears - about sickness, about poverty, hunger and the future.

Another Year to Breathe

January 05, 2011

It has rained since December 31. We are in our fifth day of no sun, only downpours, interspersed with light rain or mist. According to Filipino belief, if it rains on January second, the rainy season will continue through February. If it rains on the third of January, the rainy season will extend through March. If it continues to rain throughout the month, I suppose we can expect the rainy season to last well into July of 2012.

Very difficult to comprehend that ten years of this century and millennium are already water under the bridge. In another ten years, Emelie will be 43 and I will be heading toward 71, if I continue to wake up every morning, which, by the way, is my New Year’s resolution. What’s that you say? You think that’s a silly resolution? Not at all! ‘Silly’ is setting goals you either can’t achieve or you achieve at such a price that it tires you out and leaves you wishing for the comfort of a few bad habits.

Give me life! That’s all I ask! Another day to wake up and breathe! In, out, through the nose. And if life stinks I can appreciate that too. I often awake to the smell of pig shit. It’s all around. Everybody raises pigs. No one comments on the smell. The same way they don’t comment on bad luck, lack of money – a serious lack for most – aches and pains, long, hard working hours or even the death of a loved one.

A young woman and her husband lost their only child a few months ago. They came to Emelie’s mountain home a couple of weeks ago, to help us celebrate the Combalbag Fiesta. I asked about her and her husband and started to ask about the child. It was a blunder, automatic, without forethought. I cut myself short but it only served to accentuate the sad situation. With tears in her eyes, she told me how hard it was. She said it matter-of-fact, and in a way that left a vast emptiness in the moments after her statement: a black hole of sadness that clouded, for that moment, my own vision.

She broke the silence on a note of genuine hope: they had each other. I looked at her red-eyed husband. He smiled. I was grateful for their bravery. I felt a connection to both of them, through this shared sadness and hope. Maybe it wasn’t a blunder, after all.

So, let me wake up tomorrow, and continue to do so for many tomorrows to come. I can handle the rest of the day, once I’m conscious and recapture that sincere appreciation for the ability to breathe and move, one more time. I can handle any kind of day when I keep that broader perspective of appreciation for just being alive.

That’s my prayer. So be it.

Dancin' Fool

 December 19, 2010

At 2AM the moon was high, spilling blue-silver light between the coconut palms. The few clouds were edged in it; the ground, the participants, including the dancers, tinted with it. It was the annual fiesta of Combalbag, the mountain citio that Emelie calls home. It started Saturday evening, with prayers and singing in the chapel. Titi Ali played his guitar. When the service was over, there were pastries and soft drinks in the rear, and beer on a table just before the chapel’s altar. This marked the beginning of seven days of chapel services, ending on Christmas.

A hundred yards away, giant speakers came to life, pounding out a disco beat that would continue for the next 6 hours. Beer and rum – 36 pisos per bottle – lubricated tongues and limbs as the dancing began. We smiled, talked, laughed, joked and danced. And we drank: fighter wine and beer mixed together; Tanduay Rhum and Sprite.

Mixed couples, groups of men, groups of women, individuals, kids, even Boboy’s 77 year-old father, cut the rug on the rocky dirt floor under the canopy of the tropical forest.

My wife, Emelie, is Secretary of the group that sponsors the event every year. She was busy all night, supervising the collection of ballots for the three young women contesting for queen of Combalbag. At the end of the night, she took the ballot money and the donations from those who paid to dance with the contestants, back to the chapel to be counted.

My job was to drink, dance and have fun, and keep an eye on our two nephews, Frederick and Gabriel. It never occurred to me that these objectives might be mutually exclusive. But the boys made it easy for me. They stuck to me like glue until they passed out in the early morning hours, sleeping on a wooden platform just outside the circle of revelers.

I drank a bit more than Emelie had in mind for me to drink and considerably less than I intended. I suppose it was a good compromise. We were staying the night at her mountain home. It was just a short walk, or roll if your legs are a bit wobbly, along a down-hill path from where the disco was being held. Gravity would pull a man there, no matter his condition. Mighty convenient, I was thinking.

What consternated my drinking muscle was the dancing. My ass never had a chance to find a comfortable niche on the bench behind Emelie and my feet and legs never stopped moving as I was dragged from the end of one song into the beginning of the next. My ticker pounded away like a jackhammer, but apparently didn’t bring enough oxygen to the part of my brain that accounts for sensibility. I was dead on my feet.

When the chance to sit down finally came, it was with a flush and in a pool of sweat. I didn’t mind. I was thinking I must be pretty cool to be so popular on the dance floor. I reminisced about dance moves from 40 years ago, when swooning was just one of the imagined affects my coolness had on the girls of that time.

Later, as we walked the path home, I was telling Emelie how all the dancing left me exhausted. “That’s because you jump around like a cow that’s just broke free of its chains” she said. Then she laughed. I laughed so damn hard, I thought I was going to roll down that hill. Leave it to my wife’s descriptive honesty to keep me grounded! English is her second language. Sometimes she hesitates and stammers to find the right the words. Sometimes they burst out in a flurry of staggering genius! It’s sure nice to have her around, even when it prickles just a little.

It was 3:30AM when we crawled into our makeshift bed on the bamboo floor of her house. The foam we slept on was just wide enough for one person, and occupied by three of us: Emelie on one side; me on the other, and Frederick between us.

At 4:30AM our pig, Cecelia, started bawling for water. She woke up all the roosters around, who set up a crowing in a chain reaction, starting with Big Red who was tied up directly under our floor. Fortunately, the cows, goats and carabaw slept through it, and didn’t add their voices to the cacophony (or melody, depending upon your ears). The dogs and cats had the good sense to keep quiet.

I must have fallen back to sleep and I woke up a second time around 6:30. I was grateful for Frederick’s stillness in the night. He sleeps very seriously, as if death has a temporary grip on him.

After rousing, we lounged around for a little while. Then the three of us hopped on the scooter and headed down the mountain road to town and south along the highway that borders the ocean, stopping at Besa’s Café on the water, in Suba, where Emelie and I ate a breakfast of fish soup and corn grits and Derick had a fried fish cake with rice.

Life is good.

Smells Like Life

December 09, 2010

It rained most of the day today. Some of the laundry we did yesterday is still wet. My towel, for instance. It hung on the line that we have strung between the post and the window bars, on the front the porch, since yesterday morning and it’s still about half way between sopping and damp. So am I.

Cecilia

This morning, we left our rental house by the sea and headed 2 kilometers up the mountain road to Emelie's house. The sky was gray, turning to black, when we started out on our scooter. We were at the house about 45 minutes when the rain started. It began just when we finished feeding Cecelia, our pig. The pig’s food dish is a half tire, cut the way you would cut a bagel for toasting. As I was cleaning it out, the raindrops wet the back of my shirt. My crocs and feet were wet and muddy for the rest of the day.

Cooking Grits (maize)

While the grits were cooking, I washed some dishes and went to her uncle’s house to buy two cans of sardines. Her aunt and uncle, Placido and Chris, have a small bamboo hut Placido built to use as a store. Placido, or Tiocidi as Emelie affectionately calls him, is a few years younger than me. He’s short and on the chubby side. Like many of the mountain farmers in the Philippines, he tills the soil with a pick and a knife, by hand. He gets up very early each morning and starts working, and he continues throughout the day. In addition to his farm work, he always has projects. He built a small house along the road near his corn so he could watch it and protect it from thieves. His little bamboo house was erected in days, with only a few tools. (Tiocidi can do amazing things with a bolo, a short, thick machete, and a sickle.) Then he put a bamboo fence around it in short order. Everything was made from the bamboo and trees that grow right there near his hut. He works constantly, never complains, and always has a smile and pleasant word. He and Chris have 10 children, some married and some still in grade school.

 I bought my sardines and walked back to the house. Emelie has never owned a can opener. She is proficient at opening cans with a knife. I am not. I had my Swiss army knife with the handy-dandy can opener on it. It worked great.

The grits were made from the corn that Jane, Emelie’s sister, and her husband Floriano grew. They took sacks of the shelled corn to the mill and had it ground. Two years ago, I watched Jane grind the corn herself, between two large wheels of stone made for the purpose. They were the stones that Emelie’s grandparents used many years ago. The top stone has a hole in it, near the center, and a handle for turning. The bottom stone is immobile. Corn kernels are dropped in the hole; the top stone is turned and ground corn grits spill out from between the stones, in all directions. The floor under the stones, and around it, is covered with feed sacks to catch the corn grits. Maize is the staple of Jane’s family and many times the only food they have to eat, along with the vegetables they grow.

When the grits were ready, we each ate a bowl of them, topped with the sardines in tomato sauce. After doing the dishes, I went to visit Emelie’s aunt, Hemen, at her house next to Emelie’s. Hemen’s house is built up high, on stilts. It was originally the family home of Emelie’s grandparents. It’s a large bamboo house with a wood frame. The framework of the bamboo houses is made from coconut wood, Philippine mahogany, or germolina. Coconut wood is soft and is a favorite food of termites. Mahogany and Germolina are hardwoods and fairly resistant to termites. But most of the mountain farmers can’t afford the expensive, termite-resistant woods. And coconut wood is free, as everyone has trees on their property.

Jane Grinding Corn

As I am writing this, I smelled something that is not quite right. I put my nose closer to my watch. The band smells like a mixture of sour sweat and pig poop. I took a bath just before coming here to the internet café, but I didn’t think about my watch band. Need to wash it, soon.

Since I swerved into the topic of stinky stuff, I’ll just expand on that a little. It’s a thing worth mentioning. Mountain people live with stink all around, every day, all day and night. It’s an integral part of living. With goats, pigs, chickens, cows and carabaw all living within close proximity to the house, sounds and smell abound. In the rainy season, the droppings are mixed in with the mud, which is everywhere. You walk on mud; you walk on shit. Doesn’t matter. They’re the same color and texture.

What I noticed, since my first visit to the area, is that my nose adjusted to the stink. I love the mountain areas and especially the area around Emelie’s house. The people and places are familiar to me. So is the stink. Now, it’s a special stink and when I smell it: I think of happy homes, wonderful family, funny pigs, romping kid goats and the experiences I’ve had with them all. 

Superstition, Snakes, A Pig and Religion

December 05, 2010

Another very good day. I hesitate to say great. Don’t want to muck up what’s left of it with a last-minute jinx, knock on wood. Just a taste of American superstition, as a reminder that we Americans are not without ours, before I relate the following story.

Next door to our internet café, and a part of the same building, is the former residence of CEPEDECO, one of the many small cooperatives that substitute for real banks, here in the province. They closed their doors and ripped off their customers by keeping their customers’ savings, while still collecting on debts and not telling the debtors that they were closed.

Never mind!

This story is about the family of the current renters. The building sat empty for the past couple of years until the folks who are there now decided to start a gift shop - a needed store here in Ginatilan. (When Emelie and I got married, we received six sets of water glasses as presents because they were one of the very few items which can be used as gifts, sold in any of the local stores.)

This afternoon, I was talking to the lady who is renting the space, while a group of people, who I discovered were a gathering of her brothers and sisters, were repairing and remodeling the store. She comes from a family of 12 kids. After we finished our conversation, Emelie and I went next door, to our shop. As we sat at the table we have for money and the laptop, Emelie leaned over closer to me and in a hushed voice said, “One of her sisters has a twin that is a snake.”

I let that soak in for just a few seconds before I said anything. The Philippines is a very different country. I’m reminded of it all the time. Sometimes I am jarred so far out of my own reality that the best thing for me to do is just collect myself and prepare for an open-minded approach to God-knows-what.

“What?” I asked, knowing full well what she said but hoping the second time around might bring a different answer. She repeated it in the same soft voice “…a snake!” There was a pause. I knew what was coming next. “You don’t believe me ba?” she asked. (Ba is a Cebuano word to indicate that the sentence is a question.) This is one of those tough questions that crop up from time to time in a marriage. Luckily, I know how to handle the situation. At 60, and with two other marriages behind me, experience has taught me – like a hammer ‘teaches’ a nail – that diplomacy is a virtue whose value far exceeds that of any old “facts”, any day of the week, during the lifetime of a marriage.

“I don’t know if I believe it or not” I lied. Another pause, and then “Well, do you know about the Robinson’s? The ones that own Robinson’s mall ba?” I didn’t. “I will show you the video” she said. She was sitting at the laptop and looked up Youtube and then typed in ‘Robinson snake’. What came up was a video of a large, dead snake coiled around itself. The head was sort of human-looking although it really looked more like something from Dawn of the Dead. It had long blonde hair and eyes that went in different directions and a wrinkled, charcoal colored face. Two other women were standing near us, also looking at the video. They both confirmed the ‘truth’ of the Robinson’s snake-daughter, born as a twin to a normal girl about twenty years ago.

So be it. New subject.

We hung out with our newly acquired pig twice today. You might think its kind of silly to enjoy the company of a pig, but I think pigs are just a step or two above cool. I like their pink bodies, their floppy, long ears, curly tails, round rumps, long snouts, permanent smiles… I like pigs, grunts and snuffles included. The fact that they roll in their own stinky poop doesn’t bother me. A good hosing, which they love, and they are back to well-groomed. You can even wax them if you want. (Well, I don’t know that for sure but they look like something that would take to a waxing rather well.)

                                                                                                                     

Jonluz, Emelie’s sister, feeds Cecelia in the morning before walking to town, to work. Jonluz lives at the family’s mountain house, where the pig is kept in a pen out back. Emelie and I feed Cecelia her panny udto and panny hapon - lunch and dinner.

Hogging it. Being a hog about it. Eating like a pig. These saying have their basis in truth. Pigs are piggy. Cecelia is true to form, grunting and jumping around her pen when she sees us coming, as if she hadn’t eaten in a day.  A real drama queen. Then, when she’s gotten her food, she sucks it down as quickly as possible, making loud grunts and slurping sounds. When she’s done, she continues to look everywhere for the tiniest bit of remaining food. Sniff, lick, slurp. Sniff, lick, slurp, at a frenzied pace as if starvation was only seconds away.

The life span of any pig in the Philippines is relatively short. Those lucky enough to be chosen as sires and piglet-bearing sows live a while longer, but all pigs are raised to satisfy the human appetite.

Another thought about superstition and religion: Although I am skeptical of things that seem to go beyond the natural, I admit to having experiences that, prior to living here, I would never have believed possible. In fact, I would have rolled my eyes and immediately pigeon-holed them as preposterous superstition by people whose ignorance keeps them rooted in a pre-scientific past. But then I think about today’s many and varied religions which all claim to have an exclusive corner on truth and reality, contradicting each other in ways which make it impossible for any but one to be correct. If that. And having rituals and traditions - and a requirement of blind faith as a substitute for reason - that are not only born from ignorance but designed to perpetuate it, is neither superior nor more advanced than the crudest and most ancient of superstitions.

I once saw a cartoon strip in the newspaper that expressed my opinion about religion, and the self-righteous certainty of its adherents, perfectly. Two men in animal skins are standing behind two piles of rocks. A third man, in the same cave-man attire, is on his knees bowing to one of the piles. One of the two men behind him says to the other standing with him “Doesn’t Thog look silly praying to that pile of rocks? Doesn’t he know that our pile, over there, is the real God?”

My wife is Catholic. I love my wife. I see how her religion both forms and supports some of the qualities I appreciate most in her. On the surface, this appears to be a contradiction to my own lack of faith in religion. Not really. I can’t explain it. I only know that religion is a tool that can be used to exploit others, or to enrich the life of the believer. It’s a choice. Amen.